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After the Miller-Henke crime scene, Jack takes Hannibal aside and asks – in a manner that is much less asking than demanding – if he'll drive Will home. Hannibal agrees without even a glance at Will, who is rarely stable after a crime scene, and very much less so after this one. Hannibal imagines this is not the worst thing Will has ever seen, but something about the case has pulled up a corner of his mind and crawled underneath, like an insect. This is how Will has described it to Hannibal after the last three crime scenes: like an insect in his consciousness. When he tries to focus on anything else, he is immediately drawn back to the images of the children. He places particular emphasis on the mothers; Hannibal doesn't think Will realises how large his mother's abandonment looms over him.
They were in the middle of a conversation in Hannibal's office when Will was called, and he asked Hannibal if he'd like to join in. Hannibal's car is still there, at his office, but he decides to drive Will to his home anyway. He asks for the keys and Will hands them to him with no protest. He sleeps most of the way and wakes only when the car stills.
"Am I at your place?" he asks. His voice is full of sleep, faint and gravelly. This is something Hannibal has always enjoyed about Will. Whatever forts he claims to have constructed to shield himself, his voice betrays him.
"Yes." Hannibal gives him no explanation, and he doesn't ask, only follows Hannibal into the house. He's uneasy there. There is a part of Will that knows what Hannibal is already, although it is perhaps buried so deeply it does not even surface in his dreams, but Hannibal doesn't believe that is what gives Will discomfort in his home. He moves as if he's going to break something. Gauche, some might call it. It is a natural byproduct of his upbringing that Will feels guilty when he appreciates anything too fine. Hannibal hopes to cultivate that tendency out of him by introducing him to the pleasure of quality – linen like a rose petal against the skin; food made with patience and artistry; an expert musician playing an expertly crafted instrument. So far, the only thing Will has taken to is Hannibal's coffee. He has begun to ask for the brand, as if it is something that can be bought rather than brewed carefully.
It is true that Will looks out of place among the gleaming wood and soft fabric at the moment. He's tousled, wrinkled, confused from the hour of sleep that only worsens his need for it. He stands in the middle of the living room with a lost look on his face, clutching his coat.
"Sit," Hannibal says, gesturing to the grey-striped settee. "I'll get you some wine."
"It's four in the morning," Will says. "Shouldn't we have coffee? The kind you bring over to my house?"
Hannibal smiles at the hopeful note in Will's voice. "No coffee for you, I think. But no wine, either – I was thinking it was still night. I'll make tea."
Will sits, but immediately stands again. He prefers to lean against furniture. I only drink tea when I'm sick," he says, following Hannibal into the kitchen.
"Aren't you sick?" Hannibal asks, opening a container of white tea and inhaling the deep, dusky scent of the leaves.
"No?"
"Insomnia is a sickness." He raises an eyebrow at Will's scoffing noise. "Debilitating. It undermines the very ground on which we stand, causing us to slip. If I discussed with you a patient whose sleep disorder was as severe as yours, you would be quite alarmed."
"You know, I can actually function just fine on my own. You don't need to protect me," Will says with a touch of acid in his voice. He seems to be trying to be irritated more because he thinks he should be than because he is. There's a break in the word "protect," ever so slight and fragile, that Hannibal seizes upon.
"What is the problem with protection?" he asks. "Those who care for you wish to see you safe."
"I'm a grown man, in possession of all my faculties," Will replies. He smacks his palms on the kitchen island, but without any real force behind it. "I don't need – I don't need anyone taking care of me."
Between Will's own past and all the maternal agony he has witnessed in the last three weeks, Hannibal has been watching, attentive for the triggering moment before him now. His blood rushes fast, but he waits a beat. He must say the perfect words, or the moment will pass again.
"Don't you?" he asks. "It was difficult as a child, was it not, watching all the other boys' mothers take care of them as you wished to be taken care of. Are you afraid that if you allow it now, it will be taken from you again?"
Will opens his mouth to respond, but his face crumples and he shakes his head. Hannibal watches with keen interest. He has seen his share of tears over the course of his medical career, and while he knows it is a simple physical response to outside stimulus, it still faintly disgusts him, as if he were watching someone urinate in public. However, he is the outside stimulus for the physical response in this case, and he knows Will would rather do almost anything else, which gives it a sweetness that he savours as if it had a scent and he could taste it – Will's loss of control, his embarrassment, his misery, all belong to Hannibal.
