Stay, If You Want To

by farther_away

Summary:

Will is bad at taking care of himself. Hannibal helps.

Notes:

I just wanted to write something sweet and maybe a little angsty. Will and Hannibal will inevitably be a bit OOC. No explicit murder/cannibalism/etc. Mentions of canon-typical violence, but nothing terribly graphic.

Chapter 1

Will has never been in tune with himself physically. He can sometimes register straightforward or particularly unpleasant sensations, but most of the time, he just feels a vague sense of discomfort until it gets bad enough to pinpoint what’s wrong. 

Even knowing this about himself hasn’t solved the problem. He gets too focused on a case, his classes, his dogs, that he doesn’t even notice if he’s hungry or sick or dehydrated. There’s a myriad of medications sitting on his bathroom sink at home that are supposed to help with this kind of thing. His memory, lack of energy, lack of focus. But he’s lucky if he’s taken half of the pills by the time the pharmacy calls him for a refill.

His students usually notice something is off before he does. He hears snippets of hushed conversations as one class leaves and the next files in. Watch out. He’s in a bad mood today, they whisper. It should make him angry to have such a reputation, but the warnings do make his classes go more smoothly. No irrelevant, prodding questions or hanging back after class to discuss the lecture. And it forces him to take stock of himself. To try and figure out what’s wrong before it gets any worse. Sometimes, he even succeeds. 

Other times, it’s Jack who tips him off. He’s less subtle—a hand gripping hard on his shoulder, telling him not to lose focus. Slamming his laptop shut and ordering him to get something from the vending machine before he passes out. Steering him away from a crime scene and into the back of a fancy black sedan so he can “pull himself together.” Will tries to see this as Jack’s personal brand of kindness, rather than irritation at having to essentially babysit a 35 year old man. 

But ever since he began his sessions with Dr. Lecter, it rarely reaches that point. He’s infuriatingly perceptive, instantly knowing if Will skips a meal or hasn’t slept well the moment he lays eyes on him. He never pushes the issue like Jack does, and he usually never even mentions it out loud, preferring to simply solve the problem as unobtrusively as possible. So unobtrusively, in fact, that it’s taken Will weeks to even figure out he’s doing it. 

He’ll sometimes push a sandwich into Will’s hands as soon as he sits down for their session, claiming he made too much for his own lunch. Or he’ll turn the lights down low and speak softly, easing the headache Will didn’t know he had. Leaving out little items to fidget with, once he realized how Will relaxes when his hands are busy. When it became clear to Will that all of this was intentional, he did his best to avoid it. It always makes him feel inept. Childish. But if he looks past the brambles and thorns of his distaste for being coddled, it does make him feel seen in a way he's never experienced. His entire adult life has been lonesome. It's hard to turn away someone who cares.

This evening, Hannibal gives him the briefest once-over when he takes his coat at the beginning of their session, inhaling deeply. Then, casually as ever, asks if he’s had dinner.

“I have wild mushroom soup and some lovely steaks at home,” He says, smoothing the wrinkles out of Will’s coat before hanging it on the rack. “More than enough for two people, and a terrible waste to reheat.”

Will did, indeed, skip lunch. He'd fallen asleep at his desk, in fact, and can still feel the crick in his neck from it now. “Thank you, Doctor," he says, “but I'm exhausted. I should get home straight after our session.”

He means to lie out of defiance, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels suddenly bone-tired. He slumps into the plush leather sofa and rubs at his eyes. Hannibal's office is warm, and the couch is comfortable. It's certainly more comfortable than his pull-out bed. His eyes drift shut, just for a moment.

“Of course, Will,” he says easily, then hesitates. Will looks up at him through his fingers. Hannibal rarely hesitates.

“I don’t mean to push,” he says, “but it would worry me greatly for you to drive home in such a condition. The commute is a long one, and the roads can be dangerous at this time of year.”

“I’ll be fine. I didn’t sleep well last night, but I rarely do. And I’m a careful driver.” 

“Being overtired is only one concern. You also have a fever.”

“What? I do not,” Will says, immediately embarrassed over how petulant he sounds. 

Hannibal raises his brows, looking as though he's trying to choose his words very carefully. “You are flushed, shaky, and covered in goosebumps.”

“I-” Will pauses. He takes in the pounding of his head, the slight blur in his vision, the prickly, oversensitive skin. The soreness in his throat that, until now, he assumed was from the dry winter air. 

“Oh,” he says, and clears his throat. Yeah, that hurts. “I’m sick?”

“It appears so.”

Hannibal crosses the room, filling up a glass with water and handing it over to him. Will takes a long gulp and, upon feeling the instant relief, downs nearly half the glass at once. 

“Easy does it,” Hannibal says. “You’ll upset your stomach if you drink too fast.”

Will sets the glass down and rubs his sweaty palms on his slacks. 

“I should get home before it gets any worse. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I know I'm your last session—you could have gone home an hour ago.”

“Nonsense,” he says. “Your company is always welcome, however briefly.”

Will downs the rest of his water and stands, uneasy on his feet. His mind is only slightly foggy, and he’s sure he’s driven under worse conditions. He even slept last night, however little.

“Will,” Hannibal says as Will turns towards the door, stopping him in his tracks. “Won’t you stay the night in my guest room? While I’m certain you’ll feel much better in the morning, I would feel personally responsible if anything were to happen to you tonight.”

“I have to take care of the dogs.”

“You have someone who lets them out and feeds them while you are at work or away on trips, do you not?”

“It’s too short notice for me to call them out there. It’ll be dark soon."

“Then I insist, if nothing else, you let me drive you home.”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” he says lamely, rubbing at his temples.

“I am trying to look out for your safety and wellbeing.” 

“You’re trying to coddle me like a child.”

“I certainly don’t think of you as a child.”

Hannibal looks genuinely offended at the notion. Will sighs, frustrated. It would be pointless to continue fighting. And, if he’s being honest, he has no real desire to make the hour-long drive back to Wolf Trap.

“Fine. But if you drive me home, you’ll need to bring me back here tomorrow to get my car.” It's a truly pathetic ultimatum. Hannibal was obviously already planning on doing so—he wouldn't leave Will stranded. Hannibal smiles, relieved, and stands to gather his things.

“Excellent. We will need to stop at my home first, but I will try and make it as brief as possible.”

He holds Will’s coat out for him, and his arms are already halfway through the sleeves before he realizes he should have just taken it from his hands rather than allow Hannibal to dress him. But The doctor is unaffected, smoothing down the shoulders and arms of his coat before putting on his own. Will clenches his jaw, relieved that the fever hides his flush.

*

The brief stop at Hannibal’s house ends up taking nearly twenty minutes. Will insists upon waiting in the car, and Hannibal insists upon leaving the keys in the ignition and the heat blasting. The radio plays some soft classical piano, with the volume turned down so low that he can only make out the high notes. The neighborhood is quiet and dark, and the car smells like Hannibal’s subtle aftershave.

Will doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up with the road moving beneath him. He sits up and rubs his eyes, massaging out a crick in his neck from the awkward position. 

“Ah, you’re awake,” Hannibal says, eyes never leaving the road. “I’d hoped you would be able to rest more during the drive. How are you feeling?”

“I feel okay,” Will says. The lie is obvious from his croaky voice, which had sounded fine before he’d fallen asleep. If anything, his nap only made things worse. His eyes feel heavy, his throat dry. A tickle in his chest begs him to cough, but he holds it back, knowing that once he starts, he won’t be able to stop.

They’ve already gotten off the interstate, and it appears they’re driving along the small, country highway leading into Wolf Trap. Hannibal taps a black thermos that sits in the cup holder between them.

“I brewed you an herbal tea. It will help with your sore throat and soothe any muscle aches.”

“I don’t have muscle aches,” Will mumbles, taking the lid from the thermos. 

“I’m happy to hear that. Perhaps it’s only a cold instead of the flu.” 

He inhales the steam. The tea smells of ginger, clove, honey, and some other spice that he can’t quite place, but that makes his mouth water. He takes a few delicate sips, mindful of the temperature, and lets out a small, pleased hum when it soothes his throat. 

“Thank you,” he says. “It does help.” Hannibal smiles.

The rest of the drive goes quickly. Despite the dark and fog and his lack of familiarity with the area, Hannibal drives confidently, never once asking for directions. Will relaxes back into his seat, and he’s almost asleep again when the gravel driveway crunches under the tires. 

It’s just beginning to rain when they get out of the car. Hannibal grabs a small duffel bag and a cooler from the backseat, and he even slings Will’s work bag over his own shoulder.

“What’s all that?” Will asks. “I thought you were only dropping me off.”

“I’ve brought ingredients to make dinner, as well as some medication and other first-aid supplies. It would be remiss of me to simply leave you here like an unwanted stray. I’m a doctor, after all.”

“I can cook for myself, you know.” It isn't a lie. If left to his own devices, Will can feed himself. He has a freezer full of fish and a cabinet full of canned goods. He manages.

“It isn’t my intention to imply that you can’t. The food would not be nearly as fresh if cooked tomorrow. And, as I said before, it’s more than enough for two people.”

Will sighs. At a certain point, he supposes it's more difficult for both of them if he continues to refuse. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. Hannibal's reprimand was gentle, if it could even be called a reprimand at all, but Will feels embarrassingly close to tears. Being sick always made him emotional as a child, but he thought he’d outgrown that. He blinks away the heat behind his eyes.

Hannibal softens. “It’s alright. I know how illness can make one irritable.” He shuts the car door. “Especially when one is already predisposed to that sort of behavior.”

“Are you calling me an asshole?” His voice comes out mercifully clear.

“Of course not. Perhaps just… prickly.”

He walks towards the house. “Come, Will. Your dogs will be pleased to see you, I’m sure.”

Will unlocks the door and lets his pack outside, all of them crowding around him and sniffing curiously at Hannibal’s ankles. He’s suddenly thankful that he took the time to train them not to jump. He’d never live down the embarrassment if one of them damaged Hannibal’s expensive suit. 

Will crouches down to pet Max, who noses cautiously at his hand. He’s the most emotionally intelligent of his pack, always aware when something isn’t quite right. Something Border Collies are inherently good at, he’s read. He licks at Will’s fingers before dashing outside.

Hannibal follows him inside. “Leave the door open,” Will tells him. “For the dogs.”

He frowns. “It's freezing.”

“They’ll just be a minute.”

He goes into the kitchen and picks up the dogs’ food and water dishes, rinsing them out before filling them. Hannibal unpacks his cooler, poking through the contents of his refrigerator.

“It’s good that I’ve come,” he says. “You have nothing of substance here.”

“I’m not particularly hungry.”

Hannibal only hums, disinterested, and begins looking through the cupboards at Will’s cooking utensils. He feels a stab of shame at the thought of a debonair chef seeing the state of his kitchen, but quickly expels the thought. Hannibal was the one who insisted upon coming, so he has no right to complain.

“A balanced diet is vital to good health, particularly when you have no appetite,” Hannibal says, pulling out a wok and a small stock pot. “Is your stomach upset?”

Will thinks carefully before answering. “I don’t think so,” he says, “but the idea of anything heavy doesn’t sound appealing.”

“I will omit the cream from the soup, then,” Hannibal nods. He rakes his eyes over Will’s dark button-down and cotton dress pants. “I’ll get started on this while you change.”

“You want me to dress up for dinner in my own home?” There’s the petulance again. Will grimaces.

“Of course not. You aren’t well. I’d like you to wear something more comfortable.” Thank God. The seams of Will's slacks have been bothering him all day, and the collar of his shirt was itchy enough that he almost considered throwing the damn thing away.

Will takes mental stock of his clean laundry, trying to remember if he has any clean sweatpants. Or any sweatpants period. He normally just sleeps in boxers to stave off the worst of his night sweats. 

“I’ll see if I have anything,” he says.

His bedroom is mostly used for laundry these days, ever since he’s started sleeping on the pull-out couch in the living room. His clean clothes are laid out on the bed to prevent wrinkling, the dirty ones piled in the laundry basket on the floor. He forgoes both piles and instead sifts through his seldom-used dresser. 

At the bottom of one of the drawers, he finds a pair of forgotten green flannel pants with the tags still on. They were a gift from several Christmases ago, though he can’t even remember who they were from. He changes into them quickly, throwing on a threadbare t-shirt and forgoing socks altogether. 

The fabric scrapes uncomfortably against his fevered skin as he undresses, and he feels the prickle of goosebumps as he’s exposed to the cool air of the bedroom. He shivers, rubbing himself down with his hands to ease the sensation. It doesn’t help. 

He grabs an extra blanket from the linen closet, something heavy and warm. Usually, he sleeps with only a sheet or nothing at all, but a chill is beginning to work its way through him. 

Back downstairs, he sees that the dogs have made it back inside. After a quick headcount, he shuts the front door and flicks on the space heater in front of the fireplace. It’s too much hassle to keep up with cleaning and maintaining the fireplace itself, but the stone mantle helps keep the heat in. Sometimes, when he isn’t feeling his best, he’ll curl up on the carpet in front of it and let the dogs pile on top of him, but he would never do that in front of Hannibal.

He hovers for a moment in the doorway leading to the kitchen, listening to the soft sound of a wooden spoon scraping against the sides of a pot, and weighs his options. Watching Hannibal cook is always interesting, but making his presence known could also lead to being poked and prodded, having his temperature checked and having medication thrust upon him.

Ultimately, he decides to settle into an armchair in the living room with his copy of Watership Down. The book itself isn’t exactly comforting, but he’s read it enough times that it requires little concentration. His eyes move over the words quickly, and soon enough he’s immersed in the story of Fiver and Hazel, feet curled beneath him and blanket over his shoulders. 

Within half an hour, he’s almost entirely forgotten about Hannibal, having tuned out the sounds coming from the kitchen in his concentration. So when someone clears their throat only a few feet from his chair, he jumps, slamming the book closed in surprise. He's usually so overly aware of others in his space that he's rarely startled.

“I apologize if I scared you,” Hannibal says gently. “Dinner is ready. I’ve decided to just make a beef and mushroom stew, as it might be easier to eat with a poor appetite. Are you feeling up to eating at the table, or would you prefer that I bring your food here?”

He places the book on the coffee table and stands. “The table is fine. Lead the way.”

Chapter 2

Will always finds himself nervous before sharing a meal with Hannibal. He’s not sure why, since the food is always delicious and the company is always pleasant. If nothing else, Hannibal is a master of two things: cooking and conversation. Maybe it’s just how imposing he can seem, with his pressed suits and easy confidence. Even still, he worries his lip as he waits for Hannibal to bring the food out. 

There’s already bread out on the table, along with two glasses of cool water. Will abandoned his blanket in the living room, since it seemed rude to bring it to the table, but the cold from the wooden kitchen chair seeping through his clothes is making his hands shake. He rubs them together, then sticks them under his arms, then finally sits on them to keep the trembling at bay. It’s rarely an issue, since he tends to run warm, but Will hates being cold more than anything.

Hannibal sweeps into the room, graceful as ever, carrying two of Will’s mismatched ceramic bowls. One of them is glazed a pretty blue-green, the other dark brown. At some point, he took off his suit jacket and put on a crisp, white apron. Certainly nothing he found in Will’s kitchen—he must have brought it from home. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and Will finds himself staring at his forearms. He isn’t sure that he’s ever seen Hannibal without a jacket before. 

