Work Text:
‘Deported? What the hell, Jack? I thought he’d been living here for decades!’
Will tells himself the sick feeling is just empathy for the man he has come to regard as a close friend. A confidant. A paddle in the raging, torrential chaos of his life.
‘Some irregularities in the original paperwork.’ Jack Crawford throws up his hands in disgust. True outrage or placatory pantomime? It’s hard to tell. ‘Damn bureaucrats. Hannibal will have to return to Lithuania and sort it out from there.’ A sigh. ‘I’ll be sorry to lose him. He’s been a big help these last few months.’
‘A big help? He saved the life of Silvestri’s final victim. He rid the world of Tobias Budge.’ Will scowls, slightly embarrassed by his own purple prose, but presses on. ‘This is bullshit, Jack. I - we need him. He’s a huge asset to the Bureau.’
‘Hey, you don’t need to convince me,’ snaps back his looming boss. ‘But the law’s the law, Will. Find me a legal way to keep him here and I’ll do it.’
***
‘Well, you could always marry him,’ suggests Brian with a twinkle.
Beverly rolls her eyes. ‘Have you been watching Green Card again?’
‘Ooh, the greenhouse movie,’ chips in Jimmy. ‘I would kill for that apartment.’
Arms folded, Will watches in exasperation as the three of them pore over the remains of the totem pole victims, all the while bickering merrily.
But Brian’s words stay with him for the rest of the day.
***
They’re still ringing in his ears as he paces Doctor Lecter’s waiting room at seven-thirty that evening.
‘Good evening, Will.’
He hadn’t been aware of the door opening, so the little jolt of pleasure at hearing his name spoken in that familiar accented rumble takes him by surprise.
When did it become so goddamn sexy?
‘Hi.’
Brusque in his confusion, he stalks past the doctor and throws his work bag onto the chaise. It misses and hits the floor, drawing the tiniest of sighs from Hannibal who is, of course, far too well-mannered to comment or chastise.
‘Please, sit down.’
Will glances sourly at the empty armchair and heads instead for Hannibal’s desk, perching on the edge to flick absently through a thick sheaf of pencil drawings. One, the figure of a male nude posed as statuary, seems familiar...
‘Will?’
‘Hm?’
Hannibal approaches, gaze quizzical.
‘Is there something on your mind?’
Will laughs shortly. ‘You mean apart from the usual mayhem and madness?’
‘Madness?’ Alert eyes fix on him. ‘Have you been losing time again?’
‘What? No, I didn’t mean - shit.’ Will scrubs a hand across his face. ‘I can’t -’
‘Will.’ A hand settles on his shoulder. ‘Tell me.’
He looks up helplessly into Hannibal’s concerned face. Everything in him focused on the touch, a pressure at once grounding and invasive.
‘I know, okay?’ The words burst out of him in a rush. ‘I know they’re sending you back, and it’s complete crap, and I just wish -’ Hannibal’s fingers tighten and Will takes a shuddering breath. ‘I wish there was something I could do.’
After a moment, Hannibal releases him and steps away.
‘That is kind of you, but there is nothing to be done.’ Face averted, he continues in that smoothly neutral tone that Will finds simultaneously beguiling and infuriating. ‘I shall of course endeavour to return, but whether my practice can survive is another matter. I cannot expect my patients to wait.’
‘I would wait.’
He winces at the gaucheness of the words, but the gentle smile that Hannibal bestows sets Will’s heart thudding unsteadily. Palms moist, he draws a deep breath.
‘But maybe - maybe there’s another way.’
‘Believe me, Will, I have explored all avenues -’
Not this one, I hope.
‘You could marry me.’
The thunderstruck look on Hannibal’s face is confirmation enough that no such plan has ever entered his head. It is also, however, by no means an expression of joy.
‘Or someone,’ Will mutters, face heating as the doctor continues to stare at him. ‘It was just an idea. No big deal.’
When the seconds tick by and still Hannibal fails to respond, Will pushes himself upright with an annoyed huff.
