can you read my mind? i've been watching you

by cervviidae

Summary:

Hannibal didn’t do it for leverage. That’s the unsettling part. He took time out of his day, out of whatever immaculate, ordered life he leads, to come here. To step into Will’s house. To feed his dogs. To exist, briefly, inside the most private perimeter Will has. A simple thank you feels thin.

- or -

Will wants to thank Hannibal for going to feed his dogs. So he invites him over for dinner. <3

Notes:

hello angels.. guess who's doing a 2026 rewatch. i hope you enjoy and please leave any thoughts in the comments!! <3

 

 

 

The house feels different now.

 

It’s a stupid thought, he knows that. Houses don’t remember people. Air doesn’t keep impressions. There’s no residue of a man just because he passed through and shut the door behind him. And still. Still the place feels occupied in some quiet, after-the-fact way. Like a room after a conversation stops. Like heat after a body moves away.

 

Hannibal Lecter has been inside this house.

 

He needed someone to feed the dogs. Alana was busy. Hannibal offered when he’d asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Of course I’ll take care of them, Will. Of course. At the time, it felt practical. A solution. He didn’t think past that. He didn’t imagine Hannibal unlocking the door. Stepping inside. Letting the dogs sniff him, circle him, decide what he is. Will didn’t picture Hannibal standing where he’s standing now, breathing the same air, seeing the same scuffed floorboards, the same walls that have never been meant for anyone but Will and the animals he keeps half-wild on purpose.

 

Now he can’t stop picturing it.

 

He hates that his mind reaches for Hannibal the way it does, fills in blanks without permission. He paces. The dogs follow him for a minute, then give up and settle. They’re calm. That should tell him something. They don’t act like anything bad happened. They don’t act like a stranger was here. They accepted him. 

 

He stops in the doorway to the kitchen. He would have noticed everything. That’s the problem. Hannibal doesn’t pass through a space without reading it. Will knows that. He knows the way Hannibal’s eyes move, how they linger, how they catalogue.

 

He imagines Hannibal pausing, just for a moment, to look around. Will’s house isn’t impressive. It’s not beautiful in the way Hannibal’s place must be beautiful. It’s practical. Worn. Quiet. Built for someone who doesn’t expect company and doesn’t plan for the future beyond what’s necessary.

 

What does Hannibal think of that?

 

The question slides under Will’s skin before he can stop it. He doesn’t want Hannibal’s opinion. He doesn’t need it. And yet he’s stuck wondering what Hannibal must have looked at. Thought about. Whether he noticed how the bed is in the living room. Whether he read anything into the books stacked on shelves. Will thinks of his dog-eared pages. His scribbles on the margins. 

 

There’s a sense of being seen that hasn’t gone away. Not watched, Will would know that. This is quieter. More intimate. Like someone’s learned the shape of him when he wasn’t paying attention. Like the house has been read, and by extension, so has he.

 

Will doesn’t like how much room Hannibal takes up in his head lately. He doesn’t like how easily his presence expands past the time they actually spend together. He tells himself it’s just because Hannibal understands him in a way most people don’t. Because Hannibal listens. Those are facts. They don’t have to mean anything else.

 

Still, the house feels altered. It isn’t just discomfort. It isn’t just unease or the prickling sense of being observed. There’s something else. A bodily awareness he hasn’t given himself permission to examine. A low-level burn, stinging in his gut. It makes him aware of his breath, of how shallow it’s gotten without him noticing. 

 

Desire isn’t the word he reaches for at first but whatever this is hums in the same register. Proximity. The idea of Hannibal in his space, knowing it, inhabiting it, makes something in Will flare like a struck match and refuse to go out.

 

His chest feels hot, flushed red beneath the skin, like nights when the air presses in close and there’s no relief to be found anywhere.The kind that makes you restless and irritable and half-mad with it. The kind that leaves you damp and breathing harder than you should be for doing nothing at all. 

 

It’s a bad feeling. 

 

Will sits up again. He can’t lie still. He stands and the dogs lift their heads and thump their tails once, lazy. He looks at them. They’re fine. Everything’s fine.

 

He tells himself this is nothing more than his mind doing what it always does: assigning meaning where there might not be any, filling silence with narrative. He tells himself Hannibal is just a colleague. His psychiatrist. A man who did him a favor.

 

A man who Will owes something.

 

Hannibal didn’t do it for leverage. That’s the unsettling part. He took time out of his day, out of whatever immaculate, ordered life he leads, to come here. To step into Will’s house. To feed his dogs. To exist, briefly, inside the most private perimeter Will has.

 

A simple thank you feels thin. The obligation makes him want to crawl out of himself, or maybe back into himself, to retreat somewhere small and sealed. Gratitude is intimate. Acknowledging it means acknowledging what was given. And what was given wasn’t just time.

 

Will could tell him thank you. He should tell him thank you. He could do that first, clean and contained, and then leave the situation alone. Professional. Appropriate.

 

But he knows himself better than that. He knows how the words tend to keep coming once he opens his mouth. How he starts with something safe and ends up somewhere exposed. He’s been doing it with Hannibal. Confessions slipping out sideways. Thoughts he’s never trusted to air before. Things like I liked killing Hobbs. Things that should have stayed locked up, but didn’t.

He imagines Hannibal’s response to being thanked. The polite deflection. The mild smile. Of course, Will. It was no trouble. 

 

Will doesn’t know what happens to him when he’s around Hannibal. Something shifts. Not violently. Not like a switch flipping. More like a tide coming in so quietly he only notices once the water’s already at his ankles. He doesn’t feel smaller around Hannibal, or cornered, or sharpened to a point the way he does with most people. He feels, annoyingly, confusingly, present.

 

All he really knows is this: he likes him. He likes Hannibal. Enough to keep showing up to appointments long after he’s told himself he doesn’t need them. Enough to sit in that office and talk when he could just as easily deflect, shut down, stay silent. Enough to laugh at Hannibal’s dry jokes before he’s thought better of it. Enough to look away when Hannibal smiles, like the sight of it is too direct somehow, like it catches him mid-breath.

 

He likes Hannibal enough to pace around his office, hands restless, and tell him about his troubles. 

 

He likes him enough to want to be his friend.

 

Everything with Abigail has him rattled, right down to his bones. Everything’s rattling him lately. The case. The bodies. And then there’s the fact that Will trusts Hannibal. Or wants to.

 

He can feel the shape of the opportunity there, hovering just within reach. Trust doesn’t come naturally to him. It’s not something he extends quickly or generously. It’s something he approaches the way he approached water as a kid. He remembers standing at the edge of bayous, dipping a toe in, pulling it back out, watching the ripples fade. Maybe a gator would bite him. Maybe nothing would happen. You never really knew.

 

That’s what this feels like.

 

He wants to see Hannibal in his house again. He wants to see Hannibal there, occupying that space. The not knowing is what’s haunting him. He likes having him around. That’s really all it is.  There’s the bad feeling under it, though. 

 

The only way Will can think to make it stop, the itching, crawling sense that Hannibal is everywhere in this house without actually being here, is to invite him back. On purpose. Not as a favor. Not as necessity. As thanks. It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.

 

But the feeling won’t go away. The restlessness won’t settle. The sense of being lightly, persistently haunted keeps scraping at his nerves. He can feel Hannibal everywhere, like a phantom limb. Will wants it gone. Wants his house back inside his own skin.

 

If he knows what Hannibal is like here, maybe it will stop. Exposure therapy. If he lets the thing happen, maybe it loses its teeth. Maybe it stops prowling around in the back of his head, waiting to jump out when he’s tired and alone.

 

They already ate breakfast together at the motel. It had been… nice. Dinner doesn’t have to mean anything more than that. And it’s not like Hannibal’s ever going to invite him to one of his dinners. Will knows that, too. He’s aware of the gulf between their lives, between Hannibal’s cultivated world and his own muddy, practical one. Hannibal’s dinners are events. Performances. Will doesn’t belong at that table. He’ll never pretended otherwise.

 

So maybe this is fine. Maybe this is the version of it that works.

 

He doesn’t have time to fish. Jack needs him on the case. The water will have to wait. Everything has to wait. Still, he can make something. Something simple. He can manage that. He’s cooked for himself plenty of times. Cooking for someone else is different, but not impossible.

 

Nice enough to thank Hannibal in a friendly way. Dinner. Maybe a whiskey. He wants to see it. Wants to know. Wants to take the measure of it instead of letting his imagination run unchecked. If he can see Hannibal here then maybe he won’t have to keep replaying the possibility of it.

 

He’s desperate enough to try.

 

Desperation isn’t something Will likes to acknowledge in himself. It implies need, and need implies vulnerability. But there it is. He’s desperate to make it go away. This feels like a solution, however temporary. A one-time thing, he tells himself firmly. A single dinner. Gratitude expressed. Curiosity satisfied. Then it’s done. He can put it away. Compartmentalize. Move on. It’s about resolving a loose end. About restoring equilibrium. Hannibal’s already been here. This doesn’t change that. It just… completes the circuit.

 

Will goes to the desk and picks up his phone.

 

I wanted to thank you again for taking care of the dogs. Would you want to come by for dinner tomorrow evening? Around 6? 

 

He sends it before he can dismantle it.

 

Time stretches. A minute. Two. He tries to redirect his thoughts, to focus on anything else but his attention keeps snapping back to that black rectangle.

 

When it lights up, the reaction is immediate and involuntary. His shoulders tense. His chest tightens. He picks it up.

 

I would to love to come, Hannibal texts back. Thank you for the invitation.

 

Will stares at the words until they blur a little.  There’s nothing he needs to add, and anything he might say risks tipping the balance he worked so hard to maintain. Invitation extended. Accepted. Circuit closed.

 

He goes through the motions of getting ready for bed. His mind won’t stop moving, jumping from one thought to the next without ever settling. He thinks about the way Hannibal said he’d love to come. He turns onto his side. Then onto his back. The sheets twist under him, already damp. He kicks a foot out from under the covers, then pulls it back in when the air feels too cold.

 

He closes his eyes and tries to slow his breathing, counting in his head the way he sometimes does. In for four. Hold. Out for six. At some point he drifts off. The sleep is shallow, fractured. He dreams, but the dreams don’t cohere into narrative. Just impressions. Heat. Water. A sense of being watched. He wakes more than once, heart racing, sheets clinging to him.

