Chapter Text
It's not part of Will's plan, of his hunt, to sleep with Hannibal. It just happens (he can imagine Jack questioning him: "Did you just fall into his knot?"). It's something that, to Will's misfortune, he has desired for so long, only stopping when he realized the level of darkness within Hannibal, his complete lack of feelings towards him, his plans, his utter betrayal.
Now, he's been sleeping with the alpha since he handed over Randall Tier's body. Will couldn't resist Hannibal’s affection, that care in cleaning his wounds on his knuckles and looking at him as if Will were important, as if he were more than his latest passing entertainment.
Will knows how terrible what he's doing is; unnecessary in his goal to see Hannibal behind bars.
Inexcusable, knowing what the monster did to Abigail, to Beverly. But something is so wrong within Will that he can't help it; he's become addicted to Hannibal's company, playing at being like him or, at least, being the best toy he's encountered.
Because, of course, Will doesn't delude himself about Hannibal. The alpha is an intelligent psychopath, one of a kind, with a pleasure in hunting those he considers pigs for offending him, manipulating minds he finds interesting until he breaks them or makes them destructive. It's what he's tried to do with so many others before Will.
Only Will turned out to be a bit more striking, which is why Hannibal keeps manipulating him.
(And Will is so easy, if Hannibal were clearer and more honest, if he were, god, capable of loving him, Will would surrender, would send his justice to hell. He knows it well, it's a truth he tries to hide from himself, but he's aware of it.)
Hannibal is now on top of him, kissing his neck, his shoulders, lingering on his mating gland but bypassing it until returning to his neck. Will hears the alpha emit soft growls as he settles on his back, causing the knot that binds them to shift and provoke a new contraction in his wet interior.
Will purrs at the sensation. Satisfied and immersed in thoughts of how things would be if it were that simple. If just a few hours ago he hadn't had Mason Verger eating his own face in his living room, in front of his dogs.
"You shouldn't worry, Will, the stones have already been cast," Hannibal advises in his ear as if guessing his thoughts.
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Weeks later, Hannibal's advice becomes so accurate, because, well, Will can't not be fucking worried and up to his neck after spending days throwing up his guts.
He's fucking pregnant. By Hannibal Lecter, the shitty murderer who screwed up his life.
Will brings his hands to his head, scratching his hair with desperation, looking at the tests that mock his life.
If Will ever thought he had control of all this, he was wrong, so fucking wrong. He can't tell Jack he's pregnant because then it will be obvious who the other parent is. He also doubts that having a child with a cannibal would be well received by the FBI.
He cannot tell Hannibal, who continues to make plans for their escapes as if all the damn offenses he committed against Will were insignificant, as if he truly believed that everything he did to Will could be forgotten.
The worst part is how much he wants to have a child, a frustrated desire from his youth, when there were still alphas who found him attractive.
Will takes the tests, stands up, and throws them in the trash, looking at himself in the mirror in his bathroom and seeing in the reflection a complete idiot.
He's grateful that with all the turmoil in his life and health, the fucking encephalitis’ treatment, the scent his hormones are emitting of his fertility is muted, only he notices it. It's a relief after having to see Freddie Lounds because he would die if the journalist knew this secret.
Later, after suffering his little mental breakdown locked in his bathroom, Will is calmer. Even more so when he goes to Hannibal's office; the alpha's presence, despite everything, is comforting. Even more so when he hears him talk about their escape, even though Will doesn't plan to carry it out (or at least that's what he repeats to himself every day).
However, hours later, after dining with Hannibal and hearing him offer Will a kind of absolution and an escape, he can't help but consider that solution. Maybe another Will Graham, one who didn't fall into the alpha's bed, who didn't get pregnant, would be able to continue his charade for some form of justice.
But this Will tosses and turns in bed that night and trying to think about his decision, he puts his hands on his stomach. He must be one month along, he knows he has to go to a gynecologist to know these things and make sure everything is fine.
He imagines himself in Italy with Hannibal by his side, watching him proudly, accompanying him to a doctor, this time with no deceit involved. Will imagines confronting him, demanding honesty; Hannibal swearing that he will stop hurting Will, that what they have together is more important.
At this point, he doesn't care if Hannibal is incapable of loving him, he settles for this. Maybe Will can have his family, have Hannibal, and maybe it will be enough to keep the alpha entertained for longer, the necessary time.