“Sirloin and mushroom stew with an herb and cabernet base,” he says, setting the blue bowl down in front of Will. “With fresh sourdough from my own starter.”

“Thank you,” Will says. “It looks great.”

It’s true. Despite having no appetite ten minutes ago, he’s suddenly ravenous when faced with a home-cooked meal. Still, he waits politely for Hannibal to sit before eating. Instead, he wraps both hands around the warm ceramic, letting out a deep sigh.

Hannibal unties his apron and hangs it from the back of his chair, but he pauses before sitting down.

“Are you cold?”

“I’ll warm up once I’ve eaten,” he says.

Hannibal honest-to-god tuts at him. “Will, I’ve come all this way because I want to help you. It’s no trouble at all for you to be honest about what’s bothering you.”

Will grimaces, feeling once again like a child being chastised.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Yes. I’ve got chills.”

“It’s likely your fever. Just a moment.”

Will is already beginning to feel better as he grasps the bowl, but Hannibal is back in no time with the blanket he’d left in the sitting room. He drapes it over Will’s shoulders, tucking it carefully around his neck. Will shudders. He can’t remember the last time someone touched him like that: gentle, skin-to-skin. Maybe Alana, during their fling last year.

“I-” Will clears his throat. The fever is making him emotional again, clearly. “Thank you. That’s much better.”

Hannibal steps back, looking pleased, and takes his own seat. 

“Please, eat,” he says, gesturing to Will’s bowl. 

He picks up his spoon obediently. When he takes his first bite, the flavors are more muted than expected, but it’s surely because of his illness rather than any mistake on Hannibal’s part. Regardless, it’s delicious. The meat is tender, the vegetables mild and sweet. 

“It’s good,” Will says stupidly. He can never think of anything intelligent to say about Hannibal’s cooking. 

“Thank you. My hope is that the herbs will help clear your congestion.”

“I don’t really have any congestion.”

“You do,” says Hannibal. “I can hear it.”

Will wonders whether that perception is a Hannibal thing or a doctor thing. Or both. It doesn’t matter, he supposes. He tries a piece of the bread with his next bite, and while the texture is perfect, the crust is too scratchy for his sore throat. Still, he manages to eat everything he was served, and by the time he’s finished, he feels warm and sleepy. 

“Would you like any more?” Hannibal asks. Will shakes his head and rubs at his eyes, which have become suddenly watery with exhaustion. 

Hannibal takes both of their dishes to the kitchen and comes back with his medical kit in hand. 

Will shifts, nervous. He’s always despised any form of medical treatment. As a child, his father would have to hold him down while the pediatrician gave him shots. Once he got too big for that, he simply stopped forcing him to go to the doctor at all. As a beat cop in New Orleans, he would regularly stitch himself up at home rather than going to the emergency room to get checked out with the rest of his team. He tried to go in for a checkup once, two years ago, but the blinding fluorescent lights and too-sweet air fresheners in the waiting room had him on-edge before his appointment even began. He left before the nurse called him back.

“I have to warn you,” Will says. “I’m not a very good patient.”

“I would never mistake you as one,” Hannibal smiles. “I am, after all, your therapist.”

He holds up two thermometers: one for in the ear, another for under the tongue. 

“Which would you prefer?”

Will points to the ear thermometer, grateful for having the option. Hannibal makes quick work of taking his temperature, but frowns when he reads the screen.

“101.8. Certainly not good, but not cause for alarm. We will monitor it.”

He digs around in his bag, pulls out a stethoscope, and holds the chest piece tight between his hands, warming it. 

“I just need to listen to your lungs. If you’re uncomfortable, I can do so over your shirt. But I will be able to hear more clearly without anything in the way.”

“Under my shirt is fine,” Will swallows, throat tight. “Unless- do I need to take it off?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hannibal says. He reaches a hand up through the bottom of Will’s shirt, but hesitates before touching the stethoscope to his chest. “Is this all right?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

The metal is cold, but not as uncomfortable as he expected. Will breathes in and out evenly, trying to calm his pulse, but it’s no use. He can still hear it thundering in his ears. It would be easy to say he’s nervous because of his medical phobia, but really it’s the fingertips grazing his sternum, the warmth radiating from Hannibal’s body so close to his own. 

“Deep breath in,” Hannibal says, pausing for a few moments. “And now out, slowly.” Will does as he’s told, and the stethoscope is removed. 

“Very good, Will.” Hannibal sits back in his seat, placing the stethoscope into his bag. Will flushes and wrings his hands together. It’s such simple praise, something a doctor might say to a child. They aren’t even finished yet. So why does he feel like he’s about to cry?

“Your breathing is normal, though you do indeed have congestion. I’m afraid this illness will give way to a nasty cough as you begin to recover.”

He reaches his hands to the sides of Will’s face, but hovers there before touching. “May I check your throat for swelling? I will be very careful—it won’t hurt.”

“Yes, okay.”

Hannibal places his hands on the sides of Will’s neck, pressing his thumbs into the soft muscle just below his jaw. Will inhales sharply, and, as if a switch has been flipped, the tears he’s been holding back well up.

Hannibal loosens the pressure of his thumbs immediately, but his hands stay where they are.

“Will, I’m terribly sorry. Have I hurt you?” His voice is quiet, gentle.

Will scrubs at his eyes, pulling away from Hannibal’s hold. 

“No, God, I’m sorry. I just-” he takes a steadying breath, trying to quell the tears before they turn into sobs. “I always get a bit emotional when I’m sick. It’s nothing.”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. The hormones released during the healing process often have that effect—It is not at all uncommon.”

He pulls a handkerchief from his bag and places it in Will’s hand. An honest-to-god silk handkerchief. If Will weren’t so embarrassed, he might laugh. Instead, he wipes the soft fabric under his eyes. 

“Not to mention,” Hannibal continues, “that you are unused to having a visitor in your home. Your evening has not gone as expected. Routine is important to you, is it not?”

“I’m called away on cases all the time, at all hours of the night. It doesn’t bother me.” 

“Ah, but that is an unexpected change of pace you have come to anticipate over time. It has, in some sense, become part of your routine.” 

“I suppose you’re right that, other than those calls, I normally do the same thing day-in and day-out,” he chuckles wetly, just a touch self-deprecating. “I even listen to the same album every day, on my way to and from work.”

Hannibal looks unsure of himself for just a moment, before his face smooths back out into careful neutrality. 

“Will, I apologize if my imposition tonight has upset you. I consider you a friend, and I simply wanted to ensure you got home safely and that your needs were met. I admit that I can sometimes become overzealous.”

“It’s all right,” Will says. He isn’t sure what to do with the handkerchief, so he just sets it down on the kitchen table. “I wasn’t upset at you for looking out for me, not really. It can just be… a lot.”

“Affection overwhelms you because you are unused to being cared for. So you pull away.”

“You’re being the wrong kind of doctor right now.”

He smiles. “The mind is just as important as the body.”

Hannibal digs through his bag once more, pulling out a few amber bottles and mercifully changing the subject.

“This is acetaminophen for your fever and headache,” he says, doling out two small white pills, “and doxylamine, for your congestion.” 

Will holds his hand out for the pills and swallows them dry. Hannibal grimaces, pushing a glass of water into his hand.

“The doxylamine will cause drowsiness and should set in within the hour. I recommend taking a warm bath or shower before bed, as the steam will temporarily relieve the worst of your symptoms.”

Will can’t remember the last time he took a bath, but the idea of it is alluring. A shower would surely exhaust him.

“A bath sounds good.” Will stands up and stretches his arms over his head.

“Please, allow me to run it for you. The temperature is very important, as overheating may exacerbate your fever.”

Will gnaws on his bottom lip. This, for some reason, feels intimate, but he has no real reason to refuse. It isn’t as if Hannibal will be bathing him, anyways. 

“Okay. I’ll warn you that I’m not sure how clean the bathroom is, though.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Will gestures to the living room. “It’s upstairs, second door to the left. I’ll, um. I’ll wait down here, I guess.”

He follows Hannibal into the living room and settles back into the armchair with his book, but he isn’t able to regain the same focus he had before. Instead, he listens to the sound of another human in his space, breathing the same dusty air as he is. Upstairs, the bathroom door opens and the hot water tap squeals. The water rushes through the pipes over his head. 

When he tunes back into his surroundings, Hannibal is coming down the stairs, drying his hands on a washcloth. 

“The bath is set,” he says. “Are you feeling any better?”

Will isn’t sure if he’s talking about his illness or the embarrassing display from after dinner, so he just shrugs and pulls himself to a stand.

“I think so,” he says. Hannibal nods.

“Please, call down to me if you need anything. I will be cleaning up in the kitchen.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can clean up tomorrow.”

“I would appreciate you allowing me to.”

Will blinks. “I- Okay. I’ll just-” he gestures upstairs.

“Please, before the water cools.”

*

Will can admit that the water temperature is indeed perfect. It’s warm enough to relax his muscles and produce a bit of steam, but not hot enough to make him sweat. He lies back against the tub and closes his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing. In seven, hold, out seven. The pounding in his head is beginning to ebb.

After several minutes, he hears Hannibal’s footsteps coming up the stairs. He taps on the door to the bathroom, but he doesn’t open it.

“Just checking on you.”

“Yeah, ‘m okay,” Will says. He realizes suddenly that he’d almost fallen asleep. He scrubs his wet hands over his face, slicking his curls back in the same motion.

“I would advise you to get out soon. It can be unsafe to be in the bath when the medication takes effect.”

“I think the medication has already taken effect.” Will stands, a little drowsy and unsteady on his feet. “But I’m getting out now.”

“Good. I’ve left you a towel on the sink there, as well as a sweater, if you’re still feeling a chill.”

“Thanks,” he says.

The sweater is one of his favorites. Soft, warm, and just big enough to hang loosely from his frame. He scrubs himself dry, shuddering at the feeling of rough cloth against his fevered skin, before pulling the sweater over his head. He should invest in nicer towels.

“When you’re dressed, please come back downstairs. I would like to check your fever. My hope is that the bath regulated your body temperature.”

Hannibal’s footsteps make their way back down the stairs. Will is already fatigued just from getting dressed, so he sits on the edge of the bathtub to towel dry his hair. His skin is pink and pleasantly tingly from the bath, and even though he feels little improvement physically, he does feel more clear headed. 

As a child, baths were the only thing that could calm his sensory overloads. The feeling of being enveloped by water, the quiet echo of the tile bathroom. He doesn’t know why he ever stopped taking them. It still helps, evidently. 

He stands to head back downstairs, but pauses at the foggy mirror. He’s pale and glassy-eyed, and his lips are chapped enough to sting every time he licks them. He certainly looks sick. Has he looked like this all day? Maybe that’s why his students were so uncharacteristically polite all day.

As soon as he’s reached the landing at the bottom of the stairs, Hannibal is at his side.

“I will try to be quick about it,” he says, leading Will over to the pullout bed, hand at his elbow.

When Will sits, Winston immediately jumps up beside him, curling up with his head in his lap. Will runs his fingers through his silky fur. He’s been trying for months to get the dogs to stop jumping up here, but it’s futile. He’s made peace with his sheets being covered in dog hair.

Hannibal takes the thermometer back out, and Will obediently leans forward. He closes his eyes while he waits, drowsy. When it beeps, Hannibal grimaces.

“Bad news?” Will asks.

“It’s no worse, but it’s not much better, either.” He turns the thermometer around. 101.6. “I’m certain you will feel better after getting some rest.”

“Maybe.” Will yawns. “I’m so tired, I may even sleep through the night.”

Hannibal puts the thermometer away and stands, guiding Will back onto his pillows. He thinks distantly of protesting, but it does feel nice to lie down. Hannibal’s hands feel nice too, where they rest. One on his shoulder, the other on his elbow. Large and warm. Strong but gentle.

The thought startles him enough to open his eyes, but he shakes it from his mind and closes them again. Cold medicine always made him a little irrational. Nothing to dwell on. Winston tucks his nose into Will’s shoulder, and he tangles his hand into the fur at his nape.

“I can see you out,” Will says, sounding groggy even to himself.

“There’s no need.” 

His duvet is pulled over him, and he wants to tell Hannibal that he’s just going to sweat through it, but he can’t really form his thoughts into words. 

“Sleep well, Will,” Hannibal says quietly. He moves away, and the dim lighting of the living room gives way to darkness.

Notes:

I wasn't going to post this until the weekend, but I'm not sure if I'll have time to be online. So, two chapters in two days.

I also think this fic will end up longer than I originally anticipated, now that I'm finished outlining everything.

Chapter 3

Notes:

something to keep in mind: while this fic is definitely fluffy, Hannibal is still somewhat manipulative here. nothing as terrible as what he does in the show by a long shot, but worth noting that he uses Will's trust in him as a therapist/doctor to get closer to him

Will wakes to birds chirping and sunlight streaming through the living room windows the next morning. Strange. Normally, he wakes up all through the night, panting and covered in sweat, remnants of whatever nightmare he had lingering behind his eyes, but he doesn’t recall his sleep being interrupted at all. He feels more well-rested than he has in years. Or since the Ripper came back, at least. 

He cracks his eyes open, lets out a long, lazy stretch, and then goes straight into a coughing fit. Ellie lifts her head from where she had been sleeping at the foot of his bed, staring him down as though mortally wounded that he would wake her. When he’s calmed down, he scoops her into his lap and scratches behind her ears until she settles again.

“Sorry, girl,” he says, then sniffles, wet and disgusting. Winston makes a disgruntled snuffling noise from beside him, still mostly asleep and fighting to stay that way. The rest of his pack lies in their regular spots on the floor, piled up in front of the space heater.  

He digs around the blankets for his phone before realizing that it’s on the nightstand, plugged into the charger next to a glass of water. He clicks the home button to check the time and startles when he sees it’s almost 10. He should have been at work hours ago for his 8am class. But miraculously, he has no missed calls from Jack or frantic emails from his students. Nothing but a single text from Hannibal.

It’s then that he remembers the events of the previous night. Hannibal making him dinner, running him a bath. Tucking him into bed. Touching him. He’d cried in front of Hannibal. Oh God. He puts his head in his hands and takes a few deep breaths. Or, as deep as he can manage, with his chest aching and fluttering all at once. At least the worst of his fever seems to have ebbed, allowing him to think more clearly. 

He pointedly avoids opening the text, too nervous about what it might say even though he knows Hannibal is too polite to intentionally embarrass him.  

He downs half the glass of water and stands, padding over to the front door and peeking out. There are no cars in his driveway—not even his own—so Hannibal must be long gone. He carefully doesn’t examine why this is disappointing. Why the quiet of the house seems to settle heavier around him. In the next room, the dogs are beginning to rise, their nails clicking against the hardwood floors.

Will figures there’s no use in delaying it any further, so he sits down at the kitchen table and opens the text notification from Hannibal. It’s longer than he expected, though it makes sense that Hannibal isn’t one for text-speak. Their text history up until this point has been mostly Will’s running late messages and Hannibal’s simple replies of drive carefully.