Will keeps his arms close to his body, wrapped around himself like a shield. He brings one hand up to cover his mouth, but for all his ocular neuroses, he does not cover his eyes, only blinks rapidly behind his glasses before he takes them off and sets them on the table. Hannibal shrugs off his jacket, shakes it out, and hangs it from one of the stools next to the island. He expects Will to resist being held, but is surprised when Will folds against him and gives in, weeping his exhaustion into Hannibal's shoulder. Hannibal touches him carefully, one hand against the small of his back, one cradling his head. He can feel the fragile skull under his fingers and thinks, briefly, that it would be the work of only moments to crush it. But that has never been his intention with Will; he is more than fond of him, and plans never to harm him physically unless Will gets too close to something he shouldn't. He threads his fingers through Will's hair instead in what he might call a parody of affection – amusing himself by playing the part of a nurturer – if he did not harbour such a great deal of true, if unexpected, affection for Will, who is so much and so little like him.
He strokes Will's back, his hair, as a mother might soothe an infant. The room is cold, but through his thin shirt, Will's body radiates warmth where they touch. Will doesn't laugh often, but when he does, it comes out in sharp, hoarse bursts. He cries in much the same way, and Hannibal reflects on how the two responses are faces of the same emotion. Both seem to give Will physical pain, to rip out something ugly inside him. The warmth of tears seeping through Hannibal's shirt does not disgust him, nor does he want the experience to end. If anything, he wants it to continue, to see all that is ugly and beautiful inside Will Graham.
Will doesn't calm quickly, but when he does, it is complete. After a time he shifts, possibly intending to pull away, and when Hannibal keeps him close, he settles again with a sigh. Hannibal gradually, in increments so slow they could be called torturous, allows his touch to broaden outward and to become less soothing. The strokes move lower on the back, lower on the neck, each spot more sensitive than the last, and soon Will is breathing shakily between them. He's turned his face into the curve of Hannibal's neck, and Hannibal wonders if he realises what a magnificent sign of submission it is. As a reward, Hannibal traces a thumb around the rim of his ear, and Will moans and shivers against him.
"Is this how you handle all your crying patients?" Will asks.
"You are not my patient," Hannibal replies.
"Not crying anymore, either," Will replies. Hannibal's hand slides gently over his ass, and Will shivers again, hips twitching close enough for Hannibal to understand that he is very, very aroused. As Hannibal suspected, he is easily over-stimulated. He untucks the back of Will's shirt and strokes underneath, where the skin is soft and tender, judging by Will's reaction, as he clutches the front of Hannibal's waistcoat and buries his face even further into Hannibal's neck.
"Would you like me to help you forget everything for a little while?" Hannibal murmurs in his ear before kissing the curls at his temple.
"Can you do that?" Will replies, still a bit shaky, but always the skeptic.
"Yes," Hannibal tells him, and adds, "if you would like a demonstration."
"I- " Will pulls away, but Hannibal doesn't think he's about to refuse in his current state. He puts his hand to his forehead. "What do you want me to do?"
"First. " Hannibal pulls out his handkerchief and hands it to Will, whose face is wet, nose and eyes swollen. "Second, undress in the living room. I'll join you in a moment."
He retrieves the lubrication – his own concoction – and condoms from the bathroom, and when he enters the living room Will is still fully dressed, except for his shoes and socks. Hannibal tilts his head.
"Am I rushing you?" he begins, but Will shakes his head.
"No, I want to," he says. His arms are in near-constant motion, first crossed over his chest, then at his sides, then back to his chest.
"Why have you not undressed, then?"
Will bites his lip, eyes shifting from the floor to Hannibal's hands.
"Do you want me to do it for you?" Hannibal asks, and Will nods twice, awkwardly. He shivers again when Hannibal takes one hand, turns it palm up, and undoes the buttons at his wrist. There are scrapes on the palm, not fresh.
"The new dog," Will explains. "I fell on the gravel when I was trying to catch him."
Hannibal swipes his thumb over the scrapes with a vague noise of regret and reaches for the other hand to unbutton the cuff. Will looks anywhere but at him when he begins on the buttons down the front of his shirt, and tries to shrug it off himself before Hannibal stops him with a hand on his arm.
"You wanted me to undress you," he says, and Will relaxes, allowing Hannibal to pull off one sleeve and then the other. He ignores the undershirt and goes for the trousers next. When he kneels to unbutton the fly, Will's breath speeds up. He holds Hannibal's shoulder for balance and waits for direction. Hannibal very much believes in rewarding good behavior, and so after he has helped Will step out of his trousers, he runs his hand up the inside of one leg and over the warm, thick length of his erection through his shorts. Will rocks back on his heels and moans, his hand tightening on Hannibal's shoulder.
"Whatever you do to me, I don't think it will last long," he says. "I'm close."
"I know you are," Hannibal murmurs, and leans in to open his mouth around the head of Will's cock. The fabric is thin and already wet. Will's grip turns convulsive and he cries out, breathless. Hannibal pulls away and tugs the shorts down, returning to suck on bare, sticky skin.
"I'm – I'm about to – " Will gasps.