His decision is as difficult as it is easy.
Will will choose Hannibal. He will stay with him, together.
For Hannibal, there is no creature more beautiful and exquisite than Will Graham.
He believes he recognized Will’s magnificence that first day in Jack's office, but it was the dozens of subsequent encounters that confirmed his impression as well as if it were his mother tongue.
That's why this pain, this suffering after learning of Will's betrayal, is so unbearable.
Hannibal offered him his forgiveness, for them to flee together. All rejected by the omega, by his pride.
It's almost amusing, so many years ignoring unions, omegas of high pedigree, Hannibal so above those basic desires, until Will conquered him and dominated his heart.
Those blue eyes, bittersweet features, and that soft laugh full of shyness. His intelligence and tenacity. His innocence. His body and thick thighs opening to receive Hannibal, offering his wet and pink hole, begging for his knot.
How could he not love him?
That's why Hannibal must mutilate this. Exterminate any kind of affection; make it clear to Will the impossibility of taming him.
Hannibal only has a moment of doubt about the path he has written in his thoughts: when he hears Will's voice warning him on a call.
He questions if his course of action is necessary, if perhaps Will will come to him, choosing him. If, perhaps, it's time for them to flee, together, with Abigail. Hannibal knows they could do it.
But he thinks of Freddie Lounds' scent. Of Will's thirst for justice and his subterfuge.
The decision has already been made, Hannibal can only react, execute the repercussions from Will's betrayal.
Later, any doubt has been completely erased from his mind after facing Jack, threatening Alana. Hannibal feels like a beast in his territory waiting for his prey, already feeling victorious, self-righteous in the need to make Will pay for the consequences of his actions.
When Hannibal smells him, Will’s scent is so exquisite (like his first home, his childhood. His happiness), that for a moment he believes he can perceive it stronger, as if it were burnt sugar, even though the encephalitis is far away.
He watches the omega’s back: the wet shirt and how the curls stick to his neck; Will looks like a lamb, nervous and defenseless.
His face, when he turns it to find Hannibal, still looks shocked by seeing Abigail and the raw scene he encountered. Hannibal walks towards him, slowly, staring at the omega, observing the features that charmed him and tied him as if he were a simple man, like all the alphas he has known (so much weakness, he even feels ashamed.)
Hannibal has Will in front of him and, with so much feeling, he caresses his cheek.
“You waited for me,” Will whispers, and if Hannibal were to open the door to that part of his mind controlled by his heart, the one that questions his own intentions, perhaps he would stop. But it's impossible, this is written in stone and Hannibal is too consumed by fury and pain.
By betrayal.
He doesn't answer. In perfect silence, Hannibal just pulls Will towards him, taking his hand beyond that wet cheek, to his neck, squeezing the omega’s curls and embracing him against him while he cuts into him. He moves the blade in a perfect line, burying it enough to eviscerate Will without causing death.
It's a dry moan that Will lets out, clinging to him like the lamb he seems to be, harmless and weak, fearful. Hannibal feels the tremors in those limbs he adored for nights, as Will's legs lose composure and give way, only he is holding the omega up.
Will closes his eyes for a moment, shakes his head in denial, and his cheeks no longer look just wet from the rain, Hannibal can smell the salt. He lets him fall feeling empty even when he accuses Will of the injustices committed against him, of how the omega is to blame for everything that is happening.
It's so easy to call Abigail to his side, to slit her throat.
Will's gaze is heavy, his lips move outlining the word no. He looks lost and tortured, his face white and full of anguish, both arms around his abdomen trying to contain the hemorrhage with a desperation that Hannibal hasn't seen in him, not even that first time, when they saved the teenager who is now losing her life.
Hannibal leaves the omega like that, in the red puddle that Abigail and he have spread. Hannibal leaves his house, looks at Alana indifferently, and, thinking of a tabula rasa, of a new beginning, he puts on Will's coat.
He feels clean and baptized. Ready for another chapter in his life.
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It's the scent that prevents Hannibal from concentrating.
Three days in Italy, with Bedelia feigning sympathy, Hannibal can't help but obsess over Will's coat. Sitting at his piano, he brings the fabric closer. It still smells like the omega, of course, but a more concentrated aroma, with a sweet taste, more than usual.
Hannibal can't understand why.