Doctor Lecter
5:50 a.m.
I hope you slept well and that your fever has waned. I’ve taken the initiative of informing Jack that you are ill. We agreed it is best that you take the day off.
In the refrigerator, you will find leftovers from last night, as well as a quiche that can be easily reheated or enjoyed cold. There is tea in the cupboard above the sink, for your throat.
When you feel up to it, please call so I might come check in on you. We can also arrange to get your car back to Wolf Trap.
- Hannibal

Will raises his eyebrows, then huffs an incredulous laugh. There is absolutely no chance that Jack simply agreed to give Will the day off, especially without even hearing from him himself. What had Hannibal told him? There must have been threats involved. Though the doctor is cunning enough ( manipulative enough, perhaps) that maybe he managed without much damage.

He thinks briefly of being annoyed with Hannibal for meddling, but quickly dismisses it. He can’t be too angry. After all, since he doesn’t have his car, Hannibal would have had to pick him up before dawn this morning if he wanted to be on time. After everything he did for Will last night, he couldn’t exactly ask that of him. He probably didn’t get home until after midnight. 

Will isn’t hungry, but that’s nothing new. He seldom, if ever, has an appetite first thing in the morning, but he gets up to check the fridge out of curiosity anyways. Just as Hannibal said, there are several neatly stacked glass tupperware containers, all of which are labeled. He must have packed everything up after Will fell asleep last night. The thought of him doing so, moving quietly around the kitchen to prepare the food without waking Will, makes him uneasy and warm all at once. He closes the fridge and takes his phone back out, tapping out a response.

Will Graham
10:12 a.m.
I’m awake, feeling much better. Thanks for the food.

Hannibal will call him once he has a moment. He’s probably in a session now, or otherwise doing something important. Will stands listlessly in the middle of the kitchen, unsure how to spend his morning without work or his car, but Max pads into the room and makes the decision for him. The dogs need to be taken care of.

He opens the front door and lets out a sharp little whistle. The dogs shoot through the door, tails wagging, and chase each other around the yard. Will’s breath puffs out in front of him, and his toes are already going numb from the damp, cold slats of the porch on his bare feet, but he still stands and watches the dogs prance for a few minutes. 

In the fall, before the air turns harsh and frigid, he likes to run with them sometimes. It’s nice to share that with his pack, to feel that kind of companionship. It feels good to run and play like a child, then to lie back on the grass heaving, the dogs darting around him. He thinks of going out to run with them now, but it would certainly do him no good, since he can still feel the lingering malaise from his illness. Leaving the door open for them to come in when they choose, he turns back inside and paces in aimless circles around the kitchen. 

It’s hard to tell whether his headache is from being sick or from not having any caffeine for close to an entire day. Coffee might help. He rummages around in the cabinet above the sink, finding both his sad can of Folgers and the tin of loose tea Hannibal left him. He holds one in each hand, considering them.

The tea is unlabeled, and Will can’t imagine that it has any caffeine. If it’s the same stuff he was given last night, some mixture of chamomile and bittersweet herbs, it would only make him more tired. Later, he resolves. He’ll have some after a cup of coffee or two. He needs something to make him feel a little more like himself. 

His phone rings while he’s pouring water into the reservoir of his ancient drip coffee maker. He finishes up quickly and glances at his caller ID. Doctor Lecter.

“Hi Hannibal,” he says, leveling out a scoop of grounds and dumping them into the filter.  

“Hello WIll,” Hannibal says. There’s faint classical music playing from his end of the line, something with strings. Will pictures him leaning back in his desk chair after a long session, one leg crossed over his knee. “You said you were feeling better, but, forgive me, you sound terrible.”

“My throat still hurts, and I’ve got a killer headache, but I think my fever is gone.”

“You haven’t checked?”

“I don’t have a thermometer.”

A pause. “Every home should have a fully-stocked first aid kit.”

“I have band-aids.” 

Hannibal makes a wounded noise. “I should have left you my supplies.”

Will grins. It’s so easy to get a reaction out of Hannibal. “I really am feeling better, though. Thank you for driving me home last night, and for… you know, helping me. You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” Hannibal says easily. “It’s what friends do. We’re friends, are we not?”

“Yes, of course,” he says, surprised by how true the words feel. Will had let Hannibal into his home, let him rummage through his things unattended, let him move around in his space. He had let Hannibal touch him. 

“Of course ,” he says again, more emphatically. “It’s not that. I just don’t want to inconvenience you, is all. You’re a busy man.”

“The only inconvenience I face in helping you is working through your stubbornness. I wish you wouldn’t put up so much of a fight.”

Will slumps over the counter, staring at the percolating coffee. “This may be hard to believe, but I’m less prickly around you than I am most others.”

“We’ll work on it,” Hannibal says. It sounds like a promise. 

The coffee machine gurgles out its last few drops and shuts off, just as Will goes into another coughing fit. Hannibal hums.

“You should have more of the tea, if you haven’t already. It will help your throat.”

Will gnaws at his lip, feeling stupidly like he’s about to admit to something that will get in trouble. “I was hoping to have something with caffeine. You know, to perk me up a bit.”

“Caffeine will only suppress your immune system, dehydrate you, and lead to a crash.” Hannibal’s voice is not harsh, but it is stern.

“But I’m tired ,”  Will says. It comes out embarrassingly like a whine. Jesus Christ. He needs to get a grip.

“Will,” Hannibal begins, gently reprimanding. “Make yourself a cup of tea and have some of the quiche I left you. You will feel better,” he says, leaving no room for argument. 

“Fine. Okay,” Will says, before he’s even fully registered what he’s agreeing to. Whatever. Even though he's positive that coffee would have little impact on his condition, he'll drink the tea to appease Hannibal. He'd done him enough favors over the last twelve hours that he deserves it.

“Very good.” Something warms in Will’s chest. He shakes it off. 

There’s shuffling on Hannibal’s end. Footsteps, then a door closing. “I will be at your house in an hour. Is there anything you need me to bring you? Or anything you want?”

Will straightens. “Don’t you have patients?” 

“I don’t make appointments for Tuesday afternoons. I usually spend them at the market.”

“You don’t have to cancel your plans bec-”

“I’m already on my way, Will. Now please, is there anything I need to stop and get for you?”

He snaps his mouth shut. It’s uncharacteristic for Hannibal to interrupt. Even when irritated, he’ll normally listen completely before gracefully shutting somebody down. 

“No, I'm fine,” Will says. There’s no point in arguing, especially not when he really does want Hannibal to come. He isn’t sure when he became the sort of person to refuse a favor out of politeness rather than pride. "I'll see you when you get here."

“I’ll see you soon.” The line goes dead. 

He realizes belatedly that he forgot to ask Hannibal what he’d told Jack to get him out of work. He dreads going back tomorrow and facing whatever vitriol the man has for him. No amount of empathy can get him to understand the way Jack’s mind works. One moment he’s concerned enough about Will’s wellbeing to assign a shrink to him, the next moment he’s dragging him from body to body by the shirt collar. He sighs. That’s a problem for tomorrow, he supposes. 

The dogs trot back inside, one by one, and Will doles out breakfast for each of them. They usually eat far earlier in the morning, well before dawn, and he knows their internal clocks will be out of whack for the foreseeable future due to him having overslept. Buster, the eldest of the bunch, is already looking a little bleary. 

He sticks the pot of coffee in the fridge before he can change his mind about taking Hannibal’s advice. At least he’ll have iced coffee later—a treat that he doesn’t often have the patience to make at home. It would be more welcome if it weren’t below freezing outside, however. At least the tea will warm him up, for the time being. 

*

Will spends the next hour working on his fishing lures, something he hasn’t had time for in weeks. It requires a great deal of concentration, and he often loses himself to the simple but delicate process once he’s begun. When he first moved out of his father’s house, he would listen to music or old reruns of sitcoms while he cut colorful fibers and tied impossibly small knots, but now he prefers silence. Just the occasional sound of a car driving by, or one of the dogs settling at his feet. His head still feels like it’s full of cotton, and he keeps having to turn away from his work to sneeze, but he feels some of his uneasiness settle.

The doorbell rings just as he’s gluing the twine of a finished lure, and it startles him into pricking his finger on the hook. He hisses, biting the wound before any blood can drip onto the desk. He hasn’t made a mistake like that since he was a child, crafting crude fly lures at the tiny roll-top desk in his bedroom. 

“Just a second!” He shouts.

He rushes to the door, trying to smooth down his rumpled appearance before stopping himself. Who cares if Hannibal sees him a little disheveled? Besides, it’s too late for that now. If he was going to try and make himself presentable, he should’ve done so an hour ago.

When he opens the door, Hannibal is well-dressed as always, wearing a leather satchel slung over his shoulder and a mossy green coat that would look drab on anybody else. He smiles earnestly at Will, not that tight-lipped expression he sometimes makes at Jack or his high society friends. 

“Good morning,” he says. “I trust you rested well last night?”

“Yeah, actually. I slept better than I have in ages. Didn’t wake up once.”

He steps aside to let Hannibal in, and the two make their way into the living room, Will still examining his fingertip.

“Is something wrong?” Hannibal asks, frowning down at his hand.

“It’s nothing, I just nicked myself,” he gestures towards the table, where his supplies are still carefully laid out. The almost-finished lure that pricked his finger still lies on the floor where he dropped it, and Hannibal stoops down to pick it up, twirling it between his fingers.

“Do you make all your own lures?”

“Yes. To be honest, I enjoy it almost as much as fishing.”

Hannibal looks as though Will has shared something precious with him. “It’s beautiful.”

He sets the lure down gently and places a warm hand on Will’s upper arm, leading him to sit. “I’m glad you’ve spent the morning doing something restful.”

“I don’t know if I’d consider it restful. It takes a lot of concentration.” It’s true. Although Will’s muscles are loose and relaxed, his eyes feel strained from paying such close attention to the details. 

“I have no doubt,” Hannibal says, digging around in his satchel. “But it’s something you enjoy. It’s certainly less physically and mentally taxing than looking at forensic reports or teaching a class at Quantico, don’t you agree?”

“I guess,” Will says. “How did you get Jack to agree to let me off today, anyways?”

“There was little argument he could make. I’m a medical doctor, after all, and I’ve been assigned to you personally by Jack.” 

“I thought he’d put up more of a fight.”

Hannibal looks up at him, almost smirking. “It’s possible I mentioned your car dilemma, as well as the fact that I was unavailable to bring you to work this morning.”

Will waits. "I may have also threatened to contact human resources with a request to put you on light duty, if he was not agreeable."

“There it is,” Will says, smiling despite himself. He can't say he cares much whether Jack is annoyed with him, at this point. It seems he's never on Jack's good side, even when he's doing everything right.

Hannibal frowns down at his bag. “I seem to have forgotten my thermometer at home.” He reaches out towards Will’s face, his palm hovering just a few inches from his forehead. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” Will says, “but I don’t feel feverish anymore.”

Hannibal’s palm is cool against his face, and Will leans into the touch without thinking. “Still a bit warm,” Hannibal says, moving a hand to Will’s cheek, then to the nape of his neck. “But I have no doubt it’s gone down since yesterday.”

Will frowns. “But I feel fine.”

“You feel better , not altogether fine.” Hannibal moves his hand back to his own lap, and Will shivers at the loss. He analyzes Will for a moment, clearly contemplating something. “I want to try something, if you’re amenable.”

“It depends what it is,” Will says, suspicious.

“A kind of meditation. It won’t take long.” 

“Isn’t that a bit new-age for you, doctor?” Will has tried meditation. He’s never able to focus for long enough to get anything out of it. His attention is always being pulled away by one thing or another. The closest he ever gets to a meditative state is when he’s standing in front of a body, his mind inside that of a killer. It isn't particularly relaxing.

“It’s nothing like that,” Hannibal says. “You struggle to understand your physical needs, so I would like you to get out of your mind and focus on your body. Just for a few moments.”

Will thinks for a moment. The exercise will most likely do him no good, but there's no harm in it, either. “I guess I’ll try. No promises,” he hedges.

Hannibal stands, walking to the back of Will’s chair, and places his hands on either shoulder. “Close your eyes.”

Will’s eyes slide shut. “Okay.”

“Now I want you to relax, as much as you possibly can. Please refrain from speaking unless you have a question, or unless I ask you one. It will break your concentration.”

“Okay,” Will says again, then ducks his head. “Sorry.”

“It’s quite alright.” The smile is audible in Hannibal’s voice. “I’m going to provide gentle grounding touches. If you feel yourself overthinking or becoming distracted, I want you to focus on the pressure of my hands.”

There are footsteps, then a shadow. Hannibal, now standing in front of him, places his hands back on Will's shoulders and grips them, just slightly. “Take a deep breath, as deep as you can manage. Envision the breath filling your lungs completely.”

Will does as he’s told, relaxing on the exhale.

“Very good,” Hannibal says. “Now, focus on your head. Not your mind, but your head. From the back of the cranium-” Hannibal’s left hand leaves his shoulder and lightly cups the back of his head. “-to your face.” The hand moves forward slowly, until it’s cupping his cheek. Will sighs. It feels nice; he can admit that much to himself. Hannibal's hands are large and ever so slightly calloused.

“Is there any pain or discomfort in your head?” Will snaps back into himself. Right, meditation. The grounding touches are more distracting than anything else, really.

“Yeah,” he mumbles eventually. “Headache. In my temples and forehead. My sinuses feel raw.” His tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “My lips are chapped.”

Hannibal’s hand smooths down his hair and finds its way to his neck. “Now your neck and throat. Is there any pain here?”

Will swallows, feeling his throat bob against Hannibal’s thumb. “The back of my throat is a little raw. Not as bad as yesterday.”

Hannibal moves both of his hands down to Will’s chest. One rests in the center of his sternum while the other grips loosely at the side of his rib cage. Will shudders.

“How does your chest feel? Your lungs?”

“My chest is sore from coughing. My breathing is fine.” He pauses, thinking. “My pulse seems fast.” It's an understatement. His heart is thumping rapidly, as if he just ran a mile. He hopes Hannibal can't feel it.

“It’s a bit accelerated, but that isn’t anything to worry about. You’re unused to being touched.” Will takes a shaky breath. It's embarrassing that Hannibal can read him so easily even when they're keeping their distance, but it's impossible to keep anything from him when they're this close. He considers breaking the tense atmosphere with a sarcastic comment, but swallows it down. He hasn’t been asked a question.

The hands slide down to his stomach. “Your abdomen,” Hannibal says. “Is there any nausea? Cramping?”

Will feels his muscles twitch, and he suddenly realizes that he’s hard. Like a teenager on a hair-trigger. Fuck. He opens his eyes with a start, only to find Hannibal already looking at his face. He frowns.

“Close your eyes, Will.” 

He opens his mouth to say... something. To put an end to this. But what could he even say that wouldn’t embarrass both of them? His eyes flutter shut again, and he hopes the baggy sweats and too-big hoodie hide his arousal. He tilts his head to thump against the back of the chair, facing the ceiling to hopefully hide the worst of his flush. 

“No nausea,” he chokes out. “My abdomen feels fine.”

The hands move again, this time to run from his shoulders all the way to his wrists. “Do your arms ache?”

“No.”

Hannibal lies his hands over Will’s. “Your hands?”

“Just where I pricked my finger, earlier.”

“We’ll get you a bandage when we’re through.” He hears shuffling, like Hannibal is moving around. He lifts his hands for a moment, and Will makes a humiliating little sound in the back of his throat.