 

By the time dawn bleeds thin and gray through the window, he’s already awake.

 

He lies there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, chest rising and falling too fast. Sweat has soaked through the sheets, the mattress beneath him damp and cold where the fabric has twisted away from his skin. He feels wrung out, like he’s been running all night without moving an inch.

 

Quantico smells like disinfectant and old carpet and burned coffee. The lecture room fills gradually. They look at him with that mix of curiosity and reverence that still makes his skin crawl a little. Will takes a breath and starts talking.

 

He thinks about the way families leave patterns. How homes absorb them. How a crime scene inside a family space is never just about the body, but about what surrounded it, the habits, the meals, the shared silences. He thinks about Hannibal moving through his house and feels that low burn again. He tightens his grip on the edge of the podium until the feeling recedes enough for him to keep going.

 

Jack finds him in the hallway afterward, just like he always does. Jack Crawford has a way of appearing when Will’s mental defenses are already worn thin, and Will doesn’t bother pretending that isn’t intentional.

 

“Got a minute?” Jack asks.

 

Will nods. “Yeah.”

 

Jack asks questions. Will answers them. He doesn’t need to close his eyes to see the scenes. They rise up fully formed, uninvited, vivid as memory. After that, Will finds himself standing with Beverly, Zeller, and Price. The bodies are laid out, the room cold enough to make his breath visible if he stops moving. By the time they’re done, his head feels stuffed with cotton and broken glass. He rubs at his temples, fingers pressing in hard. Beverly catches the movement.

 

“You good?” she asks.

 

“Yeah,” Will says automatically. “Just tired.”

 

She studies him for a second longer than necessary, then lets it go. “We’re done here.”

 

Will gathers his things, preparing to move on to the next obligation, the next mental load. He’s still at Quantico. Still in motion. 

 

 When Will gets back home, it still feels the same.

 

It hasn’t exhaled and gone neutral again. He shuts the door behind him and stands there for a second longer than necessary, keys still in his hand, listening to the dogs stir and huff and stretch.

 

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low.

 

They crowd him immediately, tails thumping, bodies warm and solid against his legs. THe drops his keys on the table and lets them herd him toward the door, moving on instinct. Outside, the ground is wet from earlier rain, the smell of damp earth and leaves drifting in when he opens the door.

 

He lets them out and watches them fan into the yard, heads down, focused on their business. The air out here feels cleaner. Cooler. He breathes it in deep, like it might rinse something out of him if he lets it. It doesn’t.

 

The awareness crawls up his spine and makes him shiver despite himself. Still, when the dogs come back in, tracking mud and water with them, he wipes every paw carefully, more thorough than usual. 

 

After that, he doesn’t linger. He goes straight to the bathroom and turns the shower on, twisting the knob until the water runs hot and then dialing it back toward cold. He strips out of his clothes quickly, land steps under the spray with a sharp inhale as it hits his shoulders. The water runs over him hard, relentless. He lets his head drop forward, curls plastering to his forehead, neck bent so the spray hits the back of his skull. 

 

The bathroom feels quiet in the aftermath. He grabs a towel and drags it over his head, rough. His curls spring back stubbornly when he lowers the towel, already starting to do whatever they want. He eyes them in the mirror, considers making an effort.

 

He tries, briefly. Runs water over his hands, works a bit of product through his hair, attempts to coax it into something resembling intention. After a minute, he exhales and gives up. It’s a losing battle. He leaves it to dry on its own, damp curls framing his face whether he likes it or not.

 

He cleans up his beard next, trimming the edges along his neck with careful strokes. When he’s done, he rinses the razor and reaches for the aftershave. Glass, a little worn, with a ship printed on the front. 

 

He splashes it onto his palms and presses it into his skin, the sharp, clean scent blooming and then settling. It smells like something trying to be nautical without fully committing. He doesn’t hate it. He watches his reflection as he does it. Watches the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes look a little too alert for this hour. 

 

This isn’t a date, he reminds himself firmly. He doesn’t want it to be one. He hasn’t invited Hannibal with that intention. He hasn’t framed it that way. This is dinner. Gratitude. A practical solution to a lingering problem.

 

He dries off, pulls on clean clothes. Light green flannel. Jeans that fit without effort. Nothing fancy. Nothing that asks to be noticed. He doesn’t check himself again once he’s dressed. He doesn’t need to.

 

Will keeps the cooking simple. He pulls things from the fridge, lines them up on the counter like a plan he doesn’t fully trust yet. Vegetables. Chicken. A bag of potatoes. Now that it’s getting closer to six, the nerves creep back in. A tightening in his chest. A restlessness in his legs. He checks the time without meaning to, then tells himself not to do that again. He wipes down the counter even though it’s already clean. He rearranges things that don’t need rearranging.

 

This was a stupid idea, he thinks.

 

He could cancel. He could text Hannibal now, apologize, say something came up. The case. A headache. The truth, if he wanted to stretch it. Hannibal would understand. Hannibal always understands. 

 

He doesn’t want to cancel. Not really. Deep down, past the nerves and the second-guessing, he just wants to see Hannibal. Now that the opportunity’s open, it’s hard to pretend it doesn’t matter. 

 

Opportunity. 

 

Hannibal will probably stay an hour or two at most, he tells himself. Then Hannibal will leave, and Will will close the door behind him and everything will settle back into place. They’ll go on their merry ways. Appointments. Cases. Professional distance restored. They can pretend this never happened.

 

The thought brings him a flicker of relief, followed immediately by something like disappointment. He pushes that down hard. That’s not part of the plan.

 

This will fix his problem. That’s what he tells himself as he pulls plates from the cabinet and sets them on the counter. He’ll know what Hannibal is like here. He’ll see it clearly instead of imagining it. The haunting will stop once it’s real.

 

He moves through the kitchen on autopilot now, checking temperatures, basting the chicken, stirring vegetables so they roast evenly. He doesn’t want to impress Hannibal. He really doesn’t. The thought irritates him on principle. Hannibal’s already impressed by things Will doesn’t control, his mind, his insight, his damage. Dinner doesn’t need to add to that.

 

The dogs wander in and out of the kitchen, tracking smells, sensing the shift in energy. One of them sits near his feet, looking up at him expectantly. Will nudges it gently with his socked foot.

 

“Not for you,” he says.

 

Will finishes setting the table. Two plates. Cutlery lined up straighter than he normally bothers with. The little oil lamp sits between the chairs, flame low and steady, throwing soft light across the wood. He reaches out and adjusts it by a fraction, then nudges one fork so it’s parallel to the edge of the table instead of slightly crooked. 

 

A car crunches up the drive.

 

The dogs explode into motion immediately, yipping and barking, nails scrabbling against the floor as they rush the front of the house. He exhales through his nose, quick and shallow, and turns down the wick on the oil lamp just a touch. The light dims. Softer now. 

 

“There’s nothing wrong,” he murmurs automatically as the dogs carry on, voice low, more for himself than them. “Hush.”

 

The knock comes, firm, measured, not loud.

 

Will stops in front of the door and lifts a hand, palm out, to quiet the dogs. It works only partially. They settle into impatient whining, tails thumping, bodies vibrating with curiosity.

 

“Alright,” he says under his breath. “Alright.”

 

He opens the door. Hannibal’s dressed neatly, coat fitted and dark, hair styled as precisely as ever, not a strand out of place despite the damp evening air. He holds a bottle of wine in one hand, cradled by the neck, and when he smiles at Will it’s pleasant.

 

“Good evening, Will,” Hannibal says.

 

“Hey.” He steps aside, instinct taking over, opening the space without thinking too hard. “Come on in.”

 

Hannibal does, smoothly, unhurried. The dogs immediately crowd him, sniffing and circling, tails wagging hard enough to thump. Hannibal looks down at them with quiet interest, his smile softening just a degree.

 

“Hello again,” he says to them, voice low and calm. “You remember me.”

 

One of the dogs leans into his leg without hesitation. Hannibal steadies her with a hand, fingers resting easily in the fur.

 

Will watches that longer than he means to.

 

“Yeah,” Will says, rubbing the back of his neck. “They uh. They like you.”

 

“So it seems,” Hannibal replies mildly.

 

Will gestures vaguely toward the bottle. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”

 

“I wanted to,” Hannibal says. “It felt appropriate.”

 

He holds the bottle out. Will takes it without thinking, fingers brushing Hannibal’s for the briefest moment. The contact sends a quick, sharp awareness through him that he doesn’t let show.

 

“What is it?” Will asks, mostly to have something to say.

 

“A Beaujolais,” Hannibal answers. “Light-bodied. Not overly assertive.”

 

Will tilts the bottle, reading the label without really processing it. “Does it… go with chicken?”

 

“Yes,” Hannibal says immediately. “Quite well, actually.”

 

“Good,” Will mutters. “That’s—good.”

 

There’s a beat. Hannibal slips out of his coat, folding it neatly over one arm. Will watches him do it and feels a flicker of something like self-consciousness. He realizes, a moment too late, that he probably should’ve offered to take it.

 

He doesn’t. Hannibal doesn’t seem bothered. He drapes the coat over the back of a chair himself.

 

“Thank you again for inviting me,” Hannibal says, turning back to him. “I will say I was not expecting it.”

 

Will nods and heads for the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to move. “Yeah. I just—wanted to thank you. Properly.”

 

Hannibal follows at an easy distance, taking in the space without making it obvious. Will feels it anyway, that attentive presence like a second pulse in the room.

 

He sets the bottle on the counter and reaches for the opener, wrapping his fingers around the handle. He twists the screw into the cork, movements practiced but slightly stiff. He’s aware of Hannibal standing nearby, watching.

 

“I really did appreciate it,” Will says, eyes on the bottle. “The dogs. You didn’t have to do that.”

 

“I know,” Hannibal says. “But there are moments when neutrality is a kind of absence. Aristotle wrote that friendship is not utility, but choice, an inclination toward another’s good for its own sake. I was glad to choose it.”

 

Will twists the cork deeper. The resistance gives under his hand. He decides to ignore that. 

 

“I don’t usually ask anyone besides Alana,” Will continues. “To do things like that. It’s… personal.”

 

Hannibal doesn’t rush to fill the silence. When he speaks, his voice is thoughtful. “I did not take it lightly.”

 

Will glances up at him, surprised despite himself.