‘Forget it. Bad joke, okay?’
But as he brushes past the doctor, he is halted by a surprisingly firm grip on his arm.
‘On the contrary, I consider it an inspired suggestion.’
‘You, er, do?’
Suddenly, Hannibal’s face is very close to his, and Will’s breathing hitches.
‘Certainly.’
‘Because an all-access pass to Will Graham also means access to the inner workings of the FBI? You can’t deny that you would enjoy it.’
‘I have no wish to deny it.’ Hannibal smiles, a flash of sharp teeth. ‘You’re very frank, Will. I think it will be quite something to know you in private life.’
************
It had seemed like such a harmless suggestion...
Until a further bout of sleepwalking, and a suspicion voiced by Hannibal that Will is suffering from encephalitis. A swift referral to a neurologist and a course of steroids later, Will, mind cleared, finally begins to see.
How did I not know? He fits the profile.
And his conscience jibes back at him...
Of course you knew. You just didn’t want to know.
He knows he should send for Jack. Instead, he sends out wedding invitations.
************
‘Is the meat not to your liking?’
That depends. Is it someone I know?
Swallowing the sarcasm, Will nodded and forces down a forkful. Lomo saltado with rice.
It’s good. Really good. Fuck.
For a wedding night, it’s a solemn occasion. Even the lighting is more subdued than usual.
Maybe he’s regretting this.
‘You know, I don’t have to actually move in,’ he comments, testing shark-infested waters, eyes trained steadfastly on the silver patterning of his plate..
‘And if immigration comes calling?’
There is a tightness to Hannibal’s voice that rubs raw against Will’s own stretched nerves and lends an unintentional coldness to his own reply.
‘I could leave a few things around. Hang some clothes in the closet. I know how to stage a scene, Doctor.’
Sensual lips press together, a flicker of annoyance flaring in amber eyes.
‘That may be, but if you persist in addressing me by my title, no amount of staging will disguise this charade.’
For a moment, Will can’t breathe.
So the Chesapeake Ripper doesn’t just wound with knives.
‘Fine,’ he bites out at last. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. And now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m done.’
Dropping his cutlery with much less care than the china deserves, Will pushes back his chair and stands abruptly.
‘No dessert?’
Funny how much umbrage can be conveyed in just three syllables.
‘I find I’ve had my fill.’
The air is arctic now. He doesn’t wait for a further reply; just stomps out and marches straight for the stairs. The suite of rooms that Hannibal has set aside for his sole use occupy the entire top floor of the three-storey building, though currently it’s mid-renovation. When Will had protested about the astronomical cost of remodelling, Hannibal’s response that the dogs would need an ample private space to run around had silenced him and brought a lump to his throat. Of course, that had been before. Before clarity and the anguish of knowing. The hypocrisy of anguishing in comfortable silence hasn’t escaped him...
Consigned for now to a spare room on the second floor, Will stops short of slamming the bedroom door, but his shoes hit the dark-grained antique wardrobe with satisfying thunks. Glowering at the pristinely made-up bed, Will swipes at the mound of pillows, consigning all but one to the floor.
And then there’s that damn ridiculous bolster.
Hefting it in his arms, he’s looking around for a good place to hurl it when the dry tones of his new husband cut through his sulking.
‘Please, Will, not the Ming.’
Will follows Hannibal’s gaze to a blue and white vase perched atop a marble column in a corner alcove.
‘Looks expensive.’
‘It is.’
‘And fragile.’
‘Very.’
Will can’t help the nasty smirk that pulls at his lips as he turns back to the doctor, shifting the weight of the silk bolster from arm to arm.
‘Something else to bear in mind.’ But the resurgence of humour dissipates rapidly as he recalls exactly why he had been searching out a target in the first place. Without ceremony, he drops the bolster at his feet and heads for the door to the ensuite. ‘I’m taking a shower. Goodnight.’
The shower turns out to be a luxurious wet room. Black stone tile reflected in glass and chrome. Symmetrically arranged scarlet towels. And heated air permeated by a scent familiar and masculine, dark and subtle yet pervasive.