“I’m right here,” Hannibal soothes, resting both hands on his thighs. “We’re almost through. Are your legs sore?” He rubs up and down his thighs, then moves over his knees and calves.

“A little bit,” Will croaks. “I think it’s because I slept for so long.”

“An unusual problem for you, no doubt,” Hannibal says. “You’ve done very well, Will. Please take one more deep breath." Will does as he's told.

"You may open your eyes.”

The light of the living room is blinding, disorienting. When he lifts his head to look at Hannibal, he finds the man kneeling between his legs, hands still resting on Will’s thighs. They’re almost eye-to-eye, like this, but Will stares at his mouth instead.

“How do you feel?” Hannibal asks. 

“Strange,” Will says honestly. “A little out of it.”

Hannibal smiles. “That’s alright. Quite normal, even. How about you lie down? I’ll get you a bandage.”

Will shifts in his seat, trying to relieve some of the pressure without being too obvious. “I think a shower would help with my sinuses,” he says. Anything to get him a few minutes alone so he can get ahold of himself. “I don’t really feel like sleeping.”

“Very well,” Hannibal says. “But I must insist you drink a glass of water first. The heat may dehydrate you.”

“Sure, fine.” 

Hannibal stands and turns to go towards the kitchen. But then, for a split second, his eyes move down to Will’s lap, his lips parting thoughtlessly. Will’s cheeks heat, but Hannibal says nothing, simply continuing on. When he’s safely out of the room, Will buries his face in his hands.

Notes:

thanks for all your kudos and kind words on the last chapter. this fic is 90% self-indulgent drivel, so i'm pleasantly surprised that people are reading and enjoying it <3

Chapter 4

Notes:

please heed the "poorly negotiated kink" tag for this chapter

It’s with a firm dose of persuasion that Hannibal agrees to take Will to get his car, and it’s only with the promise that Will will make his health a priority as his body recovers. 

“It’s only a cold,” Will says. 

“A cold can easily become something worse, if not properly cared for.”

Hannibal starts the car and reverses down the gravel driveway. “Please, Will. Humor me. Continue taking the medication I left you for the next few days, and remain at home tomorrow. Pushing yourself to go to work will strain your body.”

He frowns. “Why? I feel fine now, and I’m sure I’ll be entirely back to normal by tomorrow.”

“I’ve already informed Jack that you would need at least two days of uninterrupted rest. There isn’t any point in overexerting yourself when they have likely already accommodated for your absence.”

Will scoffs. “I doubt Jack has made any ‘accommodations.’ If anything, I’ll just have to make up everything I’ve already missed.”

Hannibal sighs. “Please, just see how you feel when you arrive home this afternoon. Perhaps try to emulate the guided meditation we did together.” He pauses. “You seemed very responsive to it.”

Will sinks down in his seat, trying to figure out whether responsive is some sort of innuendo, but Hannibal is probably too polite for that. “Sure, okay,” he says. “I’ll try.”

He smiles. “That is all I ask.”

The hour-long drive is quiet after that. He’s warm all over, focused on where their elbows meet on the center console, and by the time they reach the parking lot where Will left his Volvo, his skin feels too tight, and the inside of his cheek is raw from where he’s been biting it. He barely says goodbye before stumbling out of Hannibal’s car and into his own, not even apologizing for his rudeness or his haste. 

As promised, he makes an effort to meditate when he gets home that night, but he quickly loses focus when playing back the events of the day in his head. Was any of that normal? It was innocent enough, he supposes, but it doesn’t seem like something a regular therapist would do with a client. But of course, Hannibal is no regular therapist. He forgoes the meditation entirely after a few minutes. Instead, he touches himself for the first time in weeks.

It’s not that he dislikes masturbation; he just finds that he craves it less than other men seem to. It would be easy to blame it on the kind of work he does, the fact that crime scenes occupy most of the free space in his mind, but he’s been this way for as long as he can remember. From the first whisperings of his classmates talking about girls in junior high all the way up to college, he never really understood the fuss. Sex can be good, but it usually finds him—he never goes looking for it. The strong burn of arousal is foreign, especially from something so innocuous as a bit of over-the-clothes touching.

It doesn’t take him long to come, not with the image of Hannibal’s hands on his cock burning behind his eyes. He sleeps wonderfully that night: deep, peaceful, and most importantly, entirely dreamless. 

He should probably feel some sort of shame over getting off to the thought of his therapist, but when he wakes up the next day, all he feels is loose-limbed contentment. And hunger. Possibly for sex, but definitely for Hannibal’s attention. It’s nothing new—he’s always felt some sort of odd pride when he manages to pique the doctor’s interest or impress him, sometimes even just to annoy him—but it’s different now. More pointed.   

There’s a text from Jack waiting for him in the morning, sent at some point during the night, asking whether he would be coming into work today. He sends back a quick yes and jumps out of bed. He didn’t set an alarm last night, so he’s already running late. Perfect. 

He gets dressed in a daze, feeding his dogs and choking down a slice of stale toast on autopilot. Driving normally relaxes him, but his skin crawls during his morning commute, jittery and desperate for something he can’t quite place. He flips through songs aimlessly, eventually giving up and switching to NPR. Of course they’re talking about the latest Ripper case. He turns the radio off.

He thinks of canceling his next appointment with Hannibal. He wants very badly to see him, which is precisely the problem. Will has never been capable of simple intrigue in people; it’s always either obsession or indifference. But he’s never been indifferent to Doctor Lecter. Even during their first few sessions, when Will bristled at the simplest questions, he was infuriatingly curious. Wanted to dig under his skin to figure out what could make that careful facade crumble. 

The biggest problem is that Hannibal is difficult to read—a deeply uncomfortable feeling for Will. Even with direct eye contact, it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, whether he has any interest in Will besides what comes with his warm professionalism. They’re certainly more than patient and psychologist, by this point. Hannibal has seen him kill a man, has been in his home. Somehow, the latter feels more vulnerable.

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have time to come to any real decision about trying to avoid Hannibal, because when he opens the door to his shoebox office, the doctor is waiting inside, glancing politely over his sparse bookshelf. Will accidentally locks eyes with him for just a moment before he can break the contact, sucking in a sharp breath. 

“Good morning, Will,” he says. “I have a meeting with Jack in an hour, and I was surprised to see your car pull up outside. I thought I would check in to see how you’re feeling.”

Will winces. When he woke up this morning, he was too tired to even remember their discussion about staying home from work. He feels caught, somehow, and moves over to his desk, shuffling papers around aimlessly. Something to do with his hands. 

“The cough hasn’t subsided completely, but I don’t think I’ll have an issue teaching.”

“You would benefit from more rest, but I’m happy to hear that your condition has improved. How did you sleep?”

“Great,” He answers, not thinking. 

Hannibal raises his brow. “That’s unusual for you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He taps his fingers against the desk. Being in a small room with Hannibal again is making him nervous. He’s already imposing under normal circumstances, but in the cramped little office, his presence fills the space more fully. It’s overwhelming. “Maybe I just needed a day off,” he continues.

Hannibal sits in the chair across from his; the one usually reserved for students begging him for extra credit and extensions. He clasps his hands together on the desktop and leans forward, looking at Will as though he’s said something far more interesting than he actually did. 

“Do you think that perhaps the meditation helped you sleep more restfully? Were you able to calm your thoughts when doing it alone?” His voice is kind, but his eyes are sharp. “Unless there were any other changes to your routine that I’m overlooking, of course.”

Oh God. Will swallows. He doesn’t know. There’s no way he could know . Will leans back in his own seat to put some space between them. “Could be, I guess. I was able to… relax, after you left.”

Hannibal ducks tries to catch his eye, but he holds fast, staring pointedly at the wood grain of the desk. 

“I would like to try something similar during our next session,” Hannibal says. His voice is firm, like he’s already made up his mind about it regardless of what Will has to say on the matter.

He should cancel. There’s no shortage of excuses on the tip of his tongue, seeing as he spent most of the morning coming up with them, and it’s a profoundly bad idea to let his infatuation go any further.

“Okay,” he says instead, then blinks hard. 

Hannibal smiles at him. “Excellent.” He stands, smoothing down his suit and adjusting his lapels. “I’ll see you at our usual time on Monday, then?” 

Will nods. “Looking forward to it.” Maybe a little too much.

“As am I.” 

As soon as the door closes behind Hannibal, Will lays his head down on the cool surface of his desk. He came in earlier than usual specifically to work on his lecture for next week, and now he knows he won’t be able to concentrate on it. His cheeks are warm, his throat dry. He swallows down his nerves and resolves to simply not think about Hannibal until their next meeting. 

*

It’s easier said than done. He thinks of Hannibal constantly for the next few days. It distracts him during his lectures, makes him toss and turn in bed each night. He even catches his mind drifting to the doctor while he looks over crime scene photos in Jack’s office. He doesn’t get himself off again, too nervous about having to keep his cool at their next session, but he thinks about it every night when he gets into bed. Maybe that’s just as bad. Or somehow worse. 

When Alana corners him in the breakroom on Friday, he already knows he’s about to have an uncomfortable conversation. She has that determined posture in her shoulders, her mouth set in a straight line. He looks at the microwave where his leftover Thai food is spinning. 1:32 on the clock.

“Feeling better?” She asks. “I haven’t seen you since you returned.”

“Sure. It was just a cold. I was only out for a day.”

She smiles, tight. “Just making sure.” She leans against the counter next to him, blocking the exit. “I know you hate when people ask you this, but…” Oh, here it comes. “Is everything okay? You’ve been distracted lately. More so than usual.”

He schools his face into something calm, mild. “I’m fine. I’ve had a few late nights, that’s all.” He looks back at the timer. 1:10. “I’m still getting the hang of working full-time again, on and off the field,” he says, and is surprised when it rings true. 

It was the wrong thing to say. Alana squints at him, skeptical. “I’d hoped the sessions with Doctor Lecter would stabilize you a bit. How is that going?”

“Okay, I guess. He made a house call when I was sick. It broke the ice.” Understatement . 

Alana raises her brows and gives an incredulous laugh. “Doctor Lecter was in your house? That’s difficult to imagine.” Will stands up a little straighter, and Alana backpedals. “It’s just, you know. The dogs. The dust. The instant coffee. You have a gravel driveway, Will.”

Will softens. “Alright. Fair point. But yes, I can talk to him. I am talking to him. Doctor Lecter’s methods may be unorthodox, but he’s pretty okay. For a therapist.”

“Unorthodox?” 

The microwave dings, thank God . He takes out the container, stirring it around with his fork. 

“You know, his tactics at getting through to the madman . Desperate times.” He gestures to the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some grading to do.” 

Alana moves aside. “Will,” she says as he turns to leave. She looks sad. “I’m glad you have someone you can trust.”

He spends the rest of his lunch break picking at his Pad Thai, and when his food inevitably goes cold, he just throws the rest of it out. 

*

The weekend drags by. Maybe he’ll ask Hannibal to move their sessions to Friday, so he won’t have to deal with the anticipation leading up to it. It was never a problem until now. He tries to focus on his dogs, his lures, his grading, but nothing holds his attention. The impossible silence of his house feels stifling where it used to be peaceful.

Monday meets him cold, grey, and miserable. He doesn’t have any classes on Mondays, and he hasn’t been called into any new crime scenes in at least two weeks, so he spends the day flipping through cold case files. It’s pointless. There are no details that haven’t already been seared behind his eyelids, impossible to forget. He watches the clock the whole day, leaving Quantico at exactly 5 p.m. to drive to his session with Hannibal.

He feels nervous the entire way, a shaky, fluttering anticipation pooling in his belly. Halfway there, a few snow flurries slow the traffic down, but he ends up being fifteen minutes early to his session anyways. He paces back and forth across the waiting room until the door opens.

“Will,” Hannibal says, brows raised. “You’re early.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, pulling off his gloves. “I left work on time, for once.”

“I’m glad to hear that you’re making an effort to improve your work-life balance.” He sounds genuinely pleased, and it makes Will uneasy. So of course, he needs to be contrary.

“It wasn’t really deliberate. Just a slow day.”

Hannibal frowns. “Well, regardless, it’s very good to see you. Please come in. We have much to discuss.”

He steps into the office, shrugging off his coat and hangs it on the rack, shaking the melted snow out of his hair like a dog. Hannibal’s face twitches, and Will holds back a smile. That was probably rude, but he guides Will to sit down anyway, a warm hand between his shoulder blades. Will feels his muscles melt under the touch. He shudders, then rubs his hands together, feigning cold to cover his reaction.

“Can I make you something warm to drink? It’s dreadful outside.”

“Tea would be great, if you have any.”

Hannibal sets to work, scooping the dry, herbal mix into two diffusers and setting the electric kettle to boil. “This is a new blend I’ve imported from Japan, and I’ve been very much looking forward to trying it. It is not highly caffeinated, but it’s high in catechins, which relax the body and mind.”

Will fidgets with a loose thread on his pants. “The last tea you gave me was good. I always figured you would be more of a coffee person.”

“I enjoy both immensely,” he says, pouring the hot water. “But you are already prone to poor sleep. The extra caffeine will do you no good.”

“I’ve been drinking coffee since I was a teenager. It doesn’t affect me anymore.”

“Of course it does. You’ve just grown so used to the effects that you don’t notice them.” He hands Will one of the cups: a delicate porcelain thing, painted with fine gold flowers. “But we can discuss that later on.”

He sits across from Will, their knees almost touching. Have the chairs gotten closer? He’s always so cognizant of his proximity to others, especially of his proximity to Doctor Lecter, that it’s hard to believe he’d just never noticed how close they sit during these sessions. He looks around to see if anything else is out of place, but it all looks the same. 

“Now, about our sessions going forward. You’ve shown little improvement with simple talk therapy, as I’m sure you’re aware. You dislike being psychoanalyzed.”

Will huffs. “You remember that, do you?”

Hannibal smiles. “It’s difficult to forget a first impression. And in this case, it was an accurate one. You feel cornered when asked questions, you tense up when faced with discussing things that are ugly or difficult.”

“My life revolves around discussing the ugly and difficult. Or have you forgotten what I do for a living?” He feels himself bristling, but can’t find it in himself to stop it.

Hannibal waves a hand, as though he’s just proved his point. “You become defensive when anyone gets too close to even the most surface-level truths about you. But not last week.”

“Your little meditation trick, you mean.” He takes a sip of the tea and tries to calm down. It’s rich and flavorful, unlike anything he’s ever tried before.

“It was not a trick. It was a very simple grounding technique, meant only to put you in tune with your body. But you had quite the strong reaction to it. You spoke candidly with me. It was the most relaxed I have ever seen you.”

“I was sick. Delirious.” 

Hannibal leans forwards, elbows on his knees. “I think you would see great benefits by continuing down this path. Better sleep, improved concentration. But as I’m sure you gathered, it’s fairly unconventional. I would not do this with one of my normal patients, and it would require you to place a great deal of trust in me.”

Will swallows. “I do trust you. I just don’t know what exactly I’m agreeing to.”

“I worry you will pull away if I try to explain it to you. I’d hoped, if you were amenable, we could just get started right away. Of course, I will stop the session immediately if you are ever uncomfortable or unsure.”

