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Late winter sun fails to push back the gloom that settles over Baltimore, Hannibal observes absently, focus mainly on the man sat before him in his office. Through the comfortable silence that is draping the two men pleasantly, Hannibal becomes privy to the quiet gurgling low in Will’s stomach, which, along with the pallor of his skin, reveals an unsurprising, but disappointing lapse in the sharp-eyed man's care of himself.
"When was the last time you ate something, Will?"
Will startled, lost so deep in his thoughts he forgot he wasn't alone. He tries not to focus too much on how his normally hyper-vigilant self is able to drift so comfortably in someone else's presence, the way in which Hannibal has persistently become the exception to many of Will’s deeply ingrained habits.
"Huh?" Will mutters, mind still sluggish. His thoughts are still wrestling with the quiet recognition that Hannibal has, without ceremony, become something constant – embedding himself into the rhythm of Will’s life, his presence as steady as breath.
Hannibal raises a precise eyebrow, unperturbed by Wills social failings, but feeling the need to keep up some semblance of an act, less the younger man dig too deep into Hannibal’s feelings.
With a gently chiding click of his tongue, Hannibal repeats his question.
"I was merely inquiring as to when your last decent meal was, and no, Will. Sub-par coffee from the Bureau’s cafeteria is not a satisfactory answer to my question."
The profiler shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing whatever answer he gave had no relevance, as Hannibal already knew it had been too long for his liking. Asking him was merely a power-play - yet another way of demonstrating that he has the control, the power and the knowledge over Will. With the added bonus of making Will uncomfortable of course - he is beautiful when squirming after all.
Will waits for the surge of defensiveness and discomfort at having his actions picked apart and noticed so easily, yet the feeling never arises, something that has become far more common when regarding Hannibal.
"This morning. No, yesterday maybe?" Will rubs a hand across the stubble tracing his jaw absentmindedly, "I’m not entirely sure to be honest. This case Jack's got me on has somewhat taken over my mind, leaving little room for anything less important."
Hannibal’s eye twitches slightly, along with a subtle clench to his jaw as so often happens when the head of the Behavioural Sciences Unit is mentioned, his distaste for the way Will is treated rarely going unspoken. Will is keenly aware of these facial expressions of Hannibal’s, pushing down the knowledge that he wouldn't see these reactions if Hannibal did not wish him too. That every single minute detail to Hannibal and his presentation is carefully controlled, so any seeming 'crack' in his façade that allows genuine emotion through, is in no way accidental - it is designed for Will’s eyes only.
"Will," Hannibal began, "your health and wellbeing are in no way of any less importance than whatever case Jack is forcing you to endure. You require adequate nutrition to maintain the brilliance of your mind and body, but more than that, you deserve the joy of savouring and truly experiencing good food with pleasure as the guiding principal, for no reason other than your desire."
Will’s mind stutters to a halt for an embarrassingly long moment, trying to come to terms with hearing the words ‘pleasure’ and ‘desire’ come from his not-therapist’s mouth, his thick accent, with its sharp tongue and soothing cadence wrap around the words in a manor far too sultry and not at all appropriate for the situation at hand.
Will hums, in vague recognition, not overly bothered by the message behind Hannibal’s statement, more trying to buy his mind a little more time to come back online.
"Probably," he concedes, "but it's not a major focus right now. Cooking for one holds no appeal to me, and a few missed meals here and there could only benefit me after a slightly too-indulgent holiday season." Will chuckles self-depreciatingly, mind wandering to the slightest softening of his stomach over the winter, mostly the result of joining Hannibal for an increasing number of exquisite, but deeply indulgent meals.
Without conscious thought, Will’s hand drifts slightly to his middle, holding softness barely visible to anyone without the keenest of eyes.
Disapproval floods Hannibal at bearing witnessing to the suggestion of restricted intake for Will, fearing the loss of the additional weight that privately, Hannibal enjoys immensely. He fights to keep his dissatisfaction at Will expressing any negativity towards himself carefully hidden, less the younger man misinterprets the desired target.
"No, will." Hannibal spoke with a little more harshness than intended, shocking Will and causing him to raise his eyes to meet Hannibal’s intense maroon gaze. "You will suggest no such thing. Your body has spent a lifetime in survival mode, and the pleasures of finally feeding yourself should not be undone for the absurd notions of society. Regardless, you are already more muscle than anything, Will, with little to no excess available to lose, and under no circumstance will you intentionally attempt to do so."