 

“I mean, I assumed as much,” Hannibal adds. “Your family—chosen or otherwise—is important to you. And so is your space. I was conscious of both. I hope I didn’t overstep.”

 

“No,” Will says quickly. Too quickly. He reins it in. “No. You didn’t.”

 

The cork comes free with a soft pop. Will exhales like he’s been holding his breath.

 

“I was not expecting you to invite me over as thanks,” Hannibal says again, more quietly this time. “But I am pleased you did.”

 

Will pours the wine carefully, watching the liquid darken the glass. “I figured it made sense,” he says. “Saying thank you properly. Face to face. Not leaving it unsaid or abstract.”

 

“It does,” Hannibal agrees.

 

Will hands him a glass. Hannibal takes it, fingers elegant around the stem.

 

“You have a lovely home,” Hannibal says, after a moment. “It feels very honest to you. Like the Roman idea of domus.”

 

Will huffs a short, humorless breath. “That’s one word for it.”

 

“It’s not a criticism,” Hannibal says gently.

 

“I know.” Will hesitates, then adds, “I just—don’t usually have people over.”

 

“I gathered that,” Hannibal says. “Which makes the invitation more meaningful.”

 

That wasn’t Will’s intention, but he doesn’t argue. They stand there for a second, wine in hand, the dogs settling at their feet, the house quiet. Will clears his throat again.

 

“Dinner’s ready,” he says. “Nothing fancy.”

 

“I’m certain it will be excellent,” Hannibal replies.

 

Will laughs softly. “You don’t have to say that.”

 

“I know,” Hannibal says, meeting his eyes. “Which is precisely why I am saying it. I mean it.”

 

Will turns toward the table, heart ticking a little faster now that there’s no more prep to hide behind. They sit. The table feels smaller with Hannibal at it. Not cramped, just intimate. Hannibal reaches for his wine glass in a way that makes Will’s attention snag.

 

Hannibal lifts the glass, tilts it slightly, then does a small thing with his head, drawing the glass close, then pulling it away as he inhales.  Will watches. He doesn’t mean to stare. He just… doesn’t stop.

 

Hannibal’s eyes flick up, catch him mid-observation. There’s no irritation there. No self-consciousness. Just awareness.

 

“I have a very sensitive nose,” Hannibal says, calmly. “It would be disingenuous to pretend otherwise.”

 

Will shifts slightly in his chair, heat crawling up his neck. “Yeah,” he says. “I figured. You notice things most people don’t.”

 

“It’s less noticing,” Hannibal replies, lowering the glass for a moment, “and more… being unable to ignore. Smell is insistent. It bypasses the filters we rely on for the rest of the world.”

 

Will considers that. He rolls his wine gently in the glass, watching the surface ripple. “I get that,” he says. “I don’t have your range, but scent still gets to me. Brings things back whether I want it to or not. Places. People.” He pauses, jaw tightening slightly. “You can tell a lot from it. Time, for one. Death doesn’t announce itself right away, but it does change its smell in stages. Sweet, then sour, then… wrong in a way you can almost measure. Sometimes the nose figures it out before the clock does.”

 

Hannibal’s mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Exactly. Smell is memory without permission, but it is also information.”

 

“That sounds exhausting,” Will says, dryly.

 

“It can be,” Hannibal agrees. “But it can also be grounding. Honest. A scent rarely lies, even when everything else does.” He tilts his head slightly, studying Will with quiet interest. “You wrote your monograph on insects, though. The way they mark time for us when we no longer can. Carrion attracts its own witnesses, and they arrive with remarkable punctuality.”

 

He huffs a short breath. “Yeah. Bugs don’t care what you want to believe. They follow the smell. Always have.” Will lifts his glass and takes a careful sip. The wine is lighter than he expected, bright without being sharp. “So you smell everything in here, then,” he says. “The food. The dogs. Probably me.”

 

“I do,” Hannibal says, simply.

 

Will’s fingers tighten imperceptibly around the stem. “And?”

 

Hannibal studies him for a second longer than necessary. “Nothing unpleasant,” he says. 

 

Will huffs a quiet laugh. He glances down at his plate, then back up as Hannibal takes his first bite. He watches him eat.

 

There’s no other way to put it. Will watches Hannibal lift his fork, watches the careful way he tastes, the brief pause before he swallows.  “This is very good,” Hannibal says after a moment. “Simple, but thoughtful.”

 

Will shrugs, uncomfortable with the praise. “I didn’t want to mess it up. If you do too much, it stops tasting like what it is.”

 

“Precisely,” Hannibal replies, a quiet note of approval in his voice. “There is a common temptation to obscure the essential flavor, to mistake accumulation for depth. Complexity pursued for its own sake often ends up drowning the truth of a thing.”

 

“That’s not really my style,” Will replies. “I cook so I can eat and not think about it too much.”

 

Hannibal nods, accepting that without comment. He takes another bite, and Will finds himself watching again, the lamplight sharpening the planes of Hannibal’s face. His cheekbones look more pronounced like this, shadows deepening beneath them. His eyes, though, stay dark and soft. It looks unreal, in a way. Like Hannibal belongs to a different setting entirely and has been dropped into Will’s kitchen by mistake.

 

Will eats, but he does it half-aware of the fact that he’s eating.

 

Every few seconds his attention slips back across the table. It’s not a stare. He’s careful about that. It’s a glance that lingers a fraction too long, eyes lifting and dropping again.

 

Hannibal notices. Of course he does.

 

What unsettles Will is that Hannibal doesn’t look away.

 

Not once, not really. Hannibal’s gaze stays where it is, steady, receptive, as if Will’s face is exactly where it ought to be. When he does glance down at his plate, it’s brief, functional. He always comes back. Always returns his attention to Will.

 

It makes Will hyperaware of his own movements. The way he chews. The way he sets his fork down between bites. The way his shoulders keep tensing and loosening.

 

He’s never invited anyone here before. He’s never been alone in a room with Alana, he can't stop thinking about it. Not like this. Not without someone else hovering nearby, a door open, a context firmly in place. Alana exists in well-lit spaces, in hallways and conference rooms and carefully defined professional roles. She’s always angled slightly away from him, even when she’s being kind.

 

Will is almost always alone with Hannibal.

 

The office. The closed door. But this—this is different. This is his house. His table. His dogs asleep at their feet. No clipboard. No notepad. No ticking clock on the wall to remind him when it’s supposed to end.

 

The awareness makes his stomach tighten, not unpleasantly, just intensely.

 

He takes another bite, chews slowly, as if pacing himself might keep his thoughts from running ahead of him.

 

“You are quiet,” Hannibal says, not accusing, not curious in a pointed way. Just observant.

 

Will swallows. “I’m eating.”

 

Hannibal’s mouth curves faintly. “You are also thinking.”

 

“Always am,” Will replies. “Doesn’t mean it’s worth hearing.”

 

Hannibal hums softly, unconvinced. He takes another bite, chews, watches Will while he does it. “You haven’t asked about the case,” Will says suddenly, partly to break the rhythm, partly because the thought has been circling him since Hannibal sat down.

 

“I considered it,” Hannibal replies. “But I wasn’t certain this was the right setting.”

 

“It’s not that,” Will says. He takes the bite, chews, swallows. “It just feels… different, talking shop here.”

 

Hannibal tilts his head, studying for a moment. “Alright,” he says softly. “What would you like to speak of?”

 

Will’s silent for a moment. 

 

“She hasn’t woken up,” Will ends up saying. He keeps his tone steady, factual. “They say that’s not unexpected, given the trauma. But it’s… longer than I thought it would be.”

 

Hannibal nods once. “Waiting can be more difficult than knowing.”

 

“Yeah,” Will says. “I keep thinking about what happens when she does wake up. Just… practically.”

 

“Such as?” Hannibal prompts.

 

Will rubs his thumb along the stem of his wine glass, slow and unconscious. “What she’s going to remember. What she’s going to ask. Who she’s going to want to see. I don’t know what my role is supposed to be there.”

 

“And you’re concerned about getting it wrong,” Hannibal says.

 

“That’s one way to put it,” Will replies. “I’m more concerned about assuming there is a right way. Like there’s a script I missed and if I don’t hit the right lines, I break something that can’t be fixed.”

 

Hannibal watches him for a long moment, then lifts his fork again. He eats while he thinks, unhurried.

 

“She’s experienced a profound rupture,” Hannibal says at last. “Her understanding of family—of safety, of loyalty—has been irrevocably altered. That isn’t something you can mend with the correct response or the appropriate sentiment.”

 

Will lets out a quiet breath. “That’s comforting. In a grim way.”

 

“It’s realistic,” Hannibal says. 

 

Will’s jaw tightens. “I don’t know what she’ll need,” he says. “Or if I’m even… relevant to that.”

 

“You are already relevant,” Hannibal says without hesitation. “She associates you with survival. With the moment her life did not end. That kind of association forms quickly and embeds deeply.”

 

“That’s what worries me,” Will replies. “I don’t want to be something she leans on because she doesn’t have another option.”

 

Hannibal’s eyes soften, just slightly. “You’re assuming dependency is inherently harmful.”

 

“Isn’t it?” Will asks.

 

“It can be,” Hannibal says. “But it can also be temporary. A bridge rather than a destination. Especially when the alternative is isolation.” He pauses, then adds, carefully, “And you are not alone in this. Whether you acknowledge it or not, we share a responsibility for her now. You and I.”

 

Will frowns faintly, thinking. You and I.  “And if she never transitions out of it?”

 

“Then the question becomes whether the bond restricts her or sustains her,” Hannibal replies. “Not all attachments are meant to dissolve. Some exist to replace what was broken with something… different.”

 

Will feels that land somewhere deep, but he doesn’t let it show. “Is that so abstract?”

 

“It isn’t,” Hannibal says. “But distance allows for clarity.”

 

Will huffs softly. “Must be nice.”

 

Hannibal’s mouth curves, just barely. “It has its disadvantages.”

 

They fall quiet again, both eating. Will keeps glancing up, unable to help it. Each time, Hannibal’s gaze is already there. He feels… exposed. Not emotionally. Spatially. Like the walls have shifted a fraction closer.

 

“I keep thinking about what she’ll say,” Will continues after a moment. “If she’ll talk about her father. Or avoid it completely.”

 

“Either response would be understandable,” Hannibal says. “Memory after trauma is rarely orderly.”

