Work Text:
The child Hannibal soon learns that he is different from other the children in the orphanage, who, animal instincts honed by long training in fear, recognise him for what he is, and avoid him. In those first months after Mischa's death he withdraws into himself, does not speak for months. He watches. At first the behaviours of the other children with each other and the nuns mystify him, but after a remarkably short time he untangles the economy of wants and needs that governs their little society. He learns that the others, the adults as much as the children, desire the damp embraces, smiles, and gestures of affection that leave him bored and a little disgusted. He sees too that the desire for touch, for intimacy, motivates their actions, and much of their days are devoted to eliciting affection or depriving others of it. Hannibal takes no part in these games at first, for he feels no need or desire for affection, and the part of him that could have longed for intimacy has been cut out and left hollow, eaten with Mischa's heart. However, after a few months – he is only a child, after all – he sees the efficacy of participating in order to get the things he does desire, and he begins to correct his own short-sightedness. In doing this, he begins the slow, fumbling construction of the mask he will present to the world in his adult life.
Although the nuns who run the orphanage come to fear and even loathe his steady, expressionless gaze from the corner of the room, Hannibal is not in fact an unfeeling child. He weeps at night, from frustration and from the pain of the cavity in his soul where Mischa lived. He feels pleasure at the twist of a blowing seed in the wind, at the sound of the violin teacher practising in the tenement apartment with the broken window, at the way blood wells and wells from a pinprick in his thumb as he opens his fist and clenches it shut again, and the slow progress of maggots through a rabbit's head, torn off by foxes in the alley behind the orphanage. This makes no difference to the nuns, however. It is hard to love a child who does not desire love, to seek to know a child who seems to know too much. Hannibal comes to imagine that he is invisible, that his real self is hidden behind layers and layers of skin, like the onions Tata Magret used to peel in the kitchen, and that nobody can see him. He likes this feeling.
"This is your uncle," said Sister Immaculata, her lips pursed disapprovingly, but signing papers with a haste Hannibal identifies as relief. "He has come to take you to school."
A kindly man, with bushy eyebrows. Thick lips, a big smile.
"My sister's child. It took me so long to find you."
Hannibal has practised this. Tears well up into his eyes. He smiles. "I am so happy to see you, uncle," he says. His uncle opens his arms. Hannibal hesitates for only a second before walking into them. He endures the embrace, and looks at the bloody crucifix on the wall. Christ writhes in agony upon Calvary. He clings a little tighter.
*
Hannibal has engaged in the sexual act, of course; first out of curiosity, and later because not to do so would invite attention. He is a good lover: considerate, courteous, discreet. He finds the act itself a little distasteful, although he can enjoy the hunt, the challenge of seduction. He has taken lovers, male, female; very occasionally, he has done so out of curiosity or admiration, although he has never kept them long, finding them an inconvenience. They have been of migratory, often creative professions - an opera singer, a painter, a sommelier - friends of friends of friends passing through Baltimore on their way to somewhere else, open to a fling of brief duration and limited confidences.
He has displayed them in public, entertained them in private, and on the rare occasions that he has guessed wrong and they have become a nuisance, it has been easy to be rid of them without great inconvenience or risk of anything but a few arch looks at parties. He has never killed a lover, since police attention would be inevitable, and he despises the shallow school of pop psychology that associates the serial murderer with sexual perversion; instead he has kept his true tastes and his desires in one of the many rooms of his mind into which his dalliances were never permitted.
Hannibal's eyes are now like the waters of Lake Baikal, impossibly deep and cold. They are not empty, but the kind of life that looks out of them is only what can survive in such dark depths, alien, predatory. When his patients, acquaintances and lovers look into them, he makes sure that they see little in him but their own reflection. He has, therefore, chosen his partners carefully: men and women of enough intelligence to value his company and, perhaps, to fear him a little, but safely narcissistic.
He has only occasionally chafed at this self-imposed restriction. The only time he is truly himself is when he hunts, and when he makes beauty out of the ugliness he has removed from the world; the only time he sees himself reflected is in the eyes of his kills and in brief, distorted reflections in wineglasses, the curved walls of saucepans. When he can, he kills face to face.
When he meets Will Graham for the first time, the slight, awkward man before him will not meet his eyes. His glances are fleeting, avoidant, and he is always tensed as if for pain. "I avoid eyes whenever possible," he says. "You see too much, you see too little."
In the corner of the orphanage, the child Hannibal, who has not spoken for three months (for thirty eight years), stirs, comes alert.
*
His designs for Will mature slowly. He is wary of over-handling him, of his own excitement defeating itself, but he is inured to the desire to open the oven one too many times, and he practices strict self-regulation. The time will come.