Will finishes off the cup of tea, setting it down on the table. He wants to ask whether this will involve Hannibal touching him more, but he can’t figure out a way to phrase it that doesn’t make him sound desperate. Something warm burns through him, though, and he knows he’ll agree to whatever Hannibal asks of him.

“Please, Will,” he says, mistaking the pause for hesitance. “Let me help you.”

Will nods. “Okay. We can try.”

Hannibal smiles at him and stands, kneeling down in front of Will’s chair and untying the laces of his oxfords. 

“Um, doctor?”

“It’s important that you’re physically comfortable.”

He thinks of telling Hannibal that he’s perfectly capable of removing his own shoes, but thinks better of it. The oxfords come off, and then Hannibal stands back up. 

“Ideally you would have something different to change into, something you have not worn to work all day, but we’ll have to make do with what we have for now. Please remove your belt and untuck your shirt. Are any of your clothes itchy or irritating?” 

Will does as he’s told. “No. I may not wear $5,000 suits, but I pick my clothes carefully.”

Hannibal moves the shoes and belt aside. “That’s quite the modest estimate. A less secure man might be offended.”

“A more secure one might not have offered the correction.”

Hannibal smiles wryly, as if he’s pleased at the barb. Like Will is just a cat with his fur standing up or a growling puppy. So much for despising rudeness.

“Your glasses, please.” Hannibal holds a hand out, as though Will is just going to hand them over, no questions asked. 

“Why?”

“You only need them for reading, correct? Your eyes will be closed, and you will be more comfortable without them.”

“I need them for driving, too.”

“You’ll get them back before you leave for the night. Now please, Will. Your glasses. I will take care to ensure they aren’t damaged.”

“Fine.” Will slides the frames from his face and hands them over. 

“Now, let us move to the chaise in the back.” 

He stands, and Will follows his lead. Hopefully this unorthodox method isn’t just lying back and staring at the ceiling while he talks about his problems. He already feels a strange imbalance between himself and Hannibal due to his state of undress. All of his clothes are still on, other than the shoes and belt, but it feels strangely intimate to be in the office without shoes. His shirt untucked. His glasses off. At least in the too-close armchairs, they can speak eye-to-eye.

Hannibal places a heavy hand on his shoulder, guiding him to sit. He sits down next to him, at the head of the lounge, close enough that their thighs brush. He’s holding a copy of Walden in one hand. A beat up paperback rather than the sort of leather-bound first edition Will would expect him to have.

“If you would,” Hannibal gestures at the chaise, indicating that Will should lie down. He does as he’s told, though there isn’t much room with Hannibal sitting there too. Still, it’s comfortable: a soft, suede-like fabric rather than the cool leather of the armchairs. The weariness from his day is suddenly apparent, and he sinks into the cushions minutely. 

“From this point forward, I would like for you to remain silent unless I ask you to speak, just like last week in your home. Or, of course, if you are uncomfortable and would like to end our session early, you may also speak up.”

Will nods.

“Excellent. I would also like for you to do exactly as I tell you, with no arguments unless you are experiencing genuine discomfort. Is that all right?”

“I… don’t know.”

Hannibal smiles. “I assure you, I won’t ask anything difficult or untoward of you. My requests will be simple. We will stay clear of difficult, heavy topics tonight.”

“I can’t guarantee I’ll do everything you say.”

“That’s quite all right. All I ask is that you do not refuse anything out of impulse, and that you dissect any discomfort you feel. If any of it is due to embarrassment or pride, I implore you to shed those worries. This is a private session.”

Will takes a deep, steadying breath. “Okay. That sounds fair.”

“Very good. Now, close your eyes.”

Will’s eyes slide shut. The office is dimly lit enough that no light shines through, and he thinks he could probably fall asleep like this, if he were alone. He places both hands on his chest and threads his fingers together. 

Hannibal places a hand on the top of Will’s head, just resting it there, his fingers threaded through his hair. He frowns, confused, but remains silent. 

“Much like last week, I will be keeping my hand here as a grounding touch. You may find yourself getting distracted, since your eyes are closed. Please focus on my hand when this happens.” His thumb brushes an errant curl from Will’s forehead, making him shiver.

“I want you to take a deep breath. Then, tell me if anything is physically disturbing you right now.”

Will inhales, holds, then exhales. He tries to catalog his body like he and Hannibal had done previously.

“I feel fine,” he says honestly. “No lingering symptoms.”

“While that’s certainly good news, I wasn’t talking about your illness. If you are feeling any discomfort, please speak up about it.”

He thinks for a moment. “I’m cold.”

“Thank you for telling me. If you’ll give me just a moment—” Hannibal’s hand leaves his hair, and Will chokes back a protest. He doesn’t know when he became so needy . He listens to the footsteps make their way from one side of the room to the other. A few drawers open, as does the mini fridge in the corner. Hannibal is back a moment later, draping a soft flannel blanket over him and threading his fingers back into Will’s hair. He feels relaxed and high-strung all at once, his muscles lax but his skin burning. Mostly, he’s just glad to have Hannibal’s hands back on him. 

“Is that better?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Good. Are you hungry?”

“I’m never hungry.” He doesn’t mean to say it so bluntly, but it is true. Will has little in the way of an appetite, and he mostly eats out of habit rather than a physical pull. 

Hannibal makes a noise like he’s uncovered some fascinating morsel. “But you have been. Those who feel no hunger at present have been starved in the past.”

“My dad tried to keep me fed. He gave me more than he gave himself.” Will’s tongue is heavy in his mouth, and his words come out quieter than he means them to. He doesn’t mean for them to come out at all, really. “I just needed more than he could provide.”

“It is no fault of your father that you know what hunger pangs feel like. But I apologize—I am psychoanalyzing you after giving my word that we would not speak of difficult things tonight. I will rephrase my question: Have you eaten today?”

He thinks for a moment. “I had a granola bar for breakfast.”

“That hardly counts.” There’s shuffling from somewhere on the floor, and then Will smells something sharp and sweet. Hannibal’s fingers press something against his lips, causing him to jolt in surprise.

“Open,” Hannibal says. 

Will cracks his eyes open, but he can’t see the food. He opens his mouth solely to ask what it is, but the bite is pushed past his lips before he can get a word out. He chews obediently. Some sort of fruit wrapped in cured meat. It’s delicious.

“Prosciutto-wrapped figs with honey and stone-ground mustard,” Hannibal offers. “And I’ll remind you not to speak unless asked to do so. Eyes closed.”

The fingers in his hair work soothing circles into his scalp, and Will’s head lolls to the side. As soon as he’s swallowed, another bite is pushed against his lips. He chews and swallows over and over again, eventually forgetting that he’d ever thought of protesting at all. He feels good. Aroused, certainly, but it’s a distant warmth in his belly rather than the persistent heat he’s grown accustomed to over the last week. 

Eventually, Hannibal brings a straw to his lips, and he drinks a few long gulps of water. “How do you feel?”

“Mm. Tired,” Will says. “Spaced out. What time is it?”

“The time is not important. I’ll tell you when our session is over.” He continues his ministrations, and Will lets himself relax fully. He knows he’s Hannibal’s last session, anyway. If the doctor wants to keep him here past his fifty minutes, he has no complaints. 

“I’m going to read a passage from Walden, now. There is no need for you to pay attention to the words; just listen to the rise and fall of my voice.”

Will had tried to read Walden during one of his university courses, but he never made it past the first chapter. He remembers it as incredibly dull, even for an avid outdoorsman. But the lilt of Hannibal’s voice soothes him, as does the hand in his hair. He’s asleep within half a page.

Notes:

thanks again for reading! I hope you all had a nice thanksgiving, if you celebrate. no beta on this chapter, just a late night self-edit.

updates may slow down soon because I’m (hopefully) starting a new job, but I'll try my best to keep up with one chapter a week. also, my Hannibal hyperfixation has reached the point where I made a tumblr for it. I doubt I’ll post much, but feel free to hang out with me on there if you want: sweethoneyteeth.tumblr.com

Chapter 5

Will wakes to a hand on his shoulder and someone quietly repeating his name. His eyelids are heavy, and everything feels soft around the edges. Like he’s been out in the cold all his life and finally got settled in a warm, comforting bath. It takes a moment before anything comes into focus, but once he can see properly, he tenses. He’s in Doctor Lecter’s office.

“Will. Are you all right?” Hannibal asks. Will meets his eyes and sees surprise, slight concern, and something that might be pleasure.

Will isn’t sure whether or not he’s all right. Mostly, he’s confused. “How long was I out?” He asks instead. 

“Not long. Perhaps twenty minutes.” Hannibal looks at his watch. “It is 6:55.” 

Will lifts a hand to the bridge of his nose and realizes that his glasses are missing, but there isn’t any time to panic before Hannibal slides them onto his face, brushing a few errant curls behind his ears in the process. It’s odd. Intimate. Nice.

“Thanks,” he says, adjusting them even though they’re sitting exactly right. “Sorry I fell asleep. I’m not sure what happened.”

“There is no need for an apology. The sleep surely did you some good. Forgive me, but you looked terrible when you came in today.”

Will blinks. “So I was… meant to fall asleep?”

“Not necessarily. In fact, I doubted you would. But you’ve taken to this more quickly than most. You’re responding beautifully.”

“You say I’ve ‘taken to it’ as if I’ve done anything. All I did was lie there.” He rubs his temples. An embarrassed, sinking feeling worms its way into his gut. The word beautifully hangs in the air, cloying.

“Many people are uneasy when decisions are made for them. Unable to relax. But Will, the moment control was taken from you, you melted into it like a well-tailored coat.”

“Is that what this is about?” Will spits, suddenly angry. “Are you trying to control me?”

“I haven’t kept you here against your will, have I? You did everything I asked with little to no persuasion. There was no threat nor reward.” Hannibal’s eyes turn sharp. “You liked it.”

Will ducks his head, cheeks burning. “I have no shortage of people trying to control me, in case you’ve forgotten about Jack’s iron grip. The entire reason I’m here in the first place.”

“You are aware that I disapprove of Jack Crawford’s treatment of you. This is a different kind of control. Rather than controlling you for my benefit, I’m doing it for your own.”

Hannibal places a hand on Will’s shoulder, firm and grounding. He relaxes under it despite himself. 

“I don’t understand what we’re doing here,” Will says. He wonders whether this is some kind of fetish for Hannibal, but he’s nowhere near confident enough to ask. If Hannibal said no, it would be humiliating for both of them. But he isn’t stupid. He knows what all this talk about control sounds like.

“We’re doing whatever you wish to do. We can return to talk therapy, if you find this method too uncomfortable. But I think it would benefit you greatly to continue down this path. We’ve only just begun, and you are already seeing improvements.”

“What does ‘continuing down this path’ entail?”

“You and I would continue to meet once per week, either your home or my own. I will make simple commands of you to help you relax and let go of the pressures of your social and professional responsibilities. You will be fed, of course.”

Will swallows, remembering the figs from earlier. He can still taste the salt on his tongue. 

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“What’s in it for you?”

Hannibal smiles. “Is this your way of subtly asking whether these sessions will be sexual in nature?”

Busted. “You must know how this sounds,” Will says. “All this talk of submission and control.”

“Of course. While this type of dynamic often involves sex, it does not always. For now, I believe it’s best if we focus our attention on a non-sexual arrangement.”

Will opens his mouth to respond, but his mind snags onto for now . Said so casually that it almost went unnoticed. It’s a possibility, then. He licks his lips.

“What if you ask me to do something I don’t want to do?” He asks.

“I do not intend to abuse your trust, nor do I wish to push your boundaries past what would be helpful to you. We will discuss the limitations of this arrangement at length before delving into anything more intense.”

“Would you not call what we’ve just done intense ?”

“Honestly, no. I would not. Most people would have found it relaxing. Therapeutic, perhaps. Odd or uncomfortable, at worst. Your responsiveness is surprising, though not unwelcome.” Hannibal crosses his legs and folds his hands together. “Your lifelong lack of structure and meaningful companionship may be the cause of your strong reaction.”

Will slumps, feeling caught. It would be easy to laugh away the lack of structure comment, but it’s true. His father may have been strict, but not in any of the ways that mattered. It was always about trying to knock some normalcy into him; trying to make him a functioning member of society. Less sensitive. Less of an embarrassment. It was never about making sure he was happy or healthy. 

He scrubs a hand over his face. “So, what? You provide that structure and… companionship? And then what? What’s the endgame?”  

“Does there need to be an ‘endgame’, Will? It’s something you want that I am happy to provide. It relaxes you in the moment, and it may make you feel more stable during your day-to-day life. Perhaps in time, it will do more good for you than traditional therapy ever could.”

It would be so easy to accept, but Will is still uneasy. Out of his depth. His newfound attraction to Hannibal is making his head swim, and he knows he won’t be able to think reasonably until he can’t feel his presence anymore.

“Can I think about it?” He asks. 

“Of course. I don’t expect you to know right away. I would like to hear from you before our next session, if possible, but take all the time you need.

“Okay. That’s reasonable.” Will stands and shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling suddenly bashful. “Uh, thank you. For, you know.”

Hannibal smiles and guides him to the door, a hand between his shoulder blades. “Of course, Will.”

He helps Will with his coat, smoothing down the shoulders and arms and leaving goosebumps in his wake. Will turns to face him, not quite sure what he’s about to say, and finds that Hannibal’s eyes are dark and precise, glancing over him as if checking for injuries.

“If you start to feel anything unusual tonight, please call me immediately. That includes fatigue, appetite changes, or a significant shift in mood,” he says.

“I feel fine.” Hannibal stares. “But I will.”

“Good.” He opens the door into the waiting room, which is much colder than the office. Will shudders and pulls on his gloves.

“Drive safely, Will.”

*

During his drive home, Will resolves to wait at least until the weekend before contacting Hannibal about his decision, even though he’s nearly certain that he’ll say yes. He does his best not to think about it during the day, going through his routine of taking care of the dogs and writing lectures and grading papers. There hasn’t been a crime scene in three weeks, but he knows it’s only a matter of time.

He does a pretty good job of keeping his mind on other things, but it always drifts back to Hannibal when the sun goes down. He thinks of Hannibal while he’s cooking whatever sad meal he can scrounge up. He thinks of Hannibal while he brushes his teeth. He thinks of Hannibal while too-hot water beats down on him in the shower each night, as he inhales steam and scrubs beneath his fingernails.

Mostly, he thinks of Hannibal when he’s trying to sleep. He hasn’t gotten himself off since their last session, too afraid that Hannibal would somehow know, but he can’t control the thoughts. It’s been so long since anyone has touched him with any semblance of care, and it’s been even longer since he’s liked it this much. 

On Wednesday, he wakes up in the middle of a night with the feeling of phantom hands in his hair, the memory of heat at his back, and gasps in a stuttered breath. His cheeks are wet, and he’s so hard that he can’t help but reach down to stroke himself, slow and dry, almost painful. He comes too fast anyways, and once his breathing has calmed down, he rustles through the blankets to find his phone.

Will [2:20 a.m.] I’ll do it.

He stuffs it back under his pillow, his pulse loud in his ears, and stares up at the ceiling for a few minutes before stumbling to the bathroom to clean himself up. In the bright, yellow-tinted bathroom lights, what he’s just done begins to feel more tangible. He grips the edges of the sink until his fingers turn white, breathing steadily through it. Even though he’s known all along he would accept, it’s a bit transparent to have done it in the middle of the night. Humiliation washes over him.