 

“She’s going to have questions,” Will says. “About him. About me. About why things happened the way they did.”

 

“And you feel obligated to have answers,” Hannibal says.

 

Will nods. “Even though I know I won’t. Or worse—I’ll have answers I shouldn’t give.”

 

Hannibal sets his fork down again. “Then you won’t carry that alone,” he says. “You’re allowed to say you don’t know. Uncertainty does not negate care, but neither does sharing it diminish responsibility.” He meets Will’s eyes, holding them. “If questions arise that neither of us can answer cleanly, we will hold them together. She does not need a single authority. She needs continuity.”

 

Will exhales slowly, wary. “That sounds like a lot.”

 

“It is,” Hannibal agrees. “Which is precisely why it cannot belong to you alone.”

 

They eat in silence again, the kind that doesn’t rush to fill itself. Will notices his plate is nearly empty. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. Hannibal finishes shortly after, setting his fork down neatly. He looks around the room briefly, then back at Will.

 

“Thank you,” Hannibal says, setting his fork down carefully. “Truly. This was very kind of you.”

 

Will nods, already standing. “Yeah. Of course.”

 

He gathers the plates before Hannibal can offer to help, stacks them without thinking, and carries them to the sink. He turns the water on and lets it run hot, the sound filling the kitchen in a way that feels oddly protective. He sets the plates down to soak and leans back against the counter, palms braced on the edge, shoulders tight.

 

Behind him, he feels Hannibal stand.

 

Will doesn’t turn around right away. He doesn’t need to. The awareness settles in his spine the moment Hannibal starts moving. It’s different now. Hannibal’s attention finally drifts away from Will, not gone, just redirected, and somehow that makes it worse. 

 

Will watches him out of the corner of his eye.

 

Hannibal moves slowly. His head tilts as he takes things in, with a quiet curiosity that makes Will’s skin prickle. He doesn’t touch anything. Not yet. He just looks.

 

The shiver that runs through Will is immediate and involuntary.

 

He keeps his gaze fixed on the sink, on the water running over ceramic, but his peripheral vision tracks Hannibal anyway. The way he stands. The way his posture doesn’t change just because he’s not being watched directly anymore. Or maybe he is being watched. Just differently.

 

It’s unnerving.

 

Hannibal turns in place, slow, almost thoughtful. The dogs lift their heads, ears pricking, attention zeroing in on him as if they can feel the shift too. Will watches Hannibal watch his house.

 

He looks at the shelves, the mismatched furniture. The low light softens the edges of everything, makes shadows pool where they shouldn’t. It makes Hannibal look taller somehow, darker, more solid.

 

God, Will thinks. What is he thinking?

 

That’s the thing about Hannibal. He’s so hard to read. People assume he’s open because he’s articulate, because he speaks smoothly and invites conversation. But Will knows better. Hannibal has barriers. Just like him. Maybe better ones. Higher. More elegantly constructed.

 

They build forts, Will thinks suddenly. Each of them. Different materials. Same intent.

 

The dogs shift again, attention sharpening as Hannibal’s gaze snags on the desk in the corner of the room. Will feels it like a tug in his chest. The desk is cluttered. Fishing line. Hooks. Bits of metal and feather and thread. Half-finished lures laid out in quiet disarray.

 

Hannibal steps closer.

 

Will’s mouth opens before he’s decided to speak. “What’re you thinking?”

 

The question slips out rougher than he means it to.

 

Hannibal pauses and looks back at him. His head tilts again, just a fraction, eyes dark and intent. He doesn’t answer right away. He takes another step, circling the desk without touching it, gaze moving over the small, intimate evidence of Will’s habits.

 

“You have a lovely home, Will,” Hannibal says again at last. “I truly mean it.”

 

Will huffs softly, unsure whether to believe him. “It’s not much.”

 

“It doesn’t need to be,” Hannibal replies. “It is lived in. That distinction matters.” 

 

Will pushes off the counter and shuts the water off, the sudden quiet ringing faintly in his ears. “I’ve lived alone for a long time,” he says. “You stop noticing it after a while. It just… becomes how things are.”

 

Hannibal turns fully toward him now, attention narrowing. “Not truly alone,” he says gently. “You’ve surrounded yourself with those who rely on you. That’s a choice, whether you frame it that way or not.”

 

Will glances toward the dogs, then back at Hannibal. “They don’t argue with me.”

 

Hannibal’s mouth curves, faint but genuine. “A significant advantage,” he agrees. After a beat, he adds, “But they do require constancy. Presence. You’ve built a life that expects you to show up every day.”

 

Will shifts his weight, uncomfortable with how seen he feels. “Someone’s got to feed them.”

 

“Someone always does,” Hannibal says quietly.

 

Will lets out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t died halfway out. Hannibal’s attention drifts back to the desk, to the lures.  That feeling comes back. That bad feeling. Low and insistent. The one that lives in his gut and makes him restless, like something is about to break or bloom and he can’t tell which.

 

He wants, desperately, to know more of what Hannibal is thinking.

 

Not in the abstract. Not in theory. He wants to know what Hannibal thinks about this. About the lures. About the work of Will’s hands when his mind needs quiet. About the way this house holds his habits, his solitude, his attempts at order. Is it more fascinating than being in his mind?

 

Hannibal straightens and turns back toward him, gaze steady. “You make these,” he says, gesturing lightly. It’s not a question.

 

“Yeah,” Will replies. “Keeps my hands busy.”

 

“And your thoughts occupied,” Hannibal adds.

 

“Something like that.”

 

Hannibal nods, as if that answers something for him. “They’re very precise. Balanced. You pay attention to how they move through water.”

 

“If they’re off, even a little, the fish won’t take them.”

 

“Because they can sense the deception,” Hannibal says.

 

Will looks at him sharply. “Fish?”

 

Hannibal’s eyes flicker with amusement. “Among other things.”

 

Will exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “You’re reading too much into it.”

 

“Perhaps,” Hannibal says. “But you did ask what I was thinking.”

 

Will doesn’t argue with that. He watches Hannibal take a slow step back, giving the desk its space again. 

 

“You’re very deliberate,” Hannibal continues. “About what you let into your life. Even here.”

 

Will shrugs, defensive despite himself. “I don’t like clutter.”

 

“I don’t mean physical clutter,” Hannibal says gently, the words offered rather than pressed. “I mean emotional accumulation. The things people leave behind when they pass through us.”

 

Will swallows. His throat feels tight, but he keeps his voice even. “It’s easier to manage things,” he says, “when there’s not much to manage. Less to trip over. Less to lose.”

“Easier,” Hannibal agrees. “But not necessarily better.”

 

Will meets his gaze, holds it. “You always think more is better?”

 

“I think intention matters,” Hannibal replies. “Quantity is incidental. But when something, or someone, is chosen deliberately, the act of choosing itself carries a kind of devotion.”

 

The words lodge somewhere under Will’s ribs. He wants to know if any of it matters as much as Will’s mind does. He comes to stand beside him without quite deciding to. He folds his arms loosely across his chest, a familiar posture, something he does when he doesn’t know where to put his hands or himself. Hannibal continues moving through the room, winding his way around the dogs’ beds. He doesn’t step on them. He doesn’t kick or nudge. 

 

Hannibal stops near the fireplace, eyes lifting to the bookshelves. The spines are mismatched, some old paperbacks, some hardcovers with cracked jackets. There’s no system anyone else would recognize. It’s just what he’s read, what he’s kept, what he hasn’t been able to give away.

 

“You can touch,” Will says suddenly.

 

Hannibal turns his head slightly. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yeah,” Will says. “I don’t mind.”

 

Hannibal hesitates. It’s brief, but Will sees it, the pause, the consideration. Then Hannibal lifts his hands, gentle, and pulls a book from the shelf.

 

The sight of it sends a shiver straight down Will’s spine Hannibal’s fingers close around the spine where Will’s fingers have been countless times. The cover bends slightly under Hannibal’s grip, a familiar wear responding to a new touch. Hannibal touching things Will touches feels too close to Hannibal touching him.

 

He stamps the thought down hard, almost angrily.

 

This is nothing, he tells himself. This is just… proximity. This is just nice. It’s nice having him here. That’s all.

 

Hannibal opens the book carefully. He thumbs through a few pages, eyes scanning lines without lingering.

 

“You’re a man of many hobbies,” Hannibal says mildly.

 

“That’s a polite way to say I can’t sit still.”

 

“Or,” Hannibal offers, “that you require multiple avenues for focus.” His gaze drifts, cataloging without judgment. “Fishing lures. Books. Fly tying. Each one engages a different part of you—precision, patience, imagination. They keep you anchored.”

 

Will shifts his weight,. “I don’t really think of them as hobbies,” he says. “They’re just… things that need doing. Or things that help keep everything else from spinning out.”

 

Hannibal nods slowly, as if that confirms something he already suspected. “You prefer tasks that produce something tangible.”

 

“Yeah,” Will says. “If I can hold it, or use it, or see it work, it feels… real.”

 

“And your work,” Hannibal says carefully, turning back to him. “Does it offer you the same certainty?”

 

Will exhales through his nose, the sound thin. “No. It doesn’t.”

 

Hannibal closes the book and slides it back into place, careful not to scrape the shelf. He steps back, gaze drifting again, and Will finds himself following him.

 

Hannibal comes to stand near Will, not directly beside him, but close enough that Will feels the shift in air. He’s a little behind him now, both of them facing the wall where a small picture frame hangs crookedly.

 

It’s a painting of a little dog, brushstrokes rough and earnest. Will bought it at a flea market years ago because it made him laugh and then made him sad in a way he couldn’t quite explain. He’s never moved it.

 

He stares at it now, aware of Hannibal behind him.

 

He can hear the sound of Hannibal’s breath. Slow. Even. Close enough that Will’s own breathing feels suddenly too loud, too fast. His shoulders tense, then drop as he forces himself to relax.

 

“You like that one,” Hannibal says quietly.

 

“It reminds me of something,” Will replies. “I don’t know what.”

 

“Not everything needs a clear origin,” Hannibal says. “Some things resonate without explanation.”

 

Will swallows. He’s aware, in a way that makes his skin prickle, that Hannibal might be smelling him. He imagines that sensitive nose drawing in scent without effort, soap, aftershave, the faint trace of sweat from the day. 

 

The idea makes his breath hitch for half a second before he smooths it out.

