Chapter Text
Dinner at seven.
Will blinks, perplexed at first. A joke? Unlikely. Hannibal ever the one for sincerity.
And Will wasn’t the type to question it.
So he agrees, keeping the gift horse’s mouth shut.
He’d be free by then. If Jack doesn’t interrupt with another murder that promises hours of driving to observe another body only to come up with the same conclusion as always. A crime of passion. Predictable. Boring. Tasteless. (The Ripper spoiled him for anyone else’s wannabe tableau.)
Luckily, both parties granted him some peace for the evening. So he clocks out at 5 on the dot, giving him just enough time to get home, shower and change before meeting Hannibal.
And with all his (more or less) careful preparations, Will arrives at exactly six-fifty-seven in Baltimore, dressed in the best green-brown flannel (the one with the least amount of dog hair) and jeans he could find, his curls combed and gelled out of respect for the host.
Same with his beard — trimmed and cleaned at the edges to the best of his abilities with the mayhem of dogs at his feet, pawing at him for dinner and cuddles after his long workday, and the headache brewing behind his scrunched eyelids due to the awfully bright light.
Will swallowed two aspirin for good measure and threw on a handful of aftershave, something with menthol and shea butter he swiped from one of the shelves a few nights ago, before tending to his dogs and settling into his car.
Everything would be fine.
But from his Volvo to the front door, his nerves return, coaxing him into fiddling with the collar of his shirt, nails catching on loose fibres he quickly smooths down again, instead busying himself with the thick side seam of his jeans.
The house is old with worn, pale-yellow bricks along the full facade of it, columns left and right holding up the overhang shadowing the two-toned door.
It’s rich and pompous, so over-the-top for one person alone, and so… Hannibal. Carrying that old, elegant yet hauntingly familiar charm that softens the worry creasing his brows.
Will rings before the nervousness has a chance fo fester again.
As the door swings open, he holds his hand in a curt hello, Italian, hand-stitched leather standing opposite of his worn sneakers. A stark contrast of priority and wealth. Worlds colliding.
Hannibal offers him a smile nonetheless, notes of vegetal herbs, cinnamon and lemon swirling around his broad frame. Expensive cologne, no doubt.
“Will. Come in. It shall only take a few more minutes.” His eyes shine bright, inviting, matching the maroon tie around his neck and the pocket square nestled in the tailored charcoal suit jacket interrupted by red stripes.
Different from the deep blue square and the light blue floral pattern suit he wore in the field.
Will counters the gesture with a meek nod and an involuntary quirk of his lips, ducking past the door and trailing behind Hannibal’s towering physique like a lost puppy as he leads the way through the foyer to the dining hall set with wine glasses, multiple plates and cutlery wrapped in cloth napkins with embroidered H.L.’s.
Hannibal Lecter has everything fit to his tastes. Clothes. Food. Music. Even his table- and kitchenware.
“Take a seat. I’ll be with you soon,” Hannibal says with a short brush of his hand on his waist before turning to the kitchen, soft notes of music escaping the room — violin strings weaving into the distinct clear pluck of the harpsichord.
His fingers automatically react, muscle memory finding the notes and pushing down on imaginary buttons. Dust surely gathered on his own piano by now, the keys dirtied and the sound off-key due to time and negligence.
Repressed guilt surfaces in slow drips and sours the enjoyment of the motions until he stills to a slow tap on the mahogany surface of the table.
Work has kept him busy.
With a sigh, he stands to take in the decor, immediately drawn to the wall of multiple herbs, a variety of potted plants artfully arranged in front of it.
Huge yellow blooms and small red flowers push into his periphery, but only the vibrant pink makes him stop. Curious, he approaches the pot, tracing glossy, heart-shaped leaves with pink splotches ranging from pastel to fluorescent, admiring the contrast of colours.
“It seems you have found my philodendron?”
Will flinches involuntarily, his eyes snapping to Hannibal setting down multiple extravagant plates, face amused.
“I didn’t take you for someone collecting tacky houseplants,” Will replies, returning to his seat.