He lies back down in bed and closes his eyes, trying to put it out of his mind until morning, but his phone buzzes beneath his ear a few seconds later. He pulls his phone out with bated breath. 

Doctor Lecter [2:31 a.m.] Excellent. Are you available for dinner on Saturday night at 8? It’s important to discuss these things beforehand.

Will wants to point out his deliberate lack of communication before their last session , but decides against it. He’s clearly all in at this point, anyway. 

Will [2:32 a.m.] Yes. 

Hannibal [2:32 a.m.] I will see you then. Sleep well, Will.

*

Will isn’t sure how to dress for dinner. He’s been to dinner parties at Hannibal's house, but never to a regular meal. Being in his home always feels intimate, and he worries that being there with no other company, there will be nothing to distract from Will’s social disgrace. He eventually settles on a dark blue flannel, charcoal slacks, and a pair of brown Chelsea boots: the kind of thing he might wear to work. Nothing too outlandish; not that Will owns anything like that anyways.

He thinks of turning around three times during the drive over, but he ends up on Hannibal’s doorstep regardless. He hasn’t even worked up the nerve to ring the bell before the door is opening. 

“Will,” Hannibal says. “Welcome. Please, come in.”

The house smells incredible—like something spicy and flavorful that’s been cooking for hours. Hannibal looks incredible, too. He always puts effort into his appearance, but he’s wearing a dark grey suit that makes him look more serious than usual.

“Hi,” Will says. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Of course.” Hannibal leads them into the kitchen, where he gestures for Will to sit on a bar stool at the counter. “I’ve made my own version of gumbo for us tonight, in the hopes it might be comforting to you. I also trust you to tell me if I’ve butchered the dish.”

“The only way to butcher gumbo is to make it perfectly,” Will says, parroting something his father used to repeat to him as a child. “There needs to be some gristle left in the pot. Or too much okra. Not enough tomatoes. Keeps things interesting.” 

Hannibal opens the lid to the pot and stirs, turning the burner down to a low simmer. 

“I hope my personal brand of imperfection will impress you,” he says. “Do you ever cook for yourself, Will? You seem knowledgeable enough, but your pantry was bare when I went to your home.”

“I know enough to get by, but I rarely do anything more complicated than scrambled eggs. Whenever I buy groceries, they just go bad in the fridge when I inevitably get caught up with work. I cook for my dogs, though. It isn’t good for them to just eat kibble.”

“You feed your dogs before you feed yourself. Commendable, but perhaps misguided. Your own health is important too.”

“They rely on me to take care of them, so I just want to do a good job. It keeps me sane, having responsibilities like that.”

“Is taking care of yourself not as rewarding a responsibility?”

“Not really. I do the minimum for myself, but the dogs are the closest thing I have to a family. They’re my top priority.”

“Like children.”

“Like siblings. Children need taking care of. Siblings take care of one another.”

Hannibal stares into the pot on the stove for a moment, eyes sad and far away, and then turns off the fire.

“Please have a seat at the table,” he says, gesturing towards the dining room. “I need to prepare our dishes, but I will be out in a moment.”

Will does as he’s told, all the while running the conversation back to figure out if he’s said anything wrong. He doesn’t think so, but his judgment isn’t always accurate. He’s aware he can often come off as rude or blunt, even when he’s making an effort not to.

When Hannibal comes back in, he looks bright as ever, setting down the dishes in front of each spot. Maybe Will was imagining things. Maybe his nervousness was messing with his head. 

“Gumbo with chicken and homemade andouille sausage alongside a German potato salad,” he says, sitting down in his own seat. “Bon appetit.” 

The meal is delicious, and it is comforting to taste some flavors of home, but all Will can think about while he eats is the discussion they aren’t having. When both of their plates are cleared, Hannibal leads him into the sitting room and pours them each a glass of bourbon. Something expensive, surely, not that Will recognizes the bottle. Hannibal sits next to him on the sofa, close but not touching.

“It is usually best to have these conversations entirely sober, but I feel you may benefit from some liquid courage. Do you agree?” He says, handing one of the glasses over.

“Yeah. Absolutely. Thanks.”

The bourbon is probably meant to be sipped, but Will downs half his glass in one go. It’s smoother than the stuff he buys at the corner store; sweeter, too. He instantly feels his shoulders relax, and it’s a little easier to breathe with the familiar burn in his throat. Hannibal mercifully says nothing about his wastefulness, instead just sipping at his own glass leisurely. 

“Have you thought about what you want out of this arrangement?” Hannibal asks. 

“I’m not sure what’s on the table. I… I liked what we did last time. In your office. And at my house.” 

“Those are good places to start, and I am happy to continue down that route if you wish. But there are other things I would like to try with you as well. Things I believe you would both enjoy and find therapeutic.” 

Will pinches the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses. “Can you be more specific?”

“I think you would benefit from a reward and punishment system.”

Will’s cheeks warm, and he takes another sip to hide his flush. 

“What kind of punishments? I don't know if I’d respond well to pain.” He’s only ever been on the receiving end of physical pain in the field and from his father, and he isn’t eager to relive either of those experiences. He doesn’t even want to ask what the rewards might be. Hannibal has already said nothing sexual. For now .

“I have no interest in doing anything that would hurt or embarrass you. The punishments would be small, and they may not even affect you if you are not already in such a vulnerable headspace.” He reaches out a hand towards Will, but pauses. “May I show you?”

Will nods. “Just don’t slap me or anything.”

“I assure you, I would never.”

Hannibal threads his fingers through Will’s hair, much like he’d done during their session last week. Will feels some of the tension bleed out of his body, and he sighs despite himself. But then, Hannibal grips his hair by the roots and pulls . It takes a lot of concentration not to drop the glass tumbler in his hand to the floor. His head is pulled back, his throat bared, but it doesn’t actually hurt. It’s only a dull pressure, similar to wiggling a loose baby tooth. 

“Oh,” Will gasps. 

Hannibal’s hand loosens, his fingertips rubbing his scalp for a moment. Then, he cups the back of Will’s neck. For a moment, Will thinks he’s about to be pulled in for a kiss, but then Hannibal tightens his grip instead. Once again, it isn’t real pain, but it makes Will’s stomach drop. Almost fear, but not quite. Physically, he can still breathe; he isn’t being choked. But his breath comes out in short little pants anyways. Hannibal releases him after only a second or two, but it feels much longer. 

“No physical punishment by my hand would ever be more painful than that,” Hannibal says, as if he hadn’t just turned Will’s brain to soup with only a few firm touches.

Will rubs the back of his neck where Hannibal’s hand had been. “Okay. I can handle that.” His voice sounds shaky to his own ears. Hannibal shifts until their knees touch.

He isn’t sure he’s supposed to like the punishments, but he isn’t actually sure if he does. It’s something akin to pleasure, but also something uncomfortable low in his belly. He wants Hannibal to do it again, just so he can pinpoint the feeling.

Hannibal squints at him, and Will takes another long gulp of his rapidly-emptying glass to hide his expression. He either passes inspection or Hannibal just decides not to bring it up. Thank God.

“Rewards will be highly dependent on the situation at hand and what you may want or need at any given time. We can discuss this more prior to each session.”

“What would I be rewarded for? Or punished for?”

“Obedience and disobedience, respectively.”

Will sighs. “Obviously. But what will you ask me to do?”

“I would like to focus our sessions on practicing elements of physical and mental care and simple acts of obedience that will serve to relax you.”

It’s obvious by now that Hannibal isn’t interested in specificity. There’s something mischievous in his expression that isn’t normally present. A strange lilt to his voice. He’s enjoying watching Will squirm, he realizes.

“I don’t want to recite self-affirmations or anything,” Will warns. “And I’m not interested in anything too new age. No hypnosis.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be receptive to such simple psychiatric methods," he says. “Is there anything else you don’t want to do?”

“It’s hard to say when I don’t know exactly what’s on the table.”

“Anything that does not involve sexual contact is on the table, currently. If you would find it helpful, I can send you a list for you to fill out prior to our session.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He isn’t sure where Hannibal draws the line for sexual contact , so it’s probably best not to do any guesswork himself. 

“I will send it to your email tonight after you’ve gone home. Be sure to respond to it before Monday afternoon. As for our sessions, would you rather do them in my home or yours?”

Will gnaws on his bottom lip. He’s more comfortable in his own house, but it’s clear that Hannibal would be more comfortable in his own. It might be nice to have his dogs around, but it also might be distracting. 

“We can try yours first,” he says. 

“Excellent. We will push our meeting time back by half an hour so I have time to prepare. You will be here on time, and you will bring a change of clothes. Something comfortable, such as lounge pants and a t-shirt. Nothing with buttons or zippers.”

Hannibal’s voice is light and kind, but it’s immediately clear that these are orders, not requests. There is no please . 

“Okay.” Will swallows, his throat dry. 

“How are you feeling about this?”

“A little overwhelmed. I hope I don’t… I just hope I do it right.”

Hannibal smiles, placing a hand at the juncture between Will’s neck and shoulder and squeezing lightly. 

“Even if you have difficulties at first, I am a patient man, and I will not get angry at you over slip-ups. And I don’t want you to believe that I get nothing out of this arrangement. Seeing you calm and pliant is a beautiful thing—something I am sure not many have witnessed. Thank you for trusting me with it.”

Will’s eyes feel warm, and he scrubs a hand over them. His fingers are cool from where they had been wrapped around the now-empty glass.

“Thank you, Hannibal,” he says. “I mean it.”

Notes:

I started a new job over the weekend so I took a little writing break, but I should be able to keep up with once a week updates from here on. I'll aim for Mondays. I also changed my username so it doesn't have my first name in it, in case that confused anyone!

This chapter is a little filler-y, but Will is coming around :) We'll get into some good stuff next week! I'm on tumblr @sweethoneyteeth if you wanna chat in the meantime

Chapter 6

Will isn’t sure what he expects from the list, but when he opens his email later that night, he’s surprised nonetheless. It’s long, taking up almost two full pages of the attached Word document, and even just skimming it embarrasses him enough that he slams his laptop shut and paces around his living room to breathe for a moment. 

He settles back at his desk with three fingers of bourbon. Four Roses—nothing even close to what he and Hannibal had been drinking, and it burns like acid in comparison, but after a few long gulps, he feels brave enough to open his laptop again. 

The email itself is short and to-the-point. 

Will,

Attached is a list of some possibilities for our arrangement. The list is not comprehensive, and if you would like to try something that is not on it, please do not hesitate to add it. Likewise, add anything that is a hard limit for you, if it is not already listed.

Next to each item, mark yes, no, or maybe. We will, of course, discuss anything marked as ‘maybe’ prior to trying it. Do not concern yourself with my opinion of your answers. Everything on the list was chosen deliberately. 

If you have questions that cannot wait, you may, of course, call me at any time.

Hannibal

It’s easiest to go through and mark the ‘no’s first. Despite the lack of anything explicitly sexual on the list, the resounding majority of it either incites no interest in him or makes him squirm uncomfortably at the thought. Some of the items, like hot wax and gags , feel sterile and impersonal. Others, like withholding touch and silent treatment are clearly meant to be more psychological, but they leave a bad taste in Will’s mouth and an empty feeling in his chest. He laughs when he sees humiliation on the list. It seems he’s always embarrassed around Hannibal anyways, and he’d rather not find out what it would be like if Hannibal were trying to humiliate him.

Hand feeding and praise are both on the list. Will hadn’t even realized they’d been part of this… thing they were doing. Neither seemed like means of control, and neither made him feel helpless when Hannibal did them. Vulnerable, perhaps, but not trapped. Still, he marks ‘yes’ for both. He also marks ‘yes’ for light bondage , which is at least something he’s done before. Below it, he writes no handcuffs, and nothing that will leave marks . The last thing he needs is Jack or Alana to get an idea of what he’s actually doing in his unofficial therapy sessions. Cuddling throws him for a loop, and he finds he’s unable to picture Hannibal doing anything of the sort. But he marks ‘yes’ for it anyway. 

He hovers his cursor over spanking , switching between ‘yes’ and ‘no’ for several minutes before finally selecting ‘maybe’, cheeks warm. It’s giving him the same feeling he got from Hannibal pulling his hair earlier—a confusing mix of fear, anticipation, and arousal. Depends on how hard , he writes beneath it.

Filling out the rest of the list is easy once he downs the rest of his drink, even though some of the items on it makes him blush down to his throat, and he sends it to Hannibal before he can work himself up enough to call the whole thing off. He’s half-hard just from reading about what they’ll be doing, and he’s both frustrated and grateful that there’s no possibility of sex for him to be even more anxious over. Not yet, at least. 

Later that night, he’s semi-drunk and reading a beat-up paperback when his phone pings. An email from Hannibal.

Will,

Thank you for responding promptly. Our next session will begin at 6:00p.m. on Monday and, if you are amenable, I would like to extend your sessions to two hours rather than one. I would encourage you to stay for dinner afterwards as well, though this is by no means a requirement. 

You will arrive with an adequate change of clothes, as we previously discussed. Your phone will be turned off or put on silent prior to your arrival to diminish disturbances and distractions. Eat a healthy, full meal for lunch on Monday.

I’m looking forward to exploring this with you, Will. You will do wonderfully.

Hannibal

He returns to his book without responding, nerves high-strung and praise warm in his belly.

*

He wakes up oddly chipper on Monday with the knowledge that he’ll be at Hannibal’s house later that day, but his good mood doesn’t last long. 

There’s some kind of event going on at Quantico that no one bothered telling Will about, and agents from all over the country are milling about. The parking deck is completely full by the time he arrives, leaving him to park in the overflow lot and trudge his way through icy sleet to get to the academic building. The hallways are filled with people drinking stale coffee from paper cups, their voices echoing loud against the marble floors and making his head pound. Some of them stare at Will as he passes, and he hopes it’s because of his shivering, disheveled appearance rather than his reputation.

He arrives at his first class ten minutes late, scrambling to get out his lecture materials and set up the projector while his fingers thaw. He’s not in the habit of apologizing to his students, but he still mumbles a quick “sorry,” embarrassed at his own tardiness. 

The lecture is one of the worst he’s ever given, and he dismisses everyone early so he can sit at his desk with his head down until his next one begins, but he can still hear the cacophony of voices even with the door closed, and his still-wet clothing drags against his skin uncomfortably. He digs around in his desk drawer for his noise-canceling headphones and realizes belatedly that he’d left them in his car. He certainly isn’t going to walk all the way back to the overflow lot, so he just squeezes his hands over his ears and toes off his soaked shoes and socks.

He doesn’t realize how much time has passed until Jack bursts through his door, livid and high-strung.

“What the hell are you doing, Graham? Our meeting is starting in five minutes.”

Will lifts his head and removes his hands from his ears, wincing in pain at the noise. “What are you talking about?” 

“ Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m not.”

Jack drags a hand down his face. “I’m talking about the meeting you were informed of months ago,” he says, voice rising. “The one where we talk to several high-profile federal agents about our work on the Chesapeake Ripper case. The one you were supposed to prepare for! You didn’t notice that your afternoon class was canceled?” He's outright yelling, now, and Will has to fight back tears at the volume.