 

He tells himself to stop thinking like that.

 

He tells himself this is just curiosity. Just Hannibal doing what Hannibal does, observing, absorbing, cataloguing. So many things must fascinate Hannibal. Ideas. People. Patterns. Will feels a strange, aching want at the thought that he might be one of them.

 

Or hopes he is.

 

Will turns his head just enough to look at him out of the corner of his eye. Hannibal’s face is calm, thoughtful, shadows softening his features in the low light. His eyes are on the painting, not on Will. That almost disappoints him.

 

Finally, he breaks the silence.

 

“I hope tonight was enough,” Will says. “To thank you. For the dogs. For...”

 

Hannibal drifts away from the fireplace and shelves, unhurried. “It was more than enough, Will,” he says gently. “Gratitude isn’t measured by effort alone. It’s measured by sincerity. You offered what was yours to give.”

 

Will watches him go, arms still folded, that same restless awareness humming under his skin.T he night is nearly over. He did what he set out to do. He thanked Hannibal. He let him see the house, let him move through it, let the haunting take a shape he could stand to look at. Once Hannibal leaves, he’ll take the feeling with him.

 

Will exhales slowly, shoulders dropping a fraction. He clears his throat. He’s about to ask if Hannibal wants a whiskey. 

 

Hannibal pauses, then glances back over his shoulder, as if something has just occurred to him. “You’re very precise,” Hannibal says lightly. “About certain things.”

 

“About what?”

 

Hannibal turns a little more now, but not fully. “The things that stay closest to you,” he continues. “What you reach for without thinking. You keep them arranged. Paired. Ready. It suggests a preference for quiet order, even when the rest of your life resists it. You keep your white socks folded together. With your t-shirts. Everything aligned, edges tucked in.”

 

Will’s chest tightens, a slow, creeping tension. “Did you open my drawers while you were here?”

 

There’s no hesitation. Hannibal inclines his head. “Yes.”

 

“You—” Will stops, swallows. “I didn’t say you could do that.”

 

Hannibal’s gaze stays steady. “No. You didn’t.”

 

His mind is too loud. Images stack on top of one another, Hannibal at his dresser, Hannibal pulling open drawers with the same care he used on the bookshelf.  It feels invasive. It feels intimate. It feels exactly like the way Hannibal moves through his mind when Will lets him.

 

He thinks about trust. About the dogs. About how easily he handed that over. About how natural it had felt, even then. It makes that feeling come back, sharp and hot in his gut, spreading up into his chest. Heat without direction. Want without permission.

 

Hannibal steps closer, slow enough that Will could stop him if he wanted to. He doesn’t. Hannibal’s head tilts, and there’s the faintest suggestion of a smile at the corner of his mouth, not amusement. Something softer. 

 

“I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped,” Hannibal says again quietly.

 

Will looks away, jaw tight. “You don’t… you don’t say things like that unless you already know the answer.”

 

“I say them,” Hannibal replies, “because I want you to have the opportunity to say no.”

 

Will huffs a short breath. “That’s a hell of a way to do it.”

 

Hannibal doesn’t disagree. “Perhaps. But clarity matters.”

 

Will’s throat feels dry. “You looking through my things doesn’t feel like clarity.”

 

“I didn’t intend it as intrusion,” Hannibal says. “I was curious—and I was careful.”

 

“Careful,” Will repeats. “You opened my drawers.”

 

“I closed them,” Hannibal says. “Exactly as I found them.”

 

That shouldn’t matter. It does.

 

They’re standing by the couch now, close enough that Will can feel the warmth off Hannibal’s body, can smell him, clean, something faintly herbal under it. Will keeps his arms crossed.

 

Hannibal lifts a hand, then stops, fingers hovering in the air between them.

 

“May I—” he begins, then stops himself. He studies Will’s face, the tension there, the way his gaze flickers. “You’re unsettled.”

 

“No kidding,” Will mutters.

 

Hannibal’s mouth curves again, barely there. “I can step back.”

 

Will swallows. “I didn’t ask you to.”

 

Hannibal’s eyes darken, lashes lowering. Will feels it, the light pressure of Hannibal’s finger and thumb at his chin, warm and sure, tilting his head back before he’s thought to stop it. The contact is gentle.

 

Will flinches despite himself. It’s been a long time since anyone has touched him like that. Not accidentally. Not in passing. On purpose.

 

Hannibal freezes immediately. His hand doesn’t tighten. Doesn’t withdraw either. He watches Will’s face with careful attention.

 

“I apologize,” Hannibal says softly. “That was presumptuous.”

 

Will’s heart is hammering. He looks up at Hannibal without meaning to, caught by the weight of that gaze. Hannibal’s eyes are heavy-lashed and lowered, brown and impossibly soft in the lamplight. There’s a strand of hair loose from his careful styling, fallen just out of place. 

 

Hannibal’s thumb shifts minutely, not moving Will’s head further, just… there. 

 

“It’s been a long time,” Will says, voice rough. He doesn’t know what he’s confessing to. He doesn’t try to clarify.

 

“For me as well,” Hannibal says.

 

Will swallows hard. He doesn’t believe that. His skin feels too tight. The want bursts inside him suddenly, sharp and overwhelming, like when he was a boy crushing snail eggs on the dock, tiny white shells giving way all at once. A messy, irreversible release.

 

He thinks he shouldn’t be doing this. He thinks this wasn’t meant to happen. He thinks about consequences, about lines crossed, about how this could make everything worse.

 

And still, here it is.

 

The opportunity.

 

“What do you think of me?” 

 

“I like you. You disturb my equilibrium. You occupy my thoughts when I would prefer silence. You fascinate me.” Hannibal’s voice is barely above a breath. “May I touch now, Will?”

 

Will’s hand comes up, not to push, but to close over Hannibal’s wrist. The skin under his fingers is warm, the pulse there steady and infuriating. He guides Hannibal’s hand away from his chin. He doesn’t let go. He sees the question flicker in those soft eyes. His other hand fists in Hannibal’s hair.

 

It’s not a gentle grip. It’s all the frustration of the case, the violation of his drawers, the sheer animal confusion of being studied like a pinned beetle, and the raw, humming want that’s been curdling in his gut. He pulls Hannibal forward, and their mouths meet.

 

And it’s soft. Hannibal’s lips are soft, the kiss is a closed-mouth press of politeness. He opens his mouth against Hannibal’s, licks the seam of his lips until they part, and then he’s inside. He licks into Hannibal’s mouth, and it’s hot and wet and Hannibal tastes like wine. Will’s tongue sweeps over the sharp ridge of his teeth, finds the softness of his own tongue. Hannibal’s is slick and pliant for a half-second before it moves to meet his.

 

He twines their tongues together, a messy, deep push, mapping the roof of Hannibal’s mouth. It’s intimate in a way that feels more obscene than sex, this wet, internal touching. He presses up, licks at the smooth, hard palate, and that’s when Hannibal breaks. A soft, punched-out noise vibrates against Will’s mouth. It goes straight to Will’s spine, liquid and hot.

 

He bites Hannibal’s lower lip. Then Hannibal’s hands are on him, one sliding to cradle the base of his skull, the other settling heavy and possessive on the small of his back, pulling him in. 

 

He kisses him like he’s trying to devour a secret, to get at the truth of him. He thinks of Hannibal in his house, fingers on his things, in his drawers. The violation should burn. It does burn. It’s a slow, deep coal in his chest, and it’s feeding this. He’s fascinating. Awful. He’s awful, and Hannibal is here, letting Will ruin his perfect hair, letting Will bite his perfect mouth.

 

Will breaks the kiss with a ragged sound, pulling back just enough to see. Hannibal’s lips are swollen, a dark, pinkish red, slick with spit. His eyes are half-lidded, dark, the pupils blown wide. 

 

Will’s breath is coming in short, hard pulls. He keeps his fist tight in Hannibal’s hair. He doesn’t know why a man like this would want a thing like him. It makes no sense. It’s the one crime scene Will can’t reconstruct.

 

But wanting isn’t about sense. Hannibal went through his drawers. He saw the mundane chaos of his life. He saw all that and he still showed up here. 

 

“Just for tonight,” Will says. “I’m not… I can’t promise more than that.” 

 

Hannibal’s gaze doesn’t waver. He doesn’t agree. He doesn’t disagree. His thumb, which had been resting on Will’s jaw, strokes once. “You have been lonely,” he murmurs.

 

Will hates him for it. He hates the accuracy, the way Hannibal sees the famine in his soul, the years of no-touch. So he kisses him again. 

 

Will thinks of the thick summer nights back in Louisiana, the air so heavy with humidity it felt like breathing in a wet wool blanket. Of things growing in the dark, tangled and lush and secret. This feels like that. He kisses Hannibal like he’s trying to get to that dark, fertile place inside him, past the manners and the monograms.

 

He can feel the solid wall of Hannibal’s chest against his own. He pulls back, his fist still in Hannibal’s hair, keeping him close. Their foreheads are almost touching. Will’s heart is a wild, trapped thing against his ribs.

 

“I don’t understand you,” Will breathes, the words ghosting over Hannibal’s wet lips.

 

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches Hannibal’s ruined mouth. “Understanding is not a prerequisite,” he says. “Only permission.”

 

Will looks at him. He thinks of consequences. He thinks of lines. He thinks of the quiet, desperate loneliness that has been his most faithful companion, a hound dog that sleeps at the foot of his bed.

 

“Then get undressed,” Will says.

 

He needs room to move. His eyes stay locked on Hannibal’s as his hands go to the buttons of his own flannel. He works them through the holes. The fabric falls open, and he shrugs it off his shoulders, lets it drop to the floor in a heap of plaid. 

 

Hannibal watches. He doesn’t move until Will is done. Then, he lifts his own hands to his tie. It’s a deep burgundy silk. His fingers are elegant  as they undo the knot. He pulls it free from his collar with a soft shush of sound, loops it once, and lays it carefully over the arm of the couch.

 

Then Hannibal’s eyes return to him, and they aren’t looking at his face anymore. They’re tracing the lines of his body. Hannibal closes the distance again. He doesn’t kiss him. He just looks, and then his hands come up, settling on Will’s bare shoulders. His palms are warm, almost hot. His thumbs stroke outward, along the ridge of Will’s clavicle, and then one drifts down, following the slope of his shoulder, brushing over the tight, ropy scar left by a knife. Will shivers.