Is there no escape?
He emerges finally, damp and clean yet only marginally less tense, to an extraordinary sight - Hannibal, clad only in pyjama bottoms, sitting in a perfectly relaxed attitude with an iPad balanced on his thighs, long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. Sitting in bed. Hastily, Will checks that the towel is tucked securely around his waist. Reassured that it is, he glares at the serene countenance of his spouse.
‘What are you doing?’
The lift of a single eyebrow is the only change of expression. ‘Retiring for the night.’
Slicked back hair indicates that Hannibal too has just showered. Will suddenly feels an absurd desire to walk over and touch. To comb his fingers through the damp strands and feel their heavy weight. Warmth suffuses his chest at the thought, even as bitterness rises like gall.
‘I thought this was a charade.’
‘I thought that was what you wanted.’
In his mind, Will flashes back seven hours.
Hannibal in a blue suit, voice sure and steady, eyes solemn as he repeats vows recited in monotone by the bored official.
‘What I wanted?’
Long fingers clasping his as he makes his own vows, clearing his throat as he stumbles a little over the words. Weighing their meaning and finding them entirely wanting. Cliched. Rote. Realising there are no words adequate enough to describe how he feels about this. About him.
Slowly, he shakes his head. ‘I thought you just wanted an in to the FBI.’
‘An attractive bonus but hardly my main motivation.’
‘No, your main motivation was to stay here.’
Fine dining and chaos walking. Can I really let this continue?
‘I thought that was the point.’ A slight frown creases Hannibal’s brow. Setting aside the tablet, he regards Will contemplatively. ‘Do you wish to be released? There are others I could call on.’
An exchange of rings and a curious sensation of possessiveness.
His thumb strays to trace the heavy press of gold. The idea of taking it off makes him feel nauseous. The idea of Hannibal marrying someone else makes him feel...
‘No.’
He half-expects a smile; but if anything, Hannibal’s expression grows more sombre.
‘Do I need to call my lawyer, Will?’
A chill passes through him. This isn't about their marriage.
‘When did you know?’
‘That you know?’ Hannibal tilts his head. A power move that thrills. Constantly. ‘I have suspected for some weeks. When you looked at your meat as if it would bite you, I knew.’
What is that? Cannibal humour?
Yet weirdly, the edge of strain that has chafed between them for weeks is easing away. Will takes a step closer.
‘You just as good as confessed; you realise that, right?’
‘Hence my question.’ Dark eyes hold him. ‘Do I need to call my lawyer?’
Will looks back unblinkingly at the man who had been his friend and is now... My husband. My monster. Yet looking all-too human, bare chest dusted with silvering hair, bare feet tangled in satin sheets. There is only one answer.
‘No.’ Somehow he finds himself at the side of the bed. ‘But you knew that, right? Or we wouldn’t be talking.’
Finally, a glimmer of a smile. ‘I hardly dare ask what we would be doing.’
‘Then don’t.’ On a surge of boldness, Will sets a knee to the bed. The towel parts slightly. ‘We’ve done more than enough talking, wouldn’t you say?’
Tries not to think about what he’s doing. Tries not to think.
He places his palm flat on Hannibal’s chest. Tentative. Testing. It’s warm and furred and, god, it feels so right. Rubs the hard nub of a nipple and draws a growl. And then a wide palm curves around his ass. And suddenly he’s on his back and they’re nose to nose.
‘Teasing boy.’ Wolfish, Hannibal pins him with ravenous eyes. ‘Don’t start what you cannot finish.’
Will shudders. Hard. ‘Fine,’ he snaps, and surges up to claim his husband’s mouth.