His patience is rewarded when Will bursts into his office with Dr. Abel Gideon, then swiftly tips over into a seizure. As Will's overheated brain convulses inside his skull it is as if his hands on Will's face absorb the tremors and transmute them into shockwaves, and to his surprise he feels his body responding. Even though he knows it is wrong to resent this gift Will has brought him, he experiences a flash of irritation at Gideon's presence. He wants to taste Will's fever, the tears on his cheeks, to explore his body's exquisite vulnerability as it is briefly abandoned by its mind.
When Will has left his house with the keys and the gun, he sits where Gideon sat, where Will looked and saw an empty chair. The room smells of sweat fever and gun-oil. A sharp undernote of blood from Gideon's hands and clothes.
Hannibal has a set of Venetian cut-glass tumblers which once caught his eye, hand-crafted, exquisite. The set had been complete when he acquired it, but the following week, in a rare moment of distraction, he had knocked one off his kitchen counter. He regrets its loss. But it shattered so beautifully.
He thinks of that, now, reliving Will shaking himself apart under his hands. He wants to gather up those fragments and remake them into what Will can be. For the first time, it occurs to him that he might cut himself in the process.
*
Will in the hospital bed is like a wraith, insubstantial, his skin shimmering with sweat under the neon lights. He is wavering between consciousness and oblivion. Hannibal sits for a while, watching him, until Will's eyelashes flutter and he shows signs of awareness. Hannibal says his name once, then again, for the pleasure of it in his mouth. Will's eyeballs move beneath his eyelids, like the pulse in a small animal's throat. Hannibal wanted to be there when he first woke up and remembered that he had killed Gideon, to see the knowledge in his eyes while it was still raw, but he was delayed by Alana Bloom, who, in the clarity caused by shock, had insisted on a fresh MRI and diagnosis. Still. He is here now.
Will stirs. He looks at Hannibal, blinks, and his mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
"Would you like some water?"
Will nods. Hannibal holds the glass to his mouth, tips it carefully. He permits Will to struggle and choke a little before he takes hold of Will's head with his other hand, sinks his fingers into Will's slick hair and supports him. Water trickles down Will's chin and throat as he swallows. Hannibal wipes his mouth with two fingers, and blots them on his handkerchief.
"God," Will says, staring at the ceiling.
"I'm afraid I must disappoint you," Hannibal says. The corners of Will's mouth twitch.
"How are you feeling, Will?"
"Like I've spent the last few days with a fever of a hundred and two."
"A hundred and five, actually."
Hannibal gestures silently towards the water, and Will closes his eyes no.
"They have discovered the source of your infection," says Hannibal. "You have – had - acute auto-immune encephalitis. You are responding to treatment."
"I know," says Will. "The doctor came – yesterday. Last night. I think.
"I must apologize, Will. Were he still alive, Dr. Sutton would be facing some hard questions, as shall I. I have made my own investigation; it turns out that he was under inquiry and his license was under review. I had no idea. I take full responsibility."
Will's eyes dip to the side, up to the right. He is accessing the creative part of his mind. He does not look at Hannibal.
"You knew. You both did. Why did you lie?"
Hannibal sits back. There is no injury in Will's tone, no anger, but a sure knowledge that it would be dangerous to deny. He considers. He chooses his words carefully.
"Auto-immune encephelitis is a very rare illness, Will. It is so rarely diagnosed in its early stages, while the patient can still make a full recovery. It occurred to Dr Sutton and myself that we had a unique opportunity to monitor and study your symptoms, to contribute to medical science. But then Dr Sutton died, and things became… complicated." He sits back, passes his hand across his face. It is a calculated move that he learned long ago, which has the advantage of hiding his eyes. "I did not mean for it to go so far. I made a mistake. I can only ask for your forgiveness."
Will's eyes close again. His cheeks are a sickly, pale colour against his eyelashes. His skin is oily, damp.
"You're a sociopath."
He says it quietly; it is not an accusation, or an insult, or a question. It is a statement of fact.
Hannibal has been acting for so long that it is his nature, as unconscious as breathing. He rarely has to pause to consider, as he did when he was a young boy, what someone ordinary would do in this situation, what the good Dr Lecter would say.
"Is that your diagnosis?" he says at last. He is fascinated by his conflicting feelings at this moment. Beneath the bed, his long fingers are tracing over a sharp piece of wire, sprung loose from the mattress base, that could be twisted free and driven through a jugular.
Will's mouth twitches.
"Is it yours?"
Hannibal hesitates again. There is a disturbance happening inside him, like something struggling deep underwater.
"One of many."
His voice sounds odd, and it startles him. It is, he thinks, like the voice of a man who has been in prison for many years. He is amused by this simile. Will Graham has a tendency to draw those around him into melodrama.
Will shifts, relaxes incrementally back into the pillows. He lets out a breath, slow, measured. "I've had weirder friends." He does not meet Hannibal's eyes.
"You would still consider me a friend?"
The wire is sharp, curved in an s-shape, and it protrudes downward under the bed. Dangerous for children, or dogs.