He wants to retort that he never got the email, but it’s likely that he just glanced over it without really processing it. Then, he wants to be angry at Jack for not following up with him about it in-person, but that isn’t really his responsibility. The mistake sits heavy in his chest.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have anything prepared,” he says. Jack huffs, exasperated.

“Well then, you’ll just have to stand there and answer questions. Riff off of me or something. I have slides with the crime scene photos prepared, at least.”

Will is in absolutely no mood to look at crime scene photos—not when his stomach is already churning from the sensory nightmare he’s experiencing—and he’s never been very good at “riffing.” There’s a reason he has detailed lecture notes. But he nods anyway, not wanting to wedge himself further on Jack’s bad side.

“Okay.”

He stands and puts his shoes and socks back on while Jack looks on, confused and a little grossed-out. 

“Do you have a comb? You aren’t exactly presentable.”

“I had to park in the overflow lot. I got wet,” Will says, shrugging. “No comb.”

“Figures. Oh well. At least you’re already known to be an antisocial eccentric. Speaking of: you’re going to be as normal as you can possibly be in there, all right?”

“I'm not very good at 'normal', Jack. You know that.”

Jack grabs him roughly by the shoulder, guiding him out the door. Will shrugs his hand off and follows like a sulky, obedient dog.

*

The meeting is a grueling nightmare, with people poking and prodding at Will’s psyche until he’s tense all over. His clothes eventually dry out, but they’re stiff from the rain, and the skin of his arms is raw and irritated from where he’s been rubbing it down to try and relieve the discomfort. He skips lunch, feeling too sick and uncomfortable to eat anything, and then feels bad about it when he remembers Hannibal’s email.

Usually when he has an episode, he looks forward to going home and cuddling with his dogs in absolute silence: curtains drawn and the lights off. He thinks of canceling his appointment, but ultimately decides against it. The dogsitter has already been paid, and he desperately wants Hannibal to touch him.

He leaves work early to ensure that he’s on-time to his session that evening, but then he realizes that while it’s polite to show up for a therapy appointment early, it’s rude to show up at someone’s house fifteen minutes before the agreed time. So he circles the block and scrolls through his email in the driveway until the clock hits 5:55. Close enough.

Hannibal opens the door with his usual pleased smile, but his expression falls when he catches sight of him. Will’s surly mood and physical discomfort are surely written all over his face.

“Is everything all right, Will?” he asks, stepping aside to let him in. The house feels warmer than usual, but it might just be the contrast. Will shudders at the change in temperature, putting his duffel bag down and removing his coat.

“Fine,” he says, clipped. “Bad day at work.”

“You look like you’ve been out in the rain. Would you like to shower before you change?”

Will sighs. “Please.”

Hannibal guides him upstairs with a hand on his shoulder. Softer and kinder than Jack’s harsh grip. He opens the door to a bathroom that’s just as marvelous as the rest of the house, all dark marble and plush towels, and shows Will how to operate the shower.

“Have you eaten?” He asks. Will must hesitate for a moment too long. “I will not be angry or upset if you didn’t,” he adds.

“No. I skipped lunch. My stomach feels a little… sensitive, today.”

“You don’t believe you’re getting sick again, do you?”

“No, nothing like that. I just-” he pauses, frustrated. Hannibal knows, to some extent, about his sensory processing issues, but he’s never spoken candidly about it. It always makes him feel weak and childish. 

“Will, I cannot help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“I got overwhelmed at work. There was a… convention. Event. I don’t know. Tons of people, lots of noise. And my clothes got wet and everything was too loud and I just-” he snaps his mouth shut before his voice can begin to tremble.

“Is there any food you feel is safe to eat when you experience sensory overload?” Hannibal asks simply, as though it’s not abnormal for a grown man to react this way.

“Fruit,” he says, voice watery. “Nothing weird, though. Um, peanut butter. Crackers. Mild cheese.” 

“I’ll prepare something for you; it will be ready by the time you’re finished showering.” He runs a hand down Will’s arm, firm and comforting. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

Will nods, not trusting his voice, and Hannibal turns away, closing the bathroom door on his way out.

The shower is lovely, and the heat and water pressure make his skin tingle pleasantly. He even washes his hair with some of Hannibal’s fancy shampoo. It’s not unscented like the kind he has at home for situations like this, but the smell is subtle and inoffensive enough that it doesn’t bother him. He lets himself cry silently for a few minutes, either from relief or residual stress from his day, but it doesn’t lead to a panic attack as it sometimes does. The clothes he packed are soft and warm, and he comes out of the bathroom feeling leagues better than he had when he’d gone in, though still a bit out of sorts.

He finds Hannibal in the kitchen, dicing cubes of cheese to add to a small plate of finger food. He looks up when Will comes in and smiles with teeth: a rare sight. Will smiles back, bashful.

“You look refreshed,” Hannibal says. “Would you still like to go forward with our session? I have prepared for a very simple, calming scene involving only items you marked ‘yes’ for on the list. I feel it may help you, but if you are feeling too unwell, we can simply spend the evening as we would otherwise.”

“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to do it,” Will says, surprised at his own confidence. “I’ll tell you if you do something I can’t handle right now.”

“Very good.” He picks up the plate of food. “Come, Will. We’ll move to the sitting room.”

Hannibal settles in an armchair in the corner of the room, and Will sits across from him on the sofa, a little bereft that they aren’t touching. 

“I’m sure you’re aware that in relationships such as this one, people have safe words that stop all contact and end the scene immediately. I will stop any time you say ‘no’ or ‘stop’ or anything to that effect, since we have not negotiated any kind of consent-play, but I would also like you to use a safeword. You may choose one, or we can use the traffic light system. Red for stop, green for keep going, or yellow for stop and discuss.”

“I'd rather use the traffic light system."

“Excellent. Now, I can explain what we will be doing ahead of time if that comforts you, but it will be more effective if you simply trust me to take care of you. This is about giving up control, after all. Do you agree?”

Will thinks for a moment. “We’re only doing the things I said I was okay with, right? No ‘maybe’s?” 

“That’s correct.”

“Okay. That’s fine, then. You don’t need to tell me anything now.”

“Very well.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Now, are you ready to begin?”

“Yes.”

Hannibal removes a throw pillow from behind his back and places it on the ground, between his feet. “Kneel for me, Will. Facing me. No talking unless you are asked a question, you have a question, or you want to stop.”

Kneeling had been one of the easy yeses on the list. He figured that not being face-to-face with Hannibal would make all of this so much easier. But he still hesitates before falling clumsily to his knees, everything feeling suddenly real in a way that it hadn’t before. The position was more suggestive than what he’d imagined. He thought maybe he’d be kneeling next to Hannibal’s feet, or off in a corner somewhere as punishment. This is intimate.

Hannibal pulls Will’s head to rest against his knee, then tangles his fingers in his hair, rubbing soothing circles. Will’s heart thumps hard in his chest, and he can feel his pulse in his ears, but it isn’t fast or panicked. Just heavy. 

Hannibal takes the plate from the small table beside him and holds it out so Will can see.

“Is there anything on this plate that you cannot eat right now?”

He surveys the food. “No strawberries. Everything else is fine.”

“Thank you for telling me.” He puts the plate back. “Now, close your eyes.”

The world feels much smaller when he can’t see. It all narrows down to the hand in his hair, the pressure in his knees, and Hannibal’s leg against his cheek. He relaxes further into the touch.

“Very good,” Hannibal soothes. 

“I’m not even doing anything.”

“No talking.” Will snaps his mouth shut. “I don’t say things I don’t mean, Will. You have done what I’ve asked of you so far. You’re keeping your eyes closed, even without a blindfold. You came on time with a change of clothes, and you told me what was wrong so I could help you. I am touched by your trust in me.”

He rubs both his thumbs over Will’s ears, then down to his cheekbones, lips, and throat. His fingers are soft other than the small callouses from drawing, and Will sighs into it. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he isn’t aware that they’ve begun to fall until Hannibal is brushing them away.

“Oh Will,” he says, tangling his fingers in his hair once more. “You’ve had a hard day, haven’t you? It’s all right.”

Will digs his nails into his palms to try and get ahold of himself, but Hannibal tuts at him.

“Do not harm yourself. Hands flat on your thighs.” Will’s stomach drops at the reprimand, but he does as he’s told. “If you do that again, you will receive a punishment. And next time you kneel for me, your hands will be bound. Do you understand?”

“What’s the difference between you punishing me and me punishing myself?” Will says, hating how petulant his voice sounds. Hannibal’s fingers tighten in his hair—not quite as hard as he’d pulled last time, but certainly a warning.

“There will be no more talking back. Not unless you need to use your safeword. Are we clear?”

Will swallows. “Yes.”

“Good,” he says, and goes back to stroking his hair. “I know you’ve had a very overwhelming day, and that you’re new to this. But I know you want to be good for me. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” 

He nods. “Yes.”

“I think you’re holding on to some sort of shame. You don’t want to feel weak. But Will, vulnerability requires a great deal of strength and courage. Let me help you.”

“Okay, Hannibal.” He relaxes his posture, nuzzling his face into Hannibal’s knee. He’s distantly aware that he’s still crying, but Hannibal is letting the tears run down his face rather than wiping them away. It feels a little gross, but mostly cathartic. 

“I’m going to feed you. If you feel uncomfortable or nauseated, tell me.”

He nods again. A grape is pressed against his lips, then an almond, then a slice of pear. Simple foods are all Will can ever stomach when he gets like this, but nothing Hannibal gives him is bland. Everything tastes fresh and sweet, and it’s just the right amount of stimulation to make the world stop buzzing so loudly around him. Between bites, a straw is guided towards his mouth so he can take sips of cool water.

He loses track of how much he eats, and at a certain point, he stops even noticing the taste of the food, too focused on the hand in his hair. It goes on until he opens his mouth and, instead of a cube of cheese or an apple slice, gets nothing.

“You’ve finished the plate, but we will have dinner soon,” Hannibal says, pressing two fingers against his bottom lip. “You have an oral fixation, I’ve noticed. Your straw has been chewed up. Would you find it comforting to take my fingers into your mouth?”

He doesn’t remember this being on the list, but he does want Hannibal’s fingers in his mouth. He opens up and leans forward to take them, but is pulled back at the last second. His eyes open of their own accord, just glassy slivers of blue under heavy eyelids. Hannibal’s face is stern, but not angry, and he cranes Will’s neck back until they’re making eye contact. Will fights not to look away.

“That was a question, not a command.” Hannibal says. “I need a verbal answer.” 

“Yes,” he croaks. He’s crying again. Did he ever stop in the first place?

Hannibal loosens his grip. “Good boy. Eyes closed.”

His arousal has been mostly kept at bay so far, but something stirs in him at the praise. This time, Will opens his mouth and waits until the pads of Hannibal’s fingers hit his tongue. It comes as no surprise that his skin tastes salty and clean. He hums, licking and sucking at them. Maybe he’ll be embarrassed later, but he can’t find it in himself to care right now. He’s not the one who suggested it, anyway. 

“You look so lovely like this, Will.” Hannibal’s voice is rough, and Will struggles against the temptation to open his eyes. It isn’t unusual for him to be a little spaced out after a sensory overload, but it feels good this time. He wants to know whether Hannibal feels good, too. He’s half-hard, but it’s still bearable for now. 

“This can be another reward. Since you seem to enjoy it so much.”

Will hums in agreement. Hannibal thrusts his fingers slowly in and out of Will’s mouth a few times, but he mostly keeps them still, allowing Will to lave at them however he pleases. He isn’t sure how much time passes before the fingers are removed, but he makes a high, keening noise at the loss, too out of it to be embarrassed. 

“I know, dear Will. But it’s time to come back up, now. Can you open your eyes for me?”

Will does as he’s told, his brow furrowed in a silent question. Hannibal releases the grip on his hair and wipes down Will’s face with a handkerchief, then does the same to his fingers. Then, he holds both hands out to Will, palms up.

“Your legs will be sore,” he says. “Come on, wouldn’t you like me to hold you for a while?”

Will would very much like that, so he stands on wobbly legs with Hannibal’s help. Hannibal pulls him forward until Will is straddling his lap. He relaxes into it for a moment before going rigid.

“Is something wrong?” Hannibal asks, smoothing a hand down his back. “You may speak freely again.”

“Hannibal, I’m-” he clears his throat. “You know, hard.”

“It’s perfectly natural, I assure you. Just because our arrangement is not sexual doesn’t mean I expect you to have no reaction to what we do here.”

“But I… Are you…?” 

“Of course I’m aroused, Will. Does that bother you?”

“No! No, it doesn’t.” He rests his head on Hannibal’s shoulder and lays a hand flat against his abdomen. “Do you want me to…?”

“No, Will. You’re in no headspace to consent to that. We can discuss it another time.” Hannibal grabs his wrist gently. “If you don’t feel you can calm down on your own, you are welcome to take care of yourself in the guest room. But I would very much like for you to try and push through it.”

He hides his face, embarrassed. “I’ll be okay. This is good.”

“Good boy.” Hannibal rubs circles in his back with one hand while the other rests at the nape of his neck, holding him in place. It’s a soothing, grounding weight.

“You did so well, Will. You keep surprising me. I didn’t expect you to go under this quickly.”

“What do you mean by that? Going under.”

“A sort of natural high caused by the release of hormones. You aren’t all the way there yet, but you’re certainly getting close.”

“Is it a good thing?”

“It can be very freeing, almost euphoric for some. If you can experience this regularly, it may even help with your sleep and appetite troubles. But it is a delicate state of mind, of course. We should proceed with caution until we know how it will affect you.”

“Right.” Will hadn't felt euphoria—just a floaty sort of contentment. “It did feel good, when I wasn’t being reprimanded.”

“Did the reprimands feel too harsh?” Hannibal pulls back to look at him, concerned.

“Not really. I just get stuck in my own head, when I’ve done something wrong. It’s hard to move on from it.” Will shrugs. "Maybe it's an empathy thing."

“The purpose of the punishments is to prevent that feeling. Once a punishment is given, the disobedience is forgiven.” Will stays silent, mulling this over. “But I would never punish you harshly, Will. And never without your consent.”

“You said next time you’re gonna tie me up,” he mumbles against Hannibal’s shoulder. “Is that a punishment?”

“It’s not a punishment; it’s simply to prevent further attempts at harming yourself. In fact, I suspect you will enjoy it. You indicated it was something you were interested in.”

“I do enjoy it.” It’s odd to admit to Hannibal that he has experience with any of this. It all feels so much bigger with him, so all-encompassing.

“You’ve practiced bondage?” Hannibal sounds surprised, though not displeased. Will snorts.

“That’s a little generous. A girl I slept with in college liked using handcuffs on me. They chafed, but it was nice otherwise.”

“I assure you, nothing I bind you with will be uncomfortable.”

“I know. I trust you.” He nuzzles into Hannibal’s neck, inhaling the scent of his aftershave. “What's for dinner?"

Notes:

thanks for reading and for all of your comments/kudos ❤️ I'm always really touched by how kind some of you are.

we're about halfway through this fic! I'm going to take a brief writing break while I'm visiting family for the holidays, but I'll have the next chapter posted by the end of the year :)

Chapter 7

Hannibal was right about the sessions improving Will’s appetite and sleep. The day after he kneels for Hannibal, he eats three square meals and never once feels his stomach roil with anxiety or disgust. He feels more alert at work, less exhausted during his evening commute. The nightmares have stopped, too, but they’re soon replaced by other dreams.