As first kisses go - as kisses go - it rocks his world. And it seems to be having a similar effect on Hannibal, because within moments they’re slamming into each other with equal fervour. Will opens his mouth wide and winds his legs around Hannibal’s thighs. He rocks up with every greedy thrust of tongue. Wanting to consume and be consumed. His hands wander between them, fingers trembling slightly as they contact hard flesh straining through cloth. Freeing Hannibal’s cock is an exhilarating experience. There’s so much power in a simple touch. And fuck, the man is beautiful. For a few moments, he focuses entirely on delightful exploration. Stroking gently, then exerting a little more pressure just there to eke out more oozing stickiness.
‘Holy god,’ he groans, as his towel is tugged off and cast aside, and their cocks slide slickly together. His mouth falls open on a silent moan and an almost unbearable hot friction has him moving urgently, pushing down Hannibal’s pyjama pants to grip his flanks, nails digging deep. ‘Fuck, Hannibal.’
‘What do you want of me, Will? Tell me.’
He’s never heard this tone before: dark, raw, stripped of all refinement. It makes him want to abandon every conviction he’s ever had. He moans and arches up.
‘Everything. I want everything.’
‘Is that all?’ A smile against his lips, a sweet graze of tongues. ‘Then you shall have it.’
More warm stickiness, this time between his cheeks, spread by fingers that rub and dip.
Will pants and jerks, the exploratory touches welcome yet intrusive.
Fuck. Compromised doesn’t even begin to cover this.
Sounds are pulled from his throat by the breach of a fingertip. Slow, in and out, until he’s pushing up to demand more. They’re both so hard now, it’s difficult to believe that this can last. But as rigid flesh is fed into clenching heat, and mouths mate ravenously, pleasure only intensifies. The edge of pain is welcome. It feels deserved. But, traitorously, it fades with his conscience. And when Hannibal’s thrusts angle, brushing back and forth against his sensitised prostate, Will clutches and keens.
‘Oh god, fuck, I’m going to come.’
‘I want you to come.’
Against his ear, kisses are planted hot and messy; but before Will can reach to finish himself off, Hannibal’s groaning and fucking into him deep and hard. Faster and faster, uncoordinated, face buried in Will’s neck, breath hissing against his skin. The pulsing wetness that follows is a revelation. He’s part of me now. Will grasps his own aching cock, finding his release with half a dozen frantic strokes.
Time stretches. Turning his head, Will presses his cheek to Hannibal’s, heart aching with unbearable tenderness for the killer in his arms.
For a while, there’s nothing more. Just bodies flush and limbs settling, entwined. When Hannibal’s cock slips from Will’s body, he has to bite back a whimper. It feels wrong, the separation. So to compensate, he tightens his arms around Hannibal’s shoulders. Finds himself held just as tightly in return. It’s nice, which is not a word he thought he would ever use in conjunction with Hannibal Lecter. Hannibal’s voice pulls him from his reverie.
‘Why did you propose to me?’
The languid rumble pulls a startled laugh from him.
‘Why did I - I didn’t propose to you.’
‘Oh really?’ Hannibal shifts and eyes him with lazy amusement. ‘What would you call it?’
Will clicks his tongue in annoyance. ‘Saving your ass?’
‘And that you did. Thank you.’
Hannibal kisses him, sweet and slow, until Will’s chest aches with it. He presses his forehead to Hannibal’s.
‘This is going to be fucking complicated.’
‘Because you are an FBI agent married to the Chesapeake Ripper?’
The fingers carding through his hair offer little solace.
‘Because I’m an FBI agent in love with the Chesapeake Ripper.’
The words tumble out, surprising Will with their vehemence. But of course he is. Horribly, ridiculously in love.
Hannibal’s reaction is a sharp inhale. He recovers quickly, however, nuzzling against Will’s cheek as he drawls, ‘How terribly inconvenient for you.’
‘Bastard,’ Will murmurs, turning his head so that their lips connect.
Despite the mess, Will succumbs quickly to sleep, and when next he opens his eyes the room is sunlight-sticky. He sighs, the sound feather-light, but it’s enough to have him snared and tugged back against a warm chest. He huffs a laugh and settles, hands curling automatically around smooth biceps.
‘So what now?’
‘Hm. A shower?’
He snorts. ‘It was a shower that got us here.’