Will barely manages to refrain from dropping his jaw and gaping like a bewildered fish while making confused and aborted harsh sounds at the shock of Hannibal’s intense response; that may be too uncouth for even Will to escape reprimand. The way Hannibal takes control and commands Will and his actions should prickle him at the very least for Will has always been a fiercely independent man, with few friends desiring to push past his abrasive exterior to know him well enough to truly have opinions worth valuing, or trust worth indulging in. Yet once again, Hannibal has become an exception, forcing himself into Will’s life, steadfastly demolishing every barricade in his way to fully understanding and picking apart Will and his brilliant mind.
Will flushes a violent shade of red that creeps down his neck at Hannibal’s assessment of him and his body, not previously realising the slight but genuine discomfort he held over the smallest of changes to himself. Hannibal’s words both mortify and comfort his swirling thoughts as he nods, silently acquiescing and deferring to the older man's command.
Hannibal can sense that Will isn’t entirely in agreement with him, but drops the matter in favour of continuing their evening together.
"Excellent" Hannibal states, rising elegantly from his chair and heading towards his imposing desk at the back of the room. "I will be continuing to keep an eye on you Will, your body and mind are mine to protect, even if the offense originates from within."
Will shifts slightly and narrows his eyes, “That sounds less like concern and more like possession, Doctor Lecter.” His words are measured and careful.
A faint smile curls at Hannibal’s lips in response, “Possession is merely a less-savoury word for devotion. You may resist it, but you cannot deny the comfort of being watched over."
Will can feel his breath catch in his throat; desperately trying to keep control of his body whilst torn between the irritation he believes he should feel and the reluctant warmth of gratitude that begins to fill him. “Comfort isn’t necessarily the word I’d use,” Will mutters.
“Then perhaps inevitability," Hannibal replies smoothly, voice low, as though the distinction hardly matters. Will isn’t so sure it does anymore.
He stares at Hannibal as he carefully makes a note in his leather bound diary, while adjusting a few items on the polished surface, before closing it with a sharp sound of finality.
Grabbing his suit jacket and slipping it over broad shoulders with a delightfully elegant ease, Hannibal motions for Will to follow.
"Do you wish to drive separately Will? Though I would gladly have you with me, and I can see you safely back to your vehicle later.”
Will spends a moment in stunned confusion before he realises Hannibal is commanding his presence at his home, most likely to partake in another luxurious meal and an evening spent together. The way in which Hannibal speaks, as if Will has already granted his approval of joining him - expectation without any attempt at hearing Will actually verbalise a response - sends a burning thrill through his stomach. The quiet yet undeniable power Hannibal exerts so effortlessly over Will’s actions and choices should be intensely concerning. Instead, it burns within Will as a secret thrill, compelling him to push the boundaries of Hannibal’s assumed control.
He can feel a tugging in his chest, an unknown pull towards Hannibal. As much as Will relishes the idea of additional time spent in the older man’s presence, his mostly dormant self-preservation instincts seem to not be entirely useless and recognise the strength in the predator before him. It helps him take a mental step back; the drive alone will hopefully clear his mind, help place them back on a more even-footing. Will knows that Hannibal will usually possess the upper hand, but that is because Will allows it and he swears to all things holy that he will never just roll over. He will make Hannibal work for the honour of Will’s compliance – frequently reminding the psychiatrist that Will’s mind is just as sharp and powerful as his own, that his submission, unintentional or otherwise, when given, can end at any moment. Hannibal revels in the reminders and demonstration of Will’s forceful personality, taking great pleasure in truly seeing Will in ways no others have been permitted to.
“Thank you, Doctor, but I will take my own car.” Will keeps his voice steady and offers no explanation for his choice, but Hannibal still seems to understand far more than he intends to reveal. With a knowing smile gracing his lips, Hannibal elegantly inclines his head before heading towards the door.
It’s only at this point that Will realises he has not yet risen from his seat, having spent the whole exchange situated beneath the predator’s gaze – no wonder Hannibal appears so thrilled with himself.
When Hannibal passes behind Will he lightly presses his hand to the back of Will’s chair. His touch is not forceful nor restrictive, yet somehow still manages to carry the weight of ownership – a gesture that tethers Will to Hannibal as surely as staking an obvious claim. His hand is steady and unyielding throughout the brief touch, gone almost as soon as it arrives, yet leaving a lasting mark visible to Will and Hannibal alone.