“It’s the 'Pink Princess' variant and in contrast to the 'Pink Congo' a completely natural genetic mutation instead of a chemically altered one whose injections wear off eventually. It’s fairly rare. And I find pleasure in looking at it.” Hannibal looks up at him. “As you do too, I presume?”
“It has its charms.” Will nods and peruses the array of cutlery placed left and right of his plate, wondering why he’d need a spoon, and a set of two forks and knives for one meal. “Must’ve been a lot of work to keep it alive.”
Rich people etiquette, surely.
“Oh, certainly,” Hannibal regards Will with a curious tilt as he swaps the knives and forks around — it’s more comfortable for him that way — a brief smile tugging on his lips, “It requires a certain amount of light for the leaves to retain their vibrant colour and the roots are prone to rot. Luckily, mine hasn’t given me many troubles thus far.”
“Sounds like a lot for a single plant. And you’ve got,” Will skims the room, counting, “five more healthy ones plus a whole wall of green. Impressive.”
Hannibal reaches for a wine bottle, nodding at the label before pouring some into their glasses, not spilling a drop. “It is my profession to detect needs and to nurture and heal based on that, is it not?”
He slides a glass toward him.
“To empathise, to understand and to question. To probe and mould minds at your whim. To theorise, test and theorise again,” Will says, following the trickle of dark, creamy sauce down a cooked mushroom settled onto an artfully placed steak. “It’s rather a science than a healing profession, really.”
Maroon eyes flick to him, watching, seeing, something in him shifting just slightly, rearing its head, widening its stance and showing its teeth, intrigued, eager to speak but ultimately deciding against it.
Clearing his throat, Hannibal rolls up his sleeves, showing off strong and veiny forearms to Will’s (usually) innocent gaze, and motions to the steaming plates. “On today’s menu: a light beef stock with thyme, parsley, bay leaves and peppercorns. And for the main course it's fresh Filet Mignon in mushroom wine sauce with braised carrots.”
Without even trying to hide his surprise, he stares at the culinary craftsmanship of it, each speck of vegetable and sauce fitted to compliment the full composition. A mixture of rich, earthy and wholeheartedly savoury smells wafts from it, making Will’s mouth water.
Lunch was eight hours ago. A memory of a half-eaten sandwich flashes in his vision, pitiful in comparison.
“And lastly,” Hannibal raises his glass, angling it toward Will who mirrore the motion, letting them touch with a bright clink. “A Pinot Noir to pair with. Please enjoy.”
Will indulges himself with an appreciative smile, greedy lips meeting the narrowed rim of the wide glass to get a taste. Not the one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Hannibal smiles at him, delighted, all pointed teeth and no sense of shame.
A pleased hum escapes him as that rich sweetness morphs into ripe cherries and silky vanilla to wash away the taste of stale coffee.
And that’s what it was — the wine. Must’ve been.
Will blinks, hard, unfocused, slow. A headache pounds behind his closed lids and his neck creaks with pain. An image of his bottle of aspirin in the bathroom cabinet mocks him before fizzling into nothing.
Suspicion spikes for a second before melting and coating his mind in a fine layer of fluffy cotton, turning it into mush.
Like snow, whirly bits of white slamming into him from all sides, covering him in it.
A rush of cold and heat mingle down his spine, his hands trembling to hold onto the slippery surface of the table to get to his feet.
“Bathroom?” he drawls, tongue slow, numbing, while holding himself onto shaky legs, feeling like a newborn fawn. The press of his full bladder doesn't help his situation.
“Down the hall and to the right.” Hannibal visualises his instructions with a palm pointing in the direction and curving on the turn.
Will nods with a lopsided smile, muttering his thanks and scrambling for the next chair to pull himself along, determined not to fall. One step at a time.
Hannibal’s voice is thick honey as he chimes up, the lilt of his accent piercing through the fog in his mind to drip into his conscious, sticky, suffocating, familiar. “Do you require any assistance, Will?”