‘Two showers.’
Hannibal seems to be in an indecently good mood, as evidenced by the gentle kisses and slow caresses he’s lavishing on Will’s nape, the curve of his spine, lower. No conscience-tussling, no earnest vow of transmutation. Somehow, Will can’t bring himself to care. Although he does have one question.
‘You were annoyed when I left you at dinner, yet you still found your way into my bed. Were you so sure of my receptiveness?’
All touches cease, and Will braces himself for renewed censure.
‘This is my room, Will.’
He twists, glaring. ‘You put me in your room?’
‘I put you in the room next door.’ Undisguised amusement lightens burnt amber to burnished copper. ‘It seems that you lost your way.’
Will recalls how he barrelled in, shedding clothes left and right. Didn’t even stop to locate his bag. But…
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Hannibal grins. It’s maddeningly becoming. He presses his lips softly to Will’s skin, brushing the juncture between neck and shoulder.
‘How could I, when there you were, practically gift-wrapped?’
The words resonate; and even as Will tips back his head in shivery surrender, his mind works busily. Dissecting memories.
Gift-wrapped.
A tableau created for him. A killer’s love poem proudly displayed. Impaled.
Cassie Boyle. Jesus.
‘You’ve been courting me since we met.’
‘Of course.’
Hands begin to wander, but Will stills them. He sits up and turns to his killer husband with searching eyes.
‘You’re - in love with me.’
‘You have only now realised this?’ Hannibal sighs, but every word is laced with tenderness. ‘Really, my darling boy, for someone with such a gift of empathy…’
Will blinks. Happiness is such an alien feeling, and doubtless indecent under the circumstances, but he grasps it now and knows he will not be able to give it up. Give him up. Moving swiftly, he straddles the body lying pliant beneath him. Caging and claiming. Smothers the rest of Hannibal’s sentence with lips and tongue. A deep, wet kiss that is met with ferocious enthusiasm.
‘Listen to me,’ he hisses, when at length they break apart. ‘Whatever else you are, you’re mine now. And I absolutely fucking forbid you to get caught.’
‘Are you asking me to stop?’
The merest thread of tension. Will counters it with a chastising nip to a bottom lip already beautifully reddened.
‘I’m asking you to stay. With me. And not get caught.’ Moves lower to graze his teeth over deliciously stubbled jawline. ‘Whatever it takes - semi-retirement, a fucking sabbatical - I don’t care.’
Hannibal grasps his ass and pulls him down to rub hot, swollen cocks together. ‘And in return?’
The rough tenor of Hannibal’s voice and the insistent fingertip now rubbing insistently against Will’s sensitised rim pull keening noises from him. In retaliation, he thumbs Hannibal’s nipple to hardness and takes it between his lips to tongue and suck. Only relents when he’s breached and he needs his voice to demand more and fuck, yes, there and now you, please, Hannibal.
He arches back, grasping Hannibal’s bent thighs with sweat-slick hands, and gasps as he’s fucked up into, so deliciously deep he’s delirious with the pleasure of it. Hannibal’s fingers around his pulsating cock are merciless, and he comes with violent jerks and spurts. A moment to catch his breath and he’s rolled onto his back, clinging to Hannibal with almost savage adoration. Hannibal starts to pull out, but Will stays him with a fretful sound.
‘Come inside me.’
‘It will be uncomfortable for you.’
‘I want to feel you come. Please, Hannibal.’
Voices pleasure-slurred. Hands caressing. And groans of mutual fulfilment as warm seed spills and spills.
Sated, they lie among sheets now truly filthy.
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘Hm.’ Will stretches lazily, then settles again, relishing the tickle of crisp hair beneath his cheek. ‘In return, I will... ignore the worst in you, to continue enjoying the best.’
A kiss is pressed to Will’s damp temple. ‘Quid pro quo.’
Will lifts his head, grins, feels his heart contract at the adoration blazing from Hannibal’s eyes.
‘Exactly. See? Not such an inconvenient marriage after all.’