Will drags himself to his feet, trying desperately to gain control of his thoughts as he follows the older man out of his office, the gentle snick of the light switch deafening in the heavy yet oddly reassuring silence that settles between them.
Outside, the evening air sharp with the faint bite of winter, does wonders for returning some clarity to Will’s overrun mind, allowing him to relax a little more. Will stood beside his car, keys cold in his hand, the metal biting into his palm as he automatically angled his body towards Hannibal – like a moth drawn compulsively, with no regard for its own health, to a roaring flame. The other man’s vehicle waited nearby, sleek and patient with a presence as composed and powerful as its owner.
“I will see you at my home soon, Will.” Hannibal announced, breaking the quiet between them. “I shall prepare dinner, and I expect your company.” He spoke with an air of finality, a man accustomed to obedience, before gently reaching forward. His knuckles brush the line of Will’s jaw with unsettling tenderness, a gesture that revealed more truth of his care than any of his obfuscating words ever could, before turning away and heading towards his own vehicle.
Will is left reeling. His body longing to follow the other man, a near primal urge bubbling up within him before he can shake free of it. Muttering to himself about “stupid fucking, mind-controlling psychiatrists” before wrenching open the car door and collapsing into the seat.
He gave himself two minutes - just two minutes - to drown in the storm has Hannibal stirred within him, before forcibly pulling himself back together. He is about to go to his house – enter the predator’s den – now was absolutely not the time to try and process every way in which Hannibal affects him. The obvious and immediate solution to his inner turmoil would be to just not go. To either postpone or cancel indefinitely until he’s had chance to wade through the quagmire that has become his own mind. However, this option never even crosses Will’s mind. Hannibal was right – inevitable seemed like the most appropriate word to describe the two of them together.
Will briefly squeezes the steering wheel until his knuckles bleed white, before taking a deep and controlled breath and setting off towards Hannibal’s home.
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Will pulls up outside Hannibal’s home and sits for a moment, listening to the engine turn over as it begins to cool. Running a hand through unruly curls, he once again curses himself for the perpetual state of disarray that seems to define him. It’s one thing to be presented at Hannibal’s side in public, but to enter the man’s home, the place of his truest reflection, is to step into a world where Will feels he may never belong. Attempting to push aside those worries, Will slowly makes his way up the well-manicured path, boots crunching against gravel, that leads the way to Hannibal’s imposing front door. The grand house looms above him, the very bricks of the building holding a level of grandeur and power that echoes the owner within.
Forcing himself to delay no further, Will raises his hand and raps solidly on the oak door. Within moments Hannibal is there, pulling the door wide open and gesturing the anxious man inside. Hannibal reaches out to assist Will in removing his coat and hanging it with great care in his personal closet – not the alcove where guests are typically directed to leave their belongings. The act was quiet, intimate and possessive, the simple action relieving Will of some of the overpowering anxiety, helping him settle by silently reassuring him he is truly wanted in the older man’s space.
While leaning forward to relieve Will of his coat, Hannibal takes the opportunity to once again inhale deeply, the rich notes of sandalwood complimented with something a little spicy overpower his senses – the perpetual smell of clean sweat and stress waft off of Will, completing the pleasant aroma unique to him. A scent that Hannibal both treasures and adores.
Will, of course, notices — he always does. Yet he chooses silence, gifting Hannibal the luxury of feigned innocence. It amuses him, this arrogance, that Hannibal can believe Will blind to such obvious indulgence. Observing the smallest details is his craft, his nature, his job. Hannibal might admire his mind, but he still underestimates it, and Will plans to keep that truth close, knowing it might one day prove decisive.
“Follow me, Will.” Hannibal murmurs softly, gently guiding him deeper into his house with a steadying and possessive hand resting low on his back. Unsurprisingly, Hannibal’s home is a study in perfection with every detail curated with precision and great care. His home is the stage upon which he weaves his masks after all, blending seamlessly from one character to the next as he fulfils whatever role is required for him to maintain the perfection of his person suit. It comes as no surprise to will that Hannibal cares for his home with the same meticulous precision as he affords everything else.