"No, not yet," Hannibal says, standing. "Not until I'm inside you."
Will's trembling groan ends in a laugh, and he puts his hands over his face. Hannibal takes advantage of the position to pull his undershirt up and off, and then Will is completely naked before him. He looks down at his feet and then up at Hannibal again with a wry half-smile. "Are you going to keep all your clothes on?" he asks.
"Maybe," Hannibal replies, but he's teasing and Will knows it. However, he doesn't particularly want Will watching him undress. "Go to the settee. Kneel in front of it."
"God, you know, you are really authoritative," Will says, shaking his head, but obeys. Hannibal, busy undoing his tie and slipping off his shoes, can see the moment he realises he'll be helpless like this, bent over the settee. He brings his hands up to touch the smooth, dark fabric and shudders.
Once naked, Hannibal kneels behind him, fingers slippery. "Have you ever done this?" he asks.
"Yes," Will says, and adds in a low voice, "by myself."
"Hm," Hannibal says. He likes the idea of Will touching himself, in the shower perhaps, frustrated because he wants more. "Is it something you enjoy?"
Will laughs sharply. "Oh, a little." His breath catches as Hannibal touches him, one finger tracing, and then he's laughing again and moaning at once as Hannibal slips two fingers inside him.
"I see. Only just a little," Hannibal says. He intends at first to give only minimal preparation, to open him up by teasing with his cock, but Will pushes down onto his fingers almost wildly. The addition of a teasing thumb rubbing against the rim makes him buck his hips faster, harder, clutching at the settee like a life raft as he comes undone as quickly as a dropped spool of thread. There is something about this, Hannibal thinks, something about this man, this tightly wound man, burying his face in his arm and making harsh, desperate sounds as Hannibal's fingers stroke the inside of him, that is in its way more satisfying than anything Hannibal has ever experienced. He removes his fingers to hear the sobbing breath he's hoping for. Will does not disappoint him – he sounds as if he might have been right on the edge of orgasm once again, and being pulled back from it is painful.
"Are you going to – can you just –" Will sputters. His relief is almost audible when Hannibal opens a condom and smooths it on himself. But, once slick with lubricant, he doesn't slide into Will the way he wants. He rubs against his entrance, again and again, almost pushing inside perhaps half a dozen times. Will tries to hurry him – moaning full of exquisite, painful frustration – but Hannibal stops him.
"No," he says softly, arranging him until he's pressed against the settee fully, so his cock will slide against the material.
"Please just – don't treat me like I'm delicate," Will says over his shoulder. He is trying to sound in charge of himself and the situation – in Hannibal's opinion – but his voice wobbles as if he's really asking to be broken.
And of course, Hannibal can do that. He grips Will's hips – bone under soft flesh, eminently delicate – and slides into him in a slow, torturous stroke. Will moans hoarsely, urgent with desperation. Hannibal watches the muscles bunch in his back and the spine undulate, snakelike. The comparison is apt; Will coils tighter and tighter as Hannibal withdraws, equally slowly, until only the head of his cock is still inside Will's shaking body. He waits – one beat, two beats, listening to Will's frantic, staccato gasps – and then slides in again. Nothing in the world could make him move faster.
On the third long, agonising stroke, he presses in deep and holds them both there, patient, waiting. Will muffles his cries in the settee and writhes, the coil turning ever tighter until – at last – he comes in hard, trembling pulses.
Hannibal stills, enjoying the hot pressure, the damp skin under his hands, the beautiful noise of Will struggling to catch his breath, until Will is limp, pliant on the settee. He pulls out and stands beside Will, who looks up with his eyes dazed, mouth sulkier than usual.
"Sorry," he says thickly. "I told you I was close."
"It's perfectly all right," Hannibal murmurs. "But I want you to clean up for me before we continue."
Will's eyebrows draw together before he understands and complies, resting back on his heels and looking at the mess he's made of the settee. It's rather large, a wide spill of come on the material. He touches it and Hannibal tsks.
"With your mouth," he says, and Will's lips part. He looks again to Hannibal and Hannibal nods toward the settee.
"With my..." he says softly. He flushes down to the navel. Slowly he unfolds, puts his hands on the settee for balance and, like a cat, dips his head down to lick. His pink tongue, lapping up his own emission – Hannibal could easily come to orgasm at the sight himself if he did not possess such rigid control. Will is thorough, sucking on the fabric to get all of it, until the damp spot is only saliva. When he finishes, he turns his head to Hannibal for further instruction.
"Very good," Hannibal says, and Will shivers.
"I'm not a dog," Will says, but Hannibal can see that his cock has not softened, and instead has grown harder than it was before. Hannibal kneels behind him again and puts a hand on Will's back, slides it down his spine, feeling each bump of vertebrae individually before he continues the downward trajectory and presses two of his fingers inside. Will moans and pushes down onto his fingers in excited movements he cannot seem to help.