Will refuses to admit defeat, heat rushing to his face at the thought of Hannibal making due on the offer. “’m alright. Just… alcohol.”
He’ll be damned if he can’t even go to the toilet alone.
“Will.” Again, firmer.
His grasp on the backrest tightens, his knuckles turning white. He doesn't respond.
“Will,” Hannibal repeats which ultimately draws Will’s attention to the other's face, then dropping to the hand pointing to his seat. And, lastly, landing on the chair itself.
There’s a puddle.
Will’s stomach drops, bile clawing at his throat.
A big, shiny puddle on someone else’s chair in someone else’s home on someone else’s hardwood floors while intoxicated by someone else’s liquor.
His bladder feels empty, the ache gone. Dread replaces it.
Will doesn’t look down, doesn’t want to realise, doesn’t want to grapple with the obvious facts presented to him.
Doesn’t want to let it sink it that he might’ve peed himself on one of Hannibal-fucking-Lecters’ expensive chairs like a wild animal.
So Will merely stands, lips drawn tight, eyes squeezed shut, hands in his hair and tugging. “So sorry, I don’t…” he trails off, fighting an onslaught of shame and heat, his muscles trembling. “I can clean it up, I—” He chokes on a sob, knees folding under the weight.
His mind screams through the cotton, muffled, barely-there. He’ll ruin the floors.
Will can’t muster the strength to rise, finding only exhaustion. His chest heaves uncontrollably.
Careful, graceful, strides edge closer until he’s gathered in a pair of firm arms and pressed against a broad chest.
Will tenses, arching from the touch, but with fingertips gentle on their trail up and down his back, resistance is futile.
“It’s alright, Will,” Hannibal whispers, cradling him as if he were taming a frightened stray.
Tears streak Will’s face, hot, itchy, and he wipes them with his sleeve before allowing himself to sink into Hannibal’s embrace.
Imploring hands settle on his belt, cautious. “May I? Before you catch a cold.”
Shame and logic still war in the mushy snow of his mind. The prior makes him shake his head while the latter regrets it immediately afterward.
“What do you need?” Hannibal’s voice is gentle, floating syllables and letters that circle him, a thread that keeps the time and reality from breaking off like rocks of a cliff.
He wills his voice to work but it stays silent. Frustration wants him to scream, but that only results in a cough.
In spite of his silence, Hannibal broadens his embrace to provide him a space directly against his torso, Will tucking his face into the base of his neck.
His pulse pounds in his eardrums as the spice and zest of Hannibal’s cologne fill his nostrils, coats his tongue, letting him drift until Hannibal’s voice grounds him once more. “Will?”
Will hums, the sound muffled.
“We should get you out of these wet clothes.”
Will grunts in protest but some faraway piece of him still conscious enough knows it’s the most logical.
He’s in no condition to drive tonight.
So, with burning cheeks, Will tilts his head to the side, watching the herb wall — the only place where he couldn’t possibly see Hannibal’s judgemental stare — and nods. “Do it.”
“Thank you,” Hannibal says with a soft th that caresses something deep within Will (he needs to take a hard, long look at his life and himself after this) before unbuckling his belt and letting his pants drop to his ankles in a wet flop.
Will barely stops himself from physically recoiling at the sound.
The shoes are the next to go, Hannibal placing to the side with more care than Will has ever shown them himself, before folding the soiled clothing.
Left in his fancy flannel and a pair of drenched boxers, Will rubs at his eyes with his sleeve only to discover the shameful wetness there. Crying. Again.
He’s not naked, but he feels like it. Skin and dignity stripped away to reveal what monstrosity lies beneath. A child once more.
“I’ll fetch a glass of water and put these in the wash while you freshen up,” Hannibal straightens from his kneel, his palm on Will’s shoulder to give him a firm squeeze. “Down the hall and to the right,” he repeats, no sign of judgement or disgust to be found. “Don’t stray too far.”
Choking back a sob, he wills himself to focus.
“Won’t,” Will promises with a shaking lip, embarrassment shadowing him as he fights his body with each heavy step.