As much as the rooms they walk through appear to match Hannibal’s personality with eccentric, yet rich and classy decor artfully arranged around them, something about it has always felt just a little off to Will. Something feels like it’s missing, something important that makes up a critical facet of Hannibal’s personality. The closest Will has come to recognising whatever he believes to be absent, is in the kitchen. Whereas the rest of Hannibal’s home has been designed to host Baltimore’s socialites whilst artfully boasting the class, wealth and sophistication of the man – the focus more on being a demonstration or a work of art rather than the ergonomics – his kitchen is its opposite. It’s highly functional, stripped of all ornament in its sleek design, with many high-end appliances and tools organised with surgical precision. It’s a room of functionality and control. It appears clinical at first glance, the gleam of the stainless steel off-putting to many, but Will sees beneath that. This room is all Hannibal. From the efficient placement of tools discovered through practice and precision, to the artfully stocked pantry. It speaks of authenticity, stripped bare from the many layers of Hannibal’s carefully cultivated mask leaving only his true self. This is no stage for the socialites, no gallery of wealth – this is Hannibal himself. Here Hannibal moves with ease - gliding across the room he is at home, truly, and Will is honoured to be bearing witness to it.
Will’s mind comes back into focus upon grasping the wine glass Hannibal has handed him, already filled with a rich and delicious smelling wine. He glances up, darting his eyes towards Hannibal and observes as he methodically strips himself of his jacket, tie and waistcoat. This leaves him in just his neatly pressed shirt and slacks as he secures an apron around his waist. Watching Hannibal roll up his shirtsleeves to reveal corded muscle winding its way up forearms with a light dusting of hair should not feel as erotic to Will as it does. Seeing Hannibal like this, in what feels to be near nakedness despite still being fully clothed, manages to further exaggerate the way in which Hannibal typically wields his wardrobe as both a weapon and as armour – the same way in which Will uses his own glasses, glasses that spend most of their time around Hannibal tucked away in his pocket. Being given the opportunity to witness Hannibal in any state of vulnerability is a marvel and an honour; Will savours the feeling.
“Tonight, dinner is pan-seared filet mignon, topped with a rich truffle source, accompanied by rosemary and garlic infused smashed potato and a variety of seasonal vegetables.” Hannibal declares the menu with a flourish, ever the performer when it comes to his exquisite meal designs.
Impressed already, Will murmurs a soft “Sounds delicious Doctor.” He continues to watch the fastidious way in which Hannibal is preparing their meal.
“Hannibal, Will, please. You are in my home; my name is yours to speak.”
Will’s heart picks up slightly, a thrill shooting through him at being given Hannibal’s name freely. Even when he is pulling them closer, by removing the separation that comes with speaking with titles, Hannibal still appears powerful and in complete control. Offering up his name not in surrender, for Hannibal says it as more of an order. Will shall refer to Hannibal as such, in his home or wherever else he instructs, for that is what Hannibal decrees.
Lowering his head a touch, Will replies “Hannibal.” He’s almost reverent in the way his name roles of the tongue. A shiver makes its way down Will’s spine, settling somewhere low and warm.
A small smile graces Hannibal’s mouth, causing pride to swell within Will. He pushes it down and instead asks, “Is there anything I can do to help? I feel rather useless just watching you whilst being of no assistance.”
Hannibal frowns at Will’s description of himself before replying, “Not at all Will. You are a guest in my home. You are not here to work; you are here to enjoy yourself and seek pleasure in a fulfilling meal and good company.”
Taking a sip of the velvety liquid from his glass, he allows it to slide down his throat with a delectable richness, taking careful note of each flavour ensconced within. After taking his time savouring the sip of wine, Will is forced to respond to Hannibal’s statement.
“If you are sure, Hannibal,” Will says, testing the name on his tongue. “I do not wish to be an inconsiderate guest, no matter what you may think of my typical demeanour.”
Hannibal merely gives a knowing smile, with a few too many teeth for comfort, as a glint of something predatory flickers through his eyes, gone before Will has hope of deciphering it.
Hannibal adding the finishing touches to the work of art their dinner has become, once again draws Will’s attention, dragging him from the recesses of his mind. The presentation is immaculate (not that Will expected anything less from the diligently dedicated man before him) the rich and decadent food atop the plates is artfully arranged to a standard well beyond any restaurant Will has ever been to.
Hannibal once more guides Will through his home, leading him to the opulent dining room already set with elegant place settings. Candles mounted in ornate silver holders, give the room an intimate glow as Hannibal places the meals before them.
He moves with a deliberate grace born from truly knowing one’s own strength and body, refreshing Will’s wine glass. His hand once again lingering on the back of his chair as he passes, the same possessive gesture that tethered Will to the older man being refreshed – subtle, yet unyielding.