"Very, very good," Hannibal says, and Will responds with a noise that is half laugh and half sob.
_________
He sleeps deeply afterward, sprawled on his stomach, unself-conscious in Hannibal's bed. Hannibal reads at the table in his robe, drinking tea, and when Will wakes and comes to join him nearly two hours later, rumpled and embarrassed, he has a meal ready for him: breast in an orange glaze, the fat crisped just so, caramelised sprouts, and fingerling potatoes.
"Is this chicken?" Will asks.
"Duck," he says.
"'S good, thank you." Will ruffles the back of his hair when he is feeling particularly awkward. Hannibal supposes he remembers how he begged, and it makes him uncomfortable.
For Hannibal's part, he savours the discomfort. Torturing with pleasure is the only way he truly gets gratification from sex; he derives a different kind of gratification from torturing with pain, and likes to separate the two. He had an idea Will would be particularly satisfying, and he was proven correct – he will dine for many months on the memory of Will spread out beneath him, utterly senseless with pleasure. Hannibal did not allow him a second orgasm for a very long time, not until he'd wrung everything he could out of the tender places on his body – the thighs, the undersides of his arms, the back, the toes. Only when Will asked for it, until he begged, his body trembling with overstimulation, did Hannibal slowly stroke him into a release that he could watch, observing with gourmandise the state into which Will entered for several minutes, a solitary complex of ecstasy. Hannibal's own release is only ever physical, and he doesn't believe he would enjoy the loss of control which comes with the kind of experience he gave Will, but to force it upon another human being is very enjoyable.
Will shook badly afterward and was limp against him in the bath, letting Hannibal wash him, pat him dry, and lead him to the bed. He was asleep before Hannibal was finished arranging the curtains to shut out the light.
"Did you sleep well?" Hannibal asks, sipping his wine.
"I – yes." Will laughs nervously. He's silent for a few moments, and Hannibal lets him gather his thoughts. "I've never–" He clears his throat. "I've never done that before."
"Done what?" Hannibal asks. "You did a lot of things."
Will laughs again, ducking his head and flushing down below the collar of his undershirt. "I've never, uh, never had sex with a man."
Hannibal considers this. "Was it as you hoped it would be?"
"I didn't hope for anything," Will says. He takes a bite of the potatoes.
"I believe you said you wanted to be taken care of." He sees Will is about to protest, and adds, "Did you feel taken care of?"
Will shivers, almost too minutely for any other perception but Hannibal's, and nods with great reluctance. They eat in silence until he begins again quietly. "I've only had sex with three people. Including you. I'm not very good at this, I'm sorry."
"On the contrary," Hannibal says, cutting the meat. "You were – at the risk of causing you embarrassment – quite brilliant."
Will attempts to help Hannibal clean up after the meal, and Hannibal shoos him away. When he's finished, he finds Will fully dressed in the living room.
"I should go," he says, arms folded around himself again. "The dogs – and I don't want to, uh, inconvenience you."
Underneath his brusque awkwardness, Hannibal always detects a combination of optimism and pessimism in Will's interaction with him. It's as if Will is waiting for the moment Hannibal catches up to everyone else and is driven away by what Will is, and yet he continues to hope it won't happen. His confusion and surprise are the source of much of Hannibal's entertainment.
"It's no inconvenience," Hannibal says. "Go to your house and feed your dogs, and come back here for the night. I will still need you to drive me to my car."
Will stutters something – it might be "I don't know," but he doesn't get any farther than "I don" – but Hannibal pushes past the invisible barrier Will creates around himself, and Will doesn't move away. He keeps his arms tucked close around his body, but sways closer when Hannibal puts both hands on his sides and draws him near.
"I would consider it a personal favour," Hannibal whispers, and presses his lips under Will's ear. Will's body loosens against him, arms unfolding so he can put his palms on Hannibal's chest – a barrier still, but a small victory. He rests his head against Hannibal's shoulder and tilts a little as Hannibal traces the length of his neck with his lips.
"Of course," he sighs shakily. "I can't turn down a personal favour."
Hannibal lets him go and Will pushes up his glasses. But he meets Hannibal's eyes, and smiles.
"Okay," he says. "I'll be back later. But only because you didn't fulfill your end of the bargain."
"Me?" Hannibal puts a hand over his chest.
"You said you'd make me forget everything, but you didn't." He gestures toward his head. "Almost."
"Ah. Well. Tonight I will finish the job," he says, and Will leaves still smiling.
Hannibal stays at the window and watches the tail lights until they become pinpricks of red. He's full of a rare, brilliant thrill. He has no idea what will happen next.