 

Hannibal’s hand continues its exploration. It settles finally on his waist, the thumb hooking into the waistband of his jeans. Then Hannibal uses his hips to pull Will flush against him. 

 

Only then does Hannibal kiss him again. Will uses the distraction of the kiss, the gentle, sucking pressure of Hannibal’s mouth, to his advantage. His own hands, which had been hanging at his sides, come up to Hannibal’s vest. He finds the buttons, small and tight. He fumbles the first one. The second one slips free. He gets the third. He pushes the vest open, shoves it back over Hannibal’s shoulders, breaks the kiss just long enough to let it fall. It hits the floor with a heavier sound than his flannel.

“Hold still,” Will says, breathless. “Or don’t. I don’t care.”

“I’m perfectly still,” Hannibal replies mildly. “You, on the other hand, are trembling.”

“Shut up,” Will says.

The shirt is next. Fine, pale fabric, a hundred more buttons. “I apologize for the complexity,” Hannibal murmurs, his breath hot against Will’s cheek. He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds amused, enthralled.

 

Will gets enough undone to shove the fabric apart. He pushes the shirt down Hannibal’s arms, trapping them at his elbows for a moment, rendering him momentarily helpless. He steps back again, just to look.

 

Hannibal stands there, shirt open and pulled partway down, his chest bare. There’s a soft dusting of silvered hair across his chest, a trail leading down the plane of his stomach into the waistband of his impeccably tailored trousers. His collarbones catch Will’s eye. They’re pronounced, beautiful, like the wings of a bird. His belly is soft, the muscle layered with a hint of yielding flesh that speaks of good living.

 

Will wants to put his mouth on it. On the hollow of his throat, on the softness of his stomach. He wants to taste the salt on that skin.

 

“You’re a pretty thing,” Will says. It’s not a flowery compliment. It’s an observation of fact, like noting a fine gun or a good dog. 

 

Hannibal sighs, a soft, shuddering exhalation. “As are you, Will,” he says.

 

He fists his hands in the fine fabric bunched at Hannibal’s elbows and pulls him forward, then turns them, walking them backward, step by clumsy step. Hannibal goes, his steps sure even in their awkwardness, his eyes never leaving Will’s face.

 

The backs of Will’s knees hit the edge of his old sofa. The dogs lift their heads from their nests. They watch with mild interest, their tails giving a half-hearted thump before they settle their chins back on their paws

 

Will sits back, pulling Hannibal down with him. He lands with a soft umph, half-sprawled, propped up on one arm of the couch. Hannibal follows him down, one knee dipping into the cushion between Will’s thighs, the other foot braced on the floor. He looms over Will, a dark shape against the lamplight, his eyes roaming over Will’s form pinned beneath him. 

 

Will’s hands go to his own belt. The buckle is cold under his fingers. He gets it open, the rasp of the leather loud. The zipper is next. He’s desperate now. He dips his hand inside his jeans, inside the soft, worn cotton of his boxers. He wraps his fingers around his own cock, gives it a slow, tight squeeze. 

 

He looks up at Hannibal as he touches himself. Hannibal’s gaze has dropped, watching the movement of Will’s hand under the fabric. His expression is one of rapt fascination, but his lips are parted, his breathing shallow.

 

A low groan works its way out of Will’s throat. The touch of his own hand is good, but it’s a poor substitute. It’s the shadow of what he wants.

 

“Has it really been so long for you?” Hannibal asks.There’s only heat and a kind of wondering hunger.

 

Will nods, a jerky, frantic motion. He squeezes himself again, his thumb rubbing over the wet head. “Yeah,” he grates out. “God.” 

 

Now that he’s said it, now that he’s admitted to the drought, the need becomes a tidal wave. It’s not just about the physical release. It’s about the touch. Hannibal’s touch. He wants those hands on him. He wants the memory of it seared into his skin, a phantom touch he can feel tomorrow and the next day and the day after, when he’s alone again in his quiet, empty house. He wants to feel Hannibal’s hands on his body long after Hannibal is gone.

 

He’s desperate for it. Desperate in a way that feels bottomless and old, a need that’s been growing in the dark of him, and now it has a name, a face, a pair of soft eyes watching him.

 

“Touch me,” Will says, and it’s not a request. “Just… touch me.”

 

Hannibal’s hands go to the waistband of Will’s pants and the boxers beneath, fingers hooking into the worn fabric. He doesn’t ask. He pulls.

 

Will lifts his hips, a clumsy, eager cooperation, and the clothes are dragged down his thighs, past his knees, and off. He’s laid completely bare now, sprawled on his own worn couch, cock standing thick and flushed against his stomach, his hand still wrapped loosely around the base.

 

“Continue,” Hannibal says, his eyes fixed on Will’s cock. “But do not come.”

 

Will lets out a shaky, almost laugh. “That might be hard.”

 

Hannibal’s eyes flick up to his. There’s a challenge there, and tenderness. “I want you to try, Will,” he murmurs, the words soft as a secret. “For me.”

 

Will nods, a quick, jerky motion. He can’t deny him. Not now. He wraps his hand around himself again, gives a slow  stroke. The friction is dry, rough.

 

Hannibal gathers Will’s discarded pants and boxers, and he folds them once and places them on the floor beside the couch. Then he moves, shifting up and over Will, bracing one hand on the couch back near Will’s head, his body warm. He is propped above him, looking down, his eyes traveling the length of Will’s body.

 

This. This is what it’s all been about.

 

Hannibal looking at him. In the office, those eyes noting every tremor, every evasion. Here, in his home, seeing the loneliness. Looking at his things. Hannibal has been looking at him, truly looking, in a way no one has ever bothered to. And Will has been preening under it. 

 

He tells himself it doesn’t have to mean a thing. Just a casual thing, the way other people do casual. A physical itch, scratched. The tight, aching feeling in his chest is just lust, a biological imperative, and once he gets this over with, the circuit will close. The fascination will short out. 

 

He knows it for the lie it is even as he thinks it. His hand moves on his cock, the rhythm growing a little unsteady as Hannibal watches. He’s shaking, a fine tremor in his thighs, in the arm that’s braced beside his head. The air is getting thick, hot. A bead of sweat traces a path from his temple into his hairline. He can smell himself, and he can smell Hannibal.

 

“Doctor,” Will breathes out.

 

Hannibal’s eyes snap back up to his, and then he is bending down, covering Will’s mouth with his own in a kiss that is surprisingly soft. Will opens for him, whining into the wet heat of it. Then Hannibal sucks on his tongue, a pull that draws a sharp, high sound from Will’s throat. 

 

Will’s control splinters. His teeth drag along Hannibal’s jaw, finding the strong line of it, and he nips, then bites, a little harder. He’s never done this before, the biting. But he’s doing it now, biting at Hannibal’s jaw, his chin, before finding his lips again. Each bite makes Hannibal’s breath hitch, a soft, gratifying sound. It makes Hannibal’s hips rock forward.

 

“I told you that you could touch,” Will grits out against his mouth, the words slurred. “Do it.”

 

Hannibal’s hand, which had been braced beside him, finally moves. It slides down Will’s heaving chest, over the tense plane of his stomach, through the dark hair that trails down from his navel. Will holds his breath. Hannibal’s fingers are long, and they wrap around Will’s cock, replacing his own.

 

Will is big, thicker than most, and he’s aware of it as Hannibal’s fingers don’t quite meet around him. A slow grin spreads across Hannibal’s kiss-swollen lips. “Lovely,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Will.

 

Then he bends his head, and his lips find a nipple, circling it with his tongue before sucking it. Will tangles his fingers in the hair on Hannibal’s chest, tugging gently, feeling the springy texture of it. He’s sweating now, a fine sheen covering his own chest and belly, making his skin gleam in the low light. 

 

Hannibal’s hand begins to move on him, his thumb swiping over the slick head on each upstroke. It’s too much and not enough. Will’s hips jerk up, seeking more friction, but Hannibal controls the pace.

 

“Look at you,” Hannibal says. He’s looking at Will’s face. “So responsive. So beautifully desperate.”

 

Will’s breath saws in and out of him. He can feel sweat gathering at the small of his back, a bead tracing the line of his spine before soaking into the fabric of the couch. Another trickles from his temple, sliding down past his ear, a hot, insistent track. Hannibal’s mouth leaves his chest, follows the path of that sweat with a soft, open-mouthed kiss against his jaw, then lower, his tongue tracing the salty river down the column of Will’s neck.

 

It’s building in him like a storm surge. “Gonna… Doctor Lecter, I’m gonna come,” Will gasps. He lets go of Hannibal’s shoulders to grab his wrist “Come on.”

 

Hannibal’s hand stills instantly. Then he’s moving. He sits up, his body slick and trembling, and grabs Hannibal by the back of the neck, pulling him into a deep, messy kiss. His hands slide down, fumbling at the waistband of Hannibal’s perfectly tailored slacks, fingers clumsy.

 

“Take these off,” Will rasps against his mouth. 

 

Hannibal pulls back just an inch. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and it does something dangerous to Will’s heart.

 

Hannibal stands. Will scoots to the very edge of the couch. He watches, his breath still coming in pants, as Hannibal undoes the button, then the zipper. Beneath them are silk briefs, a dark slate grey, and the clear, unmistakable outline of his cock.

 

Will doesn’t wait. He leans forward, pressing his open mouth against the plane of Hannibal’s stomach, just above the silk. He feels the muscles there clench, hears the sharp intake of breath above him. He kisses the skin, then nudges his nose against the silk-covered length of him. 

 

Then the briefs are pushed down, and Hannibal is freed.

 

Will sits back on his heels, just looking. He’s uncut, which shouldn’t surprise Will but it does, in a way that makes his mouth go dry. He’s flushed a deep, ruddy color, the head dark and already gleaming with a bead of clear fluid that swells and then traces a slow path down the side.

 

Will’s hands find Hannibal’s hips, his thumbs digging into the sharp crests of bone there. He holds him still, just watching that tiny leak for a long moment. He wants to taste him. He wants to learn the shape and weight and texture of him. He wants to reduce Hannibal Lecter to a series of helpless, gasping sounds.