Hannibal finally settles across from Will with his usual composure and impeccable posture. He watches Will with a quiet intensity, every movement measured and his silence deliberate as he waits for Will to take the first bite.
He fills his fork with the upmost care and raises it to his lips. Hannibal watches on as Will carefully chews and swallows the mouthful, observing the way his throat works around the food. It’s exquisite, tender and rich, layered with flavours that speak of Hannibal’s mastery of the kitchen. Each flavour unfolds across his tongue and it’s all Will can do to try and contain the moan of pleasure that wants to escape him.
Hannibal’s pleased smirk suggests he may not have been as successful as he hoped. “This is simply divine Hannibal, thank you.” Will said softly, unable to find the words to convey his appreciation for both the delightful meal and the pleasure of Hannibal by his side. As ever, Hannibal seems able to understand Will, even when words escape him, and a genuine smile settles briefly on his lips.
“It’s my pleasure, Will,” he replies sincerely.
They continue the almost ritualistic experience of eating together mostly in silence, with Hannibal’s voice low and smooth when offering his words. Mainly, his gaze lingers on Will, watching him consume each bite with a quiet intensity.
After a little over half his meal, Will slows down, until he stops eating altogether and gently places the cutlery down. He reaches for the wine glass and takes a long sip, savouring the rich flavour, before returning the glass to the table. He makes no effort to continue his meal.
Hannibal observes Will’s reticence towards finishing the entirety of his dinner, despite his earlier praise, and is reminded of Will’s comments back in his office. Hannibal has no desire to tolerate Will risking his health, so promptly works to resolve the issue.
“You must eat Will.” Hannibal’s sudden words were spoken in a soft tone, yet beneath the gentle exterior lay iron. They startle Will slightly before he sends a look of confusion towards Hannibal.
“I have eaten,” Will responds, his intonation verging on a question, “It was delicious, thank you.” He reiterates his previous praise as if that would be enough to assuage Hannibal.
The older man shakes his head slightly in disappointment at Will, the usually oh-so bright man, missing his point.
“You must eat, Will.” Hannibal repeats firmly, “I will not tolerate the notion of you depriving yourself. You spoke of missing meals earlier, as though it were harmless, even beneficial to you. It is not. You are already pared down to the essential, and I will not watch you diminish further." Hannibal continues, eyes focussed on Will, urging his point to be understood by the younger man. “Missing meals will not benefit you; it will only weaken you. And weakness does not suit you, Will; it does not become you."
Will’s eyebrows raise with a fleeting look of understanding at recalling their previous conversation.
“Ah,” he speaks the word as if that would be a satisfactory answer for Hannibal – they both know it is not. “That’s not how I meant it, Doctor- “
“Hannibal.” The man interrupts, reiterating his preference of address.
“Hannibal,” Will concedes before continuing, a flush working its way across his face, “Work takes over every facet of my mind when I am asked to delve into the very workings of these killers, that leaves little room for anything else. I merely forget, and as I lack both the pleasure found in cooking and exemplary skill you possess, my solution is to just procure whatever feels accessible and simple. Occasionally this can be nothing. It’s not a habit I choose to make, so you need not worry about me, though I appreciate your care.” Will lowers his head a touch in gratitude, feeling overwhelmed at the intensity and weight of Hannibal’s gaze.
Hannibal hums softly as he takes a careful sip of his wine leaving a deliberate and controlled moment of pause, studying Will as he shifts in his seat.
“I will always worry about you Will, you are a friend I care for dearly and do not wish to be seen hurt, least of all by your own hand.” His gaze remains steady, unyielding as his voice carries across the room sounding measured and precise. “And you must know, convenience is a poor substitute for sustenance. You erode yourself when you settle for less and I will not allow you to continue in such disregard.”
Will’s scoff at the use of the word ‘allow’ results in a reproachful down curl to Hannibal’s lips at his lack of manners. The younger man does not wish to permit himself time to consider just how much authority Hannibal could hold over him. If he truly thinks about it, he knows that his accidental habit of missing meals is not the ideal, and that any softness he may have accrued over the holidays with the assistance of the other man, was sorely needed for his frame; but this doesn’t mean he will simply defer to him. It’s in Will’s highly contrary nature to push back, even against the immoveable wall that is Hannibal.
“Allow.” He repeats aloud, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. “You can’t control what I do, Hannibal.”