They become more and more vivid each night. Instead of dreaming of warm skin and hazy shapes, he dreams of Hannibal’s face close to his own, of teeth at his throat. His shoulders pulled taught from rope at his wrists. On Wednesday, he dreams of being on the floor at Hannibal’s feet again, mouthing at his cock, and he wakes up rutting against his sheets with a kind of desperation he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

He tries not to dwell on the burgeoning attraction, but it’s difficult when Hannibal suddenly seems to be everywhere. He’s texting Will persistently to “check in,” short messages that serve as a constant reminder of their arrangement. Asking Will if he’s eaten, or how he slept. 

When he finally asks about it, Hannibal responds quickly, as if he’s been anticipating the question. You must understand the importance of monitoring your mood and physiology, given our new arrangement . He half wonders whether Hannibal is just looking for an excuse to keep himself at the forefront of Will’s mind.

On Thursday, Hannibal shows up at Quantico to meet with Jack and stops by Will’s office afterwards.

“Do you have lunch plans, Will?” He asks, standing in the doorway clutching a small cooler. “I apologize for the imposition, but I’ve brought enough for two.”   

Will shuts his laptop and clears his desk without a second thought. “What did you bring?”

“Pici pasta with asparagus, sausage, and Parmigiano-Reggiano.” 

He lays out several tupperware containers, along with forks, spoons, and fancy cloth napkins. The silver and silk look out of place in his dingy office, but the food looks incredible. The pasta is rustic and clearly handmade, and even at room temperature, it smells strongly of garlic and herbs. He decides not to mention that there is also enough cutlery for two—that this was very clearly planned rather than happenstance. 

“It looks great,” Will says. 

Hannibal watches him take the first bite, and his eyes crinkle with a fond smile when Will hums appreciatively. 

“It’s a simple dish, but I find there is little point in preparing anything extravagant for a quick meal. Still, it is one I look forward to sharing with you.”

Their conversation remains light during lunch. Hannibal asks about some of the books on his shelf, about what he did over the weekend. Will had gone fishing, possibly for the last time until Spring. The fish are hardly biting anymore, and it won’t be long until his usual fishing spot is covered in ice. He hates winter. Being cooped up indoors, unable to fish or run with his dogs. The only bright side is that it’s always easier to sleep when he isn’t sweating through his sheets. 

When they’ve both finished their meals, Hannibal clears them away, packing everything back into the cooler. He then turns his gaze to Will, calculating. 

“You look much healthier than you did when I last saw you. No dark circles, less gaunt. There is color in your cheeks.” His eyes slide over Will’s face, cataloging the minor changes. 

“Sleep has come easier this week than most others,” Will says. He absolutely will not mention the dreams, even though there’s definitely something brewing between them. “I’ve been eating more.”

“I assume this is, in no small part, due to our last session.”

Will nods. “I worried I would find it too humiliating to see any of the benefits you talked about, at first. But I guess I was wrong.”

“Do you not feel the expected humiliation, or are you simply able to move past it?” 

“It’s a manageable level of embarrassment.” 

Hannibal thinks for a moment, fingers steepled over his face. Will shifts under his gaze. 

“You dislike embarrassment more than anything,” he finally says. “It makes you feel inept. Lesser. You avoid it daily through a front of indifference, of disinterest, but you are unable to do so with me.”

“You see through the indifference anyways. Why bother?” Will deflects. “Besides, anybody would find this embarrassing.”

“Would they, Will? I am telling you exactly what I want from you, and you’re simply obeying. Is it not comforting to have the decisions taken out of your hands?”

“It’s embarrassing that I’m agreeing to it. That I like it.”

“Would you like to have less of a choice in the matter?”

Will’s stomach drops, but Hannibal holds up his hands in a placating gesture.

“I apologize. That was poorly phrased,” he soothes. “I only wondered if you might be responsive to a less… careful approach. I admit, I have been walking on eggshells with you. Checking in more than strictly necessary out of concern for your already fragile mental state. However, it’s possible you would benefit from a firm hand. From being able to take orders without so much forethought.”

“You would still abide by the list?”

“To the letter. And of course, your safewords will still be honored.”

Will’s shoulders relax, his cheeks heating. It does sound nice to have fewer choices. To be able to just turn his brain off for a couple of hours.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I think that would be better.” 

“I am happy to oblige. But Will, you must know that this involves a great deal of trust on both of our parts. While you are trusting me to know what you need and to not abuse your gift of submission, I must also trust you to tell me when you want to stop, or when you’re unsure of something. To know your limits and communicate them to me.”

“I won’t let you do anything that makes me genuinely uncomfortable, Hannibal.” 

Hannibal smiles. “I’ll prepare something for Monday that involves less thinking on your part, then.” He picks up his cooler and stands, pushing his chair back in. “Until then, I must be going. I have afternoon patients.”

Will stands to see him out before realizing that, in his small office, the door is only three steps away. He shuffles his feet when Hannibal turns to him.

“And Will,” he says, hand on the doorknob. Will tilts his head. “Don’t touch yourself before we meet next.” 

Will balks. “I don’t- I thought you said this wasn’t sexual, for now?” 

He smiles. “I’m telling you not to touch yourself.” 

Will opens his mouth to argue, but closes it when Hannibal opens the door, suddenly very aware that his office is right next to Beverly’s.

“Please know that I have an astute sense for disobedience, even if you are not forthcoming about it. I’ll see you on Monday, Will.” Will sticks his hand up in an awkward wave. Hannibal leaves, shutting the door behind him, and Will lays his head down on his desk.

Does being instructed not to touch himself before their next session imply that he’ll be allowed to do so at their session? Does it mean Hannibal will be touching him? He doesn’t want to assume anything, and he thinks Hannibal would probably clear that kind of thing with him ahead of time. It wouldn’t make sense for him to throw all this careful planning out the window. But it doesn’t actually matter, he realizes suddenly. He’s trusting Hannibal to know what he needs. They’re trusting each other. He takes a deep breath. 

He’s just barely pulled himself together when Beverly opens his door. Without knocking, of course. 

“So, what do I need to do to get Doctor Lecter to bring me lunch?” She asks, plopping down in the opposite chair and spinning around. 

“Go insane, for starters.” 

“Most psychiatrists don’t bring lunch to their patients at work,” she says. “You sounded like you guys were having a conversation, not a therapy session. I heard you laugh , Will Graham.”

“I’m not really his patient anymore. We’re just friends. We talk.” He lifts his head, but still avoids eye contact with her, too afraid of giving anything away. He’s sure she hadn’t heard their actual conversation, or she’d be asking very different questions.

“You’re friends with Hannibal Lecter?”

“I’m allowed to have friends, you know.”

“I know. I just didn’t realize he was one of them. When did you two get so close?”

“He helped me when I got sick a couple weeks ago. You remember.”

Bev tilts her head like she’s trying to solve a difficult puzzle. Then she squints at him, suspicious. “Next time he stops by, invite me in too. I ate Doritos out of the vending machine for lunch.”

“Sure,” he says. “If there is a next time.”

She smiles, satisfied. “I’m positive there will be.”

*

Virginia gets two inches of unexpected snow on Saturday, so Will spends the weekend cooped up at home until the roads are cleared, which usually takes a while all the way out in Wolf Trap. He doesn’t mind the solitude, but he knows he’ll be overwhelmed when he needs to go back to work on Monday. The quiet will only make the transition back to highways and crowded hallways and crime scene photos more unbearable. 

He toys with the idea of quitting, as he often does, but ultimately decides against it. It isn’t even worth considering, really. His house is paid off, so he could afford to quit teaching. Pay his meager monthly utility bill through some part-time dead-end job. He’s worked it all out, time and time again. But as soon as a body turns up, as soon as Jack calls him, he would be dragged back to the FBI. The guilt would never allow him to resign permanently. 

Not getting himself off isn’t difficult. He’s so exhausted that he never even considers it. The restful sleep he’s been getting through the week is gone, and the dreams keeping him up are nowhere near as pleasant. He wakes up before dawn on Saturday morning with a scream in his throat from a dream he can’t remember, Winston whimpering beside him and nosing at his hand. On Sunday, he wakes up standing in front of his open back door. It’s clear from his numb feet and burning eyes that he’s been standing there for some time, but he doesn’t think he’s actually gone outside. Small miracles. 

He tries to brush it off as stress, but it doesn’t quite work. He hasn’t had a problem with sleepwalking since he killed Hobbes, and the stress of its return is only making it more difficult to get any rest at all.

After tossing and turning all night on Sunday, somewhere between asleep and awake, he gets a text from Hannibal: an increasingly common occurrence. 

Hannibal [6:50 a.m.] Good morning, Will. If you insist on going to work this morning, please drive carefully. If road conditions worsen by this evening, we will reschedule our session. 

Will frowns, tapping out a reply.

Will [6:55 a.m.] The roads should be fine. I’ll be there. 

Before going to work, he takes stock of himself to an extent that would probably make Hannibal proud, if he knew. His eyes burn with exhaustion, but he doesn’t feel confused or disoriented, and he’s confident that he’s fine to drive. He scrapes the snow and ice from his car and pulls onto the highway feeling no worse than he usually does early in the morning, and he makes it to work in one piece. He even remembers to pack a lunch.

But of course, it doesn’t last. He starts yawning at 2pm, and by 3:30, he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He intends to lay his head down on his desk for just a moment, but when he opens his eyes, his office is almost completely dark and the clock is flashing 6:30.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Shit.”

He unlocks his phone and, sure enough, has an unread text message and three missed calls from Hannibal.

Hannibal [6:15] Please, call me. I’m concerned. 

He hits dial as he’s scrambling to get his things together. It connects almost instantly.

“Will,” Hannibal greets, relief apparent in his voice. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry for being late, I fell asleep in my office. God, I’ve never done that before. I’m sorry.”

“Have you been sleeping poorly?”

“Sort of,” Will hedges. He searches for his keys in the mess covering his desk. He needs to clean it off, eventually. 

“Are you still at Quantico?”

“Yeah. I can’t find my damn keys.”

“Stay there. I will pick you up. If you can fall asleep at your desk, you could fall asleep at the wheel.”

“I just took a three hour nap. I’m fine.”

“I’m not offering, Will. I’m insisting.” His tone leaves no room for argument, and Will feels his hackles rise. 

“You can’t boss me around while I’m at work. When we’re not in a session .”

“Our session started half an hour ago,” Hannibal says, clipped, “and in case you’ve forgotten, we agreed that I would be taking some decisions out of your hands. This is one of them.”

He hears shuffling on the other end of the line. “I expect you’ll be ready to leave when I arrive.”

Will takes a deep breath. It’s odd to intermingle his work life with the arrangement he has with Hannibal, and it’s happened twice just this week. He thinks of using his safeword, just to be difficult, but there’s a pull in his chest when he thinks of Hannibal’s warm car and a hot meal. Maybe he’ll kneel at his feet again. Maybe Hannibal will touch him. The fight leaves him.

“Okay,” he says, deflating. “I’ll meet you out front. You won’t be able to get past security after hours.”

“Good,” Hannibal says, voice softer. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Stay inside until I arrive; It's freezing out.”

They hang up, and Will finishes gathering his things. His keys end up being underneath his desk, and he runs out to the parking deck to get the change of clothes he brought out of his car. He gets back to the lobby just as Hannibal’s car pulls up outside. He throws his bag in the back and slides into the passenger’s seat.

“Hey,” he says, closing the door quickly to keep the cold out. Hannibal puts the car in park.

“Hello, Will.” He turns to face him, and Will schools his expression into something he hopes looks unbothered. Hannibal sighs, disappointed by whatever it is he finds. 

“You are unwell.”

“It isn’t my fault. I can’t help the nightmares.” 

“I messaged you several times throughout the weekend to ask about your wellbeing. You answered each time that you were fine.” 

“I am fine. I’m used to not getting much sleep, and I know how to manage it by now.”

“You knew precisely what I meant when I asked you how you were sleeping. Should I assume you’ve been eating poorly as well?”

“The roads were bad, so I couldn’t exactly make a grocery trip. But I’ve gotten all the calories I need. No skipped meals.”

“An improvement, but not by much.” He starts the car. “Have you arranged for someone to see to your dogs tonight?”

“Yes. I wasn’t sure how late I would be tonight.”

“Very good. Please request that they also return in the morning. You will, of course, be staying with me tonight.”

“ Of course? Hannibal, I can’t just drop everything to have a sleepover.”

“You are in no condition to drive. This isn’t up for debate.” He tilts his head, eyes never leaving the road. “Unless, of course, you need to use your safeword.”

Will’s jaw works for a few seconds. “You can’t tell me what to do once our session is over.”

“We’ve already discussed this. You are trusting me to know what you need, and I am trusting you to tell me when something is wrong. Unless this is a newfound hard limit of yours?”

Will pauses. “No,” he finally says. “I guess it isn’t.”

He pulls out his phone and texts the dog sitter, then lays his head against the window. There’s something soothing about giving in, about just being good for Hannibal. But Hannibal, always so generous with praise, isn’t saying anything . 

“Are you upset with me?” He asks, then cringes at his own transparency.

“I’m disappointed that you were not honest with me, but no, I am not upset with you. I understand that this is new for you, and that there will inevitably be an adjustment period.”

“I’m sorry.”

Hannibal smiles, eyes flitting over to Will for a brief moment. “It’s all right. You will learn, in time.” His eyes flick back to the road. “I must admit, you will be difficult to punish with your tendency towards self-flagellation.”

“Am I being punished?”

“Do you think you deserve to be?”

“I thought you were taking the decisions out of my hands?”

“I didn’t ask you to make a decision. I asked whether you think you deserve to be punished for your behavior.”

“I don’t know. I do feel bad about lying. And you said that after a punishment, everything would be forgiven.”

“I forgave you when you apologized, Will. The punishment isn’t about my forgiveness, it’s about your own catharsis. You carry a great deal of guilt with you—even, perhaps especially, over small things—and a tangible act of discipline can absolve you of that.” 

Will chews on his bottom lip. “What kind of punishment?”

“Nothing we have not previously agreed on.”

He thinks back to the list and tries to recall everything he marked down as a possibility. Nothing genuinely painful, he’s sure. 

“Okay. Yeah, I think… I think it would make me feel better.”

“Then we will proceed. I did have something nice planned for tonight. If you are not feeling up to it after your punishment, would you be agreeable to meeting tomorrow as well? I would hate to use our only weekly session to punish you.”

Will frowns. “I should be fine. You’re not going to whip me or anything.”

“Physically, you will be no worse for the wear. I only worry about your mental state. Of course, if you still wish to continue after the punishment, I am happy to do so. I am trusting you to know your limits, after all.”

Will agrees, and they spend the rest of the drive in silent anticipation.

Notes:

Sorry this chapter took so long! Not to get too real in the author's notes of my hannibal fanfiction but I'm going through it mentally and have been having trouble writing. This chapter was supposed to be longer, but I just wanted to go ahead and post what I had.

That said, I really appreciate all the nice comments and that everyone has been so patient and supportive <3 More to come (hopefully) soon.