Finally out of the dining area, he squints at the formless, colourful shape that must be the rug, running his palm along the doorframe and to the wall, lurching forward and into the hall.
Guided by his leftover sense of direction and touch, he staggers through another set of doors, blinking fast to keep the walls from spinning.
Not the bathroom either.
Will’s heart squeezes, chest tight, another cough interrupting his heaving breaths.
He only wants to curl up with his dogs by the fire and sleep. Wants to forget this ever happened.
Why did he agree to this again?
Exhaust tugs on his bones as Will stumbles over another threshold, meeting a room too similar to the one before and the one after that to tell if it’s the right way. Neutral floors and extravagant wallpapers wherever he cranes his neck to.
Tears burn tracks down his cheeks, his blood both scorching and freezing under his skin. Arms wrapped around himself, he collapses forward, the rug scraping his knees.
Maybe he’ll just wait for Hannibal instead.
Footsteps approach in, slow, confident strides, carrying that subtle spice of cologne with it.
Relief lets his shoulders sag.
“Hannibal,” he murmurs, feeling his presence edge closer.
Prowling. Cornering him.
“Sweet boy. You tease me so.”
And his reality snaps, fragments scattered on the tiles around him.
A weak simmer of anger and frustration brews low in his gut, bubbling up in flashes of emotions before receding again, his mind wandering and circling.
Hannibal’s a snake regarding the effects of its venom, delighted in the struggle, enjoyment obvious in the way it carries itself, sizing itself up, revelling in its prey's half-naked desperation. Helplessness. Forced submission.
“Presenting yourself so beautifully for me.” An incessant hand tangles in his hair, threading around the roots of his lax frame and tugging upward, baring his neck, showing his bobbing Adam’s apple to the form above shadowing him.
Jagged and gnarly antlers reach the ceiling, spreading across the length and width of it like a tangle of inky roots, raven feathers decorating the base, fluttering slightly.
“Your hair has grown long, Will. Is that because of the nightmares or your job occupying your free time?” Hannibal inquires, weaving his hand through his curls while his other palm splays across his throat, thumbing his slowing pulse with an unexpected gentleness. “Or for my pleasure perhaps?”
Will feels like gagging.
He wills his hands into fist, but he can’t get any farther than a twitch of his fingertips.
“It’s rude to ignore a direct question, Darling.” Pain sprouts from his scalp as Hannibal tugs, harsher this time, all traces of tenderness gone, levelling their gazes. Black licks into his peripheral.
Will releases a strained huff, not confident in his ability to form a coherent sentence and not keen on giving Hannibal the satisfaction.
“Hmm, I guess it’s alright for now. Punishments tend to be more enjoyable when the recipient is responsive.” Hannibal inches closer, his maroon eyes piercing right down into his very being, his breath ghosting over his heated face.
As Hannibal’s gaze sinks, mouth twisting into an even wider grin, Will’s stomach drops.
“Look how hard you are, already. Teasing thing.” Hannibal’s hand travels low, cupping the front of his underwear, where Will’s cock presses hard against the damp material, his body instinctively arching into the touch. His bladder responds as well, empty, aching.
Will lets out a sound between a snort and a growl that quickly morphs into a strangled grunt when the heel of Hannibal’s palm presses down on his erection, a leftover droplet of wet warmth soaking the material.
Water blurring his sight, he turns his head, tasting salt, but Hannibal tilts him by the chin to keep their eyes locked, his expression that of ravenous delight.
“What strong effect you have on me,” Hannibal adjusts his slacks where a sizable bulge presses against it, “I nearly devoured you right then and there.”
Will quickly regrets having looked at all. Acid burns his throat. He doesn’t dignify it with a response.
“It will only take a moment longer,” Hannibal assures, tracing a tender thumb along his stubble. “You will be exceptional, Will.”
Will would’ve scoffed if not for the shadows crawling into his sight, his stomach churning.
Squeezing his eyes shut, sleep overtakes him.
…
And he floats. Herbs, spice and lemon creep into his senses. Copper. Blood.
Hannibal?