Hannibal merely responds with a smile, filled with a predatory gleam as he continues to eye Will unflinchingly. “That’s where you are wrong, Will. At my table you will eat. You will nourish yourself with care and model your actions away from my home in the same manor. Your health and wellbeing are my priority, do not fight me on this.”
Will’s eyes widen at the all-consuming way in which Hannibal takes control of the situation. He leaves no room for argument – not that that will truly stop Will from trying, for when cornered, he becomes a caged animal, prowling up and down the bars that surround him, hissing violently at anyone who dares try and reach through to him.
“You will not even consider skipping meals again. Not here. Not under my care. I will see to it personally.”
For reasons that Will still refuses to investigate further, Hannibal’s authoritative way of commanding him and his actions provide an odd sense of security. Calm washes over the profiler whilst simultaneously raising his hackles on instinct.
Will watches him guide the unfinished meal back towards him - a gesture rich in both care and command – before speaking in a low unwavering tone. “Finish your dinner, Will.”
Hardly registering his own actions, Will finds himself obeying Hannibal’s command, slowly resuming his meal. Countless thoughts flutter through his mind, but none of them seem quite important enough to latch on and fully form.
Once satisfied that Will is proceeding as instructed, Hannibal retrieves his own cutlery with care. Conversation flows between the two men, weaving gently from one topic to the next as they continue to eat – two magnificent minds finally finding companionship in one another, no longer doomed to continue on alone, forever surrounded by those that deem them ‘other’ simply for thinking outside of the arbitrary rules.
Will only notices he’s finished his meal, hand gently gripping the stem of his wine glass, when he feels a soft but insistent pressure in his abdomen, where a decent meal in its entirety resides for the first time in days. Full of Hannibal’s rich cooking, Will realises he’s grateful for the older man’s enforcement to finish his dinner. That for the first time quite possibly since he began his consulting for Jack, Will feels pleasantly satisfied – no hunger gnawing at his insides, and no nausea rippling through him. Hannibal’s unmoveable insistence made his actions easier. He didn’t have to think about what he ate or the gruesome details of cases; he could just drift on the bliss of good conversation and better food.
A spike of anxiety shot through Will before settling almost instantly at the look in Hannibal’s eye. The quietly pleased satisfaction shone through to Will, allowing him to move on, knowing Hannibal, as promised (threatened) would keep him accountable of his own wellbeing.
Hannibal appears to be enjoying his opportunity to simply sit there and observe Will. His gaze, though heavy and unrelenting, no longer puts Will quite so on edge. He still respects the predator hidden not so far below the surface, and feels utterly picked apart by his sharp mind, but now Will learns he can find comfort within the devastating strength – existing within the eye of the storm where he can watch the ignorant around him trap themselves in the destructive whirlwinds, whilst seeking the comfort and security offered to him alone.
Breaking the spell seemingly wrapped around them, Hannibal suggests retiring to his study. Will tries to force himself to think clearly, consider if entering deeper into the predator’s den is indeed the most intelligent thing to do, before realising he truly no longer cares at this point. Hannibal’s effortless aura of power and strength, the way he commands respect by simply entering a room, has caught Will – tangling him up to the point of no return. The only way to escape requiring the amputation of a limb, a loss Will sees no value in, when here, in Hannibal’s orbit, he is safe. Tucked carefully out of harm’s way, with Hannibal’s imposing silhouette always present, Will finds solace. Nothing can hurt him when all he must do is follow Hannibal’s lead. He knows his leash holds slack, for Hannibal could never bare to fully sedate the raging beast within Will he adores so much, but in every other respect, Hannibal is there, hand pressing possessively on his shoulder, leading the way.
Control is no longer something he must fight for. Will knows he holds power over Hannibal too; he just chooses to let it rest, savouring the weight of Hannibal’s hand rather than testing its give. Hannibal thrives on Will’s volatility, but Will has learned that silence, compliance, even surrender can sometimes be weapons sharper than his defiance. The study has become a stage for this unspoken negotiation: Hannibal guiding, Will yielding, both knowing the leash runs in two directions. The illusion of safety is mutual, and both men are complicit in maintaining it.
In the hush of Hannibal’s study, Will lets the silence settle between them like velvet. The weight of Hannibal’s hand on his shoulder no longer a restraint but a tether, binding them in a balance neither dares to name aloud. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Will felt full - of food, of presence, of something dangerously close to peace. And as Hannibal’s gaze lingers, steady and unyielding, Will understood that safety was not the absence of danger, but the choice to remain within it.