 

He leans forward and presses his mouth to the very tip, a closed-mouth kiss. He feels the silken skin, the slickness. He tastes salt and something musky. He flicks his tongue out, catching the bead of precome. Will looks up, meeting Hannibal’s gaze. Those dark eyes are burning down at him. Hannibal’s free hand comes up, his thumb and forefinger gently pressing against Will’s jaw. He coaxes his mouth open, just a little.

 

“Let me see,” Hannibal whispers, his voice strained.

 

Will, obedient in this one thing, opens his mouth, letting Hannibal see the wet gleam of his tongue, the cream-white evidence of his taste resting there. Hannibal’s breath hitches. “Beautiful boy.” He releases Will’s jaw, his hand sliding back to cradle his head. He swallows. 

 

Will moves back. He doesn’t let go of Hannibal. His hands on his hips pull him forward, until Hannibal has no choice but to follow, his knees finding the cushion on either side of Will’s thighs. He settles there, straddling Will’s hips.

 

The hot, silken slide of their cocks brushing together, even for a second, punches the air from Will’s lungs. It’s a spark thrown on gasoline. He lets out a choked sound, his hands flying up to fist in Hannibal’s hair again, pulling his head back, needing to see his face.

 

The sight of him does something funny to Will’s chest, something tight and tender he has no name for. Hannibal’s cheeks are flushed a delicate, rosy pink, a high color. Will’s eyes go soft against his own will, tracing the lines of his face, the fan of his pale lashes against his skin.

 

Their bodies press together from chest to thigh, skin to skin, and the sweat makes them sticky, a humid seal. Will can feel the distinct, hot trickle of precome from Hannibal’s cock smearing against his own belly. It’s messy. His right hand, which had been gripping Hannibal’s hip, slides around to the small of his back, finding the elegant dip there. His thumb strokes the hollow.

 

He brings his other hand up to cradle Hannibal’s jaw, pulling him down until their lips are a breath apart. He doesn’t kiss him, not yet. He just breathes the same air, feels the heat coming off Hannibal in waves. 

 

“You want me inside you?” 

 

Hannibal’s eyes hold his. “Yes.”

 

“Side table drawer,” Will manages, his throat tight. “Lube. No condoms, though.”

 

Hannibal shifts minutely. “That is alright,” he murmurs, and then he’s leaning down, not to kiss Will’s mouth, but to press his lips to the corner of Will’s eye, a sweet thing. At the same time, his hand finds Will’s where it rests on the small of his back. He guides it lower, over the firm curve of his ass, urging Will’s fingers to press, to explore. Will’s breath stutters. His fingertips find the furl of him, and he’s… wet. Slick and pliant, the muscle giving under his tentative touch.

 

Will’s legs, which had been bent at the knees, come up to bracket Hannibal’s waist, holding him close. His other hand is still in Hannibal’s hair, and he gives another tug. A frown creases Will’s brow.

 

“You came expecting,” Will says, and it’s not a question. It’s an accusation laced with a perverse thrill.

 

Hannibal doesn’t struggle in his hold. His voice is a low hum against Will’s temple. “Not expecting. Hoping.” It means Hannibal wanted this enough to prepare for a possibility. He thought about it, planned for it, in his way. 

 

“You want me to fuck you?” Will asks. “You look through my drawers without permission… what else you do, Doctor? You sit in your office and think about this? Think about getting on your knees in my living room?”

 

Hannibal’s gaze doesn’t waver. There’s a flame in it now, not soft, but hot and focused. He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he pries Will’s hand from his hair. He doesn’t throw it off; he simply guides it down to rest on the couch. Then he shifts his weight, settling more firmly onto Will’s hips, the pressure intentional, dominating. He’s retaking control.

 

Will’s jaw tightens. He brings his hands up to Hannibal’s hips, the touch firm. He pats them twice. “Off,” he says.

 

Hannibal stills, watching him.

 

“I want you under me,” Will says. 

 

For a heartbeat, he thinks Hannibal will refuse. But then Hannibal moves, lifting himself off Will’s lap. He shifts back, giving Will space.

 

Will doesn’t give him time to think, to reposition. He gets a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder and turns him, not onto his back, but onto his stomach against the dark leather of the couch. Hannibal goes, a soft exhalation of surprise leaving him. He turns his head to the side, his profile sharp against the cushion.

 

Will crawls over him, his knees on either side of Hannibal’s thighs, his body blanketing Hannibal’s back. He’s not gentle. His hands slide up the smooth, warm plane of Hannibal’s back, feeling the shift of muscle, the knobs of his spine. He bends, pressing his lips to the ridge of Hannibal’s shoulder.

 

He lowers his mouth to Hannibal’s ear. “You’re a good listener,” Will murmurs. He means the drawers. He means the secrets. He means the way Hannibal hears the things he doesn’t say.

 

Beneath him, Hannibal shudders. His breath hitches, and when he speaks. “I find myself enjoying listening to you, Will. I find that I enjoy the sound of you.”

 

Will rocks his hips forward, letting Hannibal feel the hard, insistent length of him against the cleft of his ass, still slick from Will’s earlier exploration.

 

“Yeah?” Will says, his voice thick.  He d leans down, his chest pressing against Hannibal’s back, and sinks his teeth into the meat of his shoulder. He brings his fingers down, circles the tight furl of muscle with a blunt finger. 

 

“There’s no need,” Hannibal says. 

 

“I know,” Will murmurs into the shell of his ear, his lips brushing the fine hairs there. “But I just want to make sure you’re stretched enough. For me.”

 

He pushes the tip of his finger in, just past the resisting ring of muscle. It’s hot, impossibly hot, and tight, but it gives way for him, slick and willing. Hannibal makes a sound, his hands fisting in the couch cushions. Will works his finger in slowly, to the knuckle. He crooks his finger, searching, and when he finds it, brushes against that small, firm nub inside.

 

Hannibal’s whole body seizes. Will kisses his temple, a fleeting, unconscious gesture of tenderness that feels alien even as he does it. He adds a second finger alongside the first. Hannibal presses his forehead into the couch. 

 

He thinks about how Hannibal is leaking onto his couch right now. He should care. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But he doesn’t care much right now. All he cares about is the feel of Hannibal coming apart under his hands, the way his bangs are damp and stuck to his forehead, fallen over his eyes. He keeps trying to arch back, to press himself onto Will’s fingers, to get more, deeper. He’s shameless.

 

He wants to crawl inside Hannibal’s mind, too. Know every little thought and observation and psychoanalysis he has about Will. The fantasies. The clinical notations of his behaviors, his ticks, his vulnerabilities. He wants to know if Hannibal thinks about his mouth when he’s pouring wine for some socialite. If he notes the calluses on Will’s hands and imagines them somewhere else. It’s a thought that scares him so much it feels like his ribs are cracking open.

 

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice is wrecked, a rough scrape of sound. “It’s enough.”

 

“You sure?” he asks. “I want you ready. I don’t wanna hurt you.” It’s a lie and a truth all at once. He does want to hurt him, a little. He wants to leave a mark. But he also wants this to be good, so good that Hannibal forgets every other touch he’s ever had.

 

Hannibal turns his head, just enough to look at Will from the corner of his eye. “Yes, Will,” he breathes. “Please.”

 

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just lets the sound of it wash over him. Hannibal Lecter is saying please to him. Slowly, Will withdraws his fingers. He shifts his weight, one hand settling on the meat of Hannibal’s thigh. He bends the leg at the knee, spreading him wider, opening him up. Hannibal goes willingly, his body pliant, his breathing a ragged, open-mouthed rhythm. Will glances down.

 

The sight is something he’ll take to his grave. That part of Hannibal, pink and stretched and glistening from Will’s work. Will lines himself up, the blunt, flushed head of his cock nudging against that soft, heated entrance. He looks up at Hannibal’s face, sees his eyes are closed.

 

Will pushes in.

 

It’s a tight, burning stretch, even after the preparation. Hannibal’s body resists for a fraction of a second, a tight ring of muscle, then yields, swallowing the head of him. Will’s breath punches out of him in a hard, choked sound. He sinks in another inch, then another. He watches, mesmerized, as his own body disappears into Hannibal’s, the pale skin of his hips meeting the curve of Hannibal’s ass. He goes until he’s buried to the root, until their bodies are locked together with no space for God or reason or tomorrow.

 

He is inside Hannibal Lecter. The thought is too big. It fragments into a thousand smaller sensations. Will lets out a shuddering curse, a low, broken “Fuck…” 

 

He experiments with a shallow tilt of his hips, seeking.

 

Hannibal’s reaction is immediate, a sharp moan, his whole body arching back into Will’s. There. Will finds the angle and holds it, grinding into that spot with a slow, dirty roll of his hips that has Hannibal pushing his face into the couch cushion to stifle the sound.

 

“How do you want it?” Will whispers against his neck, his voice thick, slurred with lust. He feels drunk. “Soft? Fast?” He nips the skin. “Hard?”

 

Hannibal turns his head, his cheek flat. His words are breathless, forced out between gasps. “Anything, Will. As you are.”

 

As you are. A raw, desperate thing. A hungry, lonely man with rough hands and a fractured mind.

 

Will hums, the vibration against Hannibal’s skin. He pulls back almost all the way, then sinks back in with a smooth, deep stroke that makes them both groan. “I just wanna make it good for you,” he murmurs, and it’s the most honest thing he’s said all night. 

 

“You already have,” Hannibal gasps. “Beautiful. Perfect.”

 

The praise goes through Will like a lightning strike. It’s too much. He shuts his eyes tight, burying his face in Hannibal’s hair, and begins to move in earnest.

 

He sets a pace that is neither soft nor slow. It’s deep. He fucks into Hannibal with long, driving strokes. Will gets lost in it. The world narrows to the slide and clutch of heat, to the flex of Hannibal’s back under his chest, to the bitten-off cries he’s pulling from him. He feels pathetic with it, desperate. 

 

He’s been so lonely. He’s mumbling into Hannibal’s skin between thrusts, nonsense words, fragments. “God… so good… you feel… Christ, baby…” 

 

He wants to thank him. For seeing him. For wanting him anyway. For having a back that bows so beautifully under his weight, for having a body that takes him in so deep and holds him so tight. 

 

He raises himself up on his arms, the muscles in his shoulders and back pulling tight. He keeps his hips moving, a steady, deep piston that makes the couch creak a complaint beneath them. His head throbs a little, the familiar pressure behind his eyes, but it’s a distant thing.

 

He looks down at Hannibal. The man’s face is turned to the side, pressed partly into the cushion. His eyes are open, glazed with pleasure, but they’re drifting. They’re snagging on the painting on the far wall, They trace the neat row of books on the shelf, the worn spines and uneven order. They linger on the curve of the lamp base, the soft halo of light it throws. Even now, in this, he’s cataloging. 

 

It makes something in Will shake loose. Will has spent his whole life trying to stay unremarkable, trying to keep his edges smooth and his mess contained. Would Hannibal go through his closet too, if given the chance? Push aside the clothes and look for whatever ghosts might be hanging there? Would he recognize the bones for what they are? Would he know which ones still hurt to touch?

 

The idea sends a quiet shiver through him.

 

He goes back down, pressing himself flat as he can against Hannibal’s back. Skin to skin from shoulders to heels. He can feel every tremor that runs through Hannibal, the hitch of his breath, the clench of his muscles. Will turns Hannibal’s head, finds his mouth. 

 

Then he slides his arms under Hannibal, wrapping them around his torso, locking his hands against the solid plane of his chest. He’s clinging. He knows he’s clinging. It’s pathetic and he doesn’t care. He’s been on his lonesome a long time. It just feels so nice. To be against another person like this. To feel the live-wire hum of another heart beating against his forearm, the expansion of ribs with each gasping breath. To touch him, really touch him, without flinching away. Will presses closer without thinking, drawn to that warmth like something half-feral, something that remembers what it is to be held. Hannibal’s skin is smooth and hot, dusted with fine hair. Will splays his fingers, feeling the muscle underneath, the proof of a body kept, cared for. It’s a foreign country to him.

 

Hannibal’s hand comes up, finds one of Will’s where it grips his chest. His fingers slide between Will’s, twining them together, holding Will’s fist tight against the pounding of his own heart. He makes a sound against Hannibal’s neck, a broken little thing.

 

He grinds into him then, a slow, deep circle of his hips, less a thrust and more an embrace from the inside. He’s buried as deep as he can go, and he holds himself there, pulsing, aching. The angle shifts, and Hannibal gasps, his back arching, pushing his ass back against Will’s groin.

 

“Do you like it here?” Will murmurs into the sweat-damp hair at his temple. His voice is rough, raw. He doesn’t mean the house. He means this. This closeness. This mess. This bare, ugly need pressed between them.

 

Hannibal’s fingers tighten around his. He turns his head just enough so his lips brush Will’s cheek. “Yes,” he breathes, the word warm and damp. “Very much. I find I like you very much, Will. More than is sensible. More than I anticipated.”

 

It’s not enough. Will needs a promise. He needs something to take with him into the cold tomorrow.

 

He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to Hannibal’s shoulder. “Will you watch my dogs again?”

 

It’s the mundane meeting the profane. It’s the only thread of normalcy he has left. If Hannibal will take care of the dogs, it means he’ll come back to the house. Hannibal goes very still for a second. Then he nods, his head rubbing against Will’s. A simple, definite gesture. “Of course,” he says. “I would like that.” A pause. “It would give me a reason to return to you.”

 

The pleasure, coiled so tight in his belly, detonates. He grinds deep and holds there as it washes through him, a hot, liquid release that feels like it’s draining his soul out through his cock and into the heat of Hannibal’s body. His hips stutter, short, helpless little jerks. 

 

He trembles violently, all over, like a man with a fever. The world goes white and silent for a long moment, nothing but the pulse of his own finish and the feel of Hannibal’s hand clenched in his. 

 

Slowly, the room swims back into focus. Hannibal isn’t pushing him off. His breathing is slowing, deepening. His thumb is moving in a slow, absent caress over the back of Will’s hand, which is still trapped against his chest. It’s a gentle, owning gesture. The kind you’d use on a spooked animal.

 

With a grunt that's half effort, half surrender, Will finally shifts his hips. He slips out of Hannibal's body with a soft, wet sound.

 

He puts a hand on Hannibal's hip, his fingers pressing into the firm muscle there. "Turn over," he says. 

 

Hannibal moves. The lamplight paints him in gold and shadow. He's stretched out on the couch, which is now rumpled and stained. There's a wet spot underneath him, a dark, shiny patch. And on his belly, from the neat trail of hair below his navel down to the thatch at his groin, it's a mess. It's slick, pearly-white, catching the light. Will's own spend, leaking out of him, mixed with Hannibal's constant leaking, making sticky strings and little pools against his skin. 

 

It's the most sweet thing Will has ever seen. Hannibal is still hard. His cock lies against his thigh, flushed and thick. Will stares at it, then at the mess on his belly, then up at Hannibal's face.

 

"You always get so wet?" Will asks. 

 

Hannibal's gaze doesn't waver. There's no shame in it, no coyness. "I have overactive Cowper's glands," he says, his voice a low rasp. "A physiological response. It can be... profuse."

 

Will reaches out. “Oh. I like it.” 

 

His hand, still sticky from where it had been between them, wraps around Hannibal's cock. It's hot and silky-hard in his grip. Hannibal's breath hitches. His head tips back against the couch arm, his throat working.

 

Will leans over him, bracing his other hand by Hannibal's head. He lowers his mouth to Hannibal's and kisses him again. Hannibal's hands come up, his fingers sliding into Will's sweaty, tangled curls. He don't pull, just holds, his thumbs finding the too-long tufts of hair at the side of Will's neck, the ones he's been meaning to cut. He rubs them, slow circles against the sensitive skin there, and a shiver runs clean through Will.

 

He strokes Hannibal, a firm, steady rhythm, twisting his wrist just so on the upstroke, the way he knows he likes it on himself. Hannibal's hips give a tiny, involuntary jerk. His mouth opens under Will's, and his breathing changes. It gets quicker, shallower. Little puffs of air against Will's lips. Will can feel the tension coiling in Hannibal's belly, under his hand.

 

He breaks the kiss, just far enough to speak. His lips brush Hannibal's as he moves them. "Are you gonna come?" 

 

Hannibal nods, a tight, desperate little movement. His eyes are squeezed shut, his long lashes against his skin.

 

"Come on, baby," Will says.

 

Hannibal shudders, a full-body tremor that starts where Will's hand is wrapped around him and radiates out. He makes a sound, a choked-off, graceful thing, and then he's coming, hot stripes of white painting his own stomach, adding to the mess already there. Will keeps stroking him, through the pulses, until he goes soft and oversensitive in his hand, until Hannibal's grasping hands in his hair loosen and just rest there, heavy. Will wishes he had a roof over his bed to pull down on his head whenever he feels damned by wanting Hannibal so much it looks like friendship.

 

Will looks at the mess. He looks at the man.  His own body is humming, a low-grade ache and satisfaction thrumming in his bones, but it's a distant thing. 

 

Will knows he should get a towel. Something soft and warm from the linen closet. That's what you do. You clean up, you get shy, you maybe share a cigarette if you smoke, which neither of them do. You put the world back in its order.

 

He moves without really deciding to. He shifts on the couch, the leather sticking to the back of his thighs. He lowers his head, his own breath hot against the damp, hair on Hannibal's belly. Hannibal makes a small, sharp sound when Will's mouth gets close. 

 

Will ignores the flinch. He presses his mouth, closed at first, against Hannibal's skin, just below his navel. The skin is hot and soft. He licks, a slow, flat stroke of his tongue through the trail of hair, gathering the bitterness and the slickness. 

 

He hears Hannibal’s breath shudder above him. A hand comes down, not to push him away, but to rest, fingers splayed, in Will’s hair. 

 

Will moves lower. He takes his time. He licks a path through the sticky mess on Hannibal’s belly. He laps at the hollow there, where a little pool of spend had gathered, and Hannibal’s thighs twitch.

 

Then he gets to his cock. It lies soft now against his thigh, spent and vulnerable. Will looks at it for a long moment.  He leans in and nuzzles the length of it, his cheek against the softening heat. He opens his mouth and takes the head into it, not to suck, just to clean.

 

Will swirls his tongue around the sensitive head, licking away the last sticky beads. It’s almost too much for Hannibal, he can feel it in the tremble of his muscles, in the tight grip in his hair. He moves back up, kissing his way over the now-clean stomach, over the sternum, finding a nipple and drawing it into his mouth for a moment, just to feel Hannibal arch under him. He finally reaches the hollow of his throat, licks there, and then rests his forehead against Hannibal’s collarbone, breathing hard. His own face is wet, his chin slick. 

 

He lifts his head.

 

Hannibal is looking up at him, eyes wide and dark, pupils still blown from whatever moment just passed between them. There’s color high on his cheekbones that hasn’t faded yet, breath uneven, something unguarded lingering in the way his mouth is parted. He looks, Will can’t find a better word for it, stunned. Hungry, maybe. Or simply caught.

 

Will doesn’t think. He leans in and presses his mouth to Hannibal’s. For a few seconds there’s nothing else. No case. No house. No consequences lined up waiting their turn. Then Hannibal pulls back.

 

He clears his throat, a small, almost embarrassed sound that feels out of place coming from him. His voice, when he speaks, is quieter than usual.

 

“Tonight was lovely, Will.”

 

Will nods, throat tight. “Yeah,” he says. “It was.”

 

Hannibal doesn’t speak right away.

 

He just looks at Will. Really looks. Like he’s recalibrating. Like he’s committing something to memory that he won’t be able to unsee later. The intensity of it makes Will’s stomach flip, makes him suddenly aware of how close they still are, how thin the line is between stopping and not stopping.

 

Hannibal exhales.

 

“May I use your shower?” he asks.

 

Will blinks, the moment rearranging itself around that small request. He takes a breath, steadying himself, nods once.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Of course.”

 

They separate then. Hannibal offers a small smile and leans in just long enough to press a brief kiss to Will’s cheek. 

 

Will scrubs both hands over his face, fingers dragging down hard.

 

“Just—go ahead,” Will says, voice rough. “I’ll get your clothes.”

 

Hannibal nods. “Thank you, Will.”

 

Then he’s gone down the hallway, footsteps quiet, the bathroom door closing softly behind him.

 

A moment later, the shower turns on.

 

Will sits back down on the couch like his legs have finally remembered gravity. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling uselessly between them. The sound of running water fills the house, steady and unignorable.

 

He listens to the water run and realizes, with a dull, sinking certainty, that this hasn’t fixed anything at all. 

 

Notes:

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