"Do you want a friend?"
"The medical establishment tells us that sociopaths do not have friends."
Will's lip curls. "I know what you think of the medical establishment. That's not what I asked, Hannibal."
His eyes flicker up for a fragment of a second, giving his use of Hannibal's name an air of self-consciousness. Hannibal is charmed by his attempt at manipulation. He wonders what it would be like to tell the truth to Will Graham again.
"I don't want to be your friend."
Will's face tightens in a flinch. Beneath the bed, Hannibal lets his finger rest on the tip of the sharp wire, just shy of puncturing the skin. With his other hand, he reaches out and touches Will's mouth, and watches understanding dawn.
"Are you still thirsty?" he says softly.
Will's head jerks, a nod. Hannibal dips his finger in the water and brings it up again to Will's mouth. Will snorts and flinches back, colour rising in his cheeks in a way Hannibal finds delightful, but Hannibal gently takes hold of Will's jaw with his other hand, and Will's expression changes. Hannibal moves slowly, as with a frightened animal. Gently. He raises his wet finger to Will's mouth, and this time Will's lips part slightly, and his eyes drop to the coverlet. Hannibal slips his finger between his lips and touches the ridge of his teeth, the soft inside of his lower lip. His hand on Will's jaw encourages him to open wider, and Will's intake of breath is cold on Hannibal's finger until he takes him all the way in and the wet, soft heat of his mouth closes around him. Will sucks the water from his finger, his cheeks hollowing, gaze still averted in confusion or shame. He is lovely. Will's tongue curls around Hannibal's finger, and a delicate shiver runs down his spine. His skin feels sensitized, awake, as if several layers have been peeled away.
Then Will pauses with Hannibal's finger caught and held between his teeth, the sharp, hard edges pressing down just a little into the delicate joint. The moment hangs between them. Will's eyes flicker up, with a spark of defiance in them, and Hannibal hears, in his mind, the crunch of bone, feels the click of teeth coming together through flesh, the hot flow of blood down his wrist. For the second time in this encounter he has the unexpected sensation of being surprised, and for a moment he is suspended in waiting, but no realization spreads over Will's face, no horror. Hannibal's pulse is running at eighty one beats per minute. He wrests control of his breathing and calms himself.
He leaves Will to sleep. For the first time in some months he strokes himself to climax under his cotton sheets, because an unfamiliar ache has lodged itself in his sternum and an itch is crawling under his skin, and he wants, he wants.
*
Will is pointing the gun at him in Garrett Jacob Hobbs' kitchen. Its barrel is like a single wavering eye. Will's hands are not steady, but his gaze is unwavering. There is death in this moment. Events have slipped from his control, but Hannibal's blood is singing.
"Would it feel good to kill me now?" he says. Will draws in a breath that is like a gasp, or a laugh. His skin has a shine again, sweat darkens his hair and the smell of fever is all about him. Hannibal can taste him in the air, wants to taste his skin.
"Will," he says. He steps forward. He reaches out, and wraps his fingers around the gun. For the long seconds in which Will Graham does not release the gun, their hands touch; then Will begins to shiver uncontrollably, long tremors racking his body. He staggers back, but before he hits the wall, Hannibal has disarmed the weapon, disposed of it, and is there to push him the rest of the way. Will's mouth is yielding and slack against his at first, and then he bites, snarls into Hannibal's mouth, and Hannibal pins his wrists against the Hobbs' cheap wallpaper and bends to Will's throat, lets Will feel his teeth against his pulse. He bites down, and Will jerks against him.
"Shh, shhh," he whispers, and licks the tender marks, sucks until Will's skin is livid and Will is squirming and cursing in a broken whisper.
"Don't," Will is saying, and Hannibal kisses the word out of his mouth, dizzy with want. Will surges against him, little distinction between fighting and reciprocating now as their tongues and teeth clash and the taste of blood proliferates in their kiss. He can feel Will's erection against his hip every time he struggles against him to get free.
"Fuck," Will gasps, as they break apart for air. There is blood in the channels between his teeth. Hannibal does not like profanity, but here and now it only drives the urgency in his blood higher. He forces Will to lean further backwards, off his balance, and deliberately slows his pace, runs his tongue along Will's lips and licks the blood away. Will shivers as if cold, but the heat of his body is burning through the clothes between them.
"I want you," Hannibal says, telling the truth again.
"We can't – always have – what we want –" Will says, through chattering teeth, and when Hannibal releases his hands he clutches wildly at Hannibal's clothes, at once pressing closer and trying to open buttons, belt buckles. Hannibal feels laughter in his chest as he holds Will's hands still once again and marches him toward the living room, then kicks his feet out from under him. Will stares up at him from the floor, panting, his legs spread and his erection distorting the fabric of his corduroys. Hannibal shrugs off his jacket and waistcoat, then Will's hands are around his calves, pulling him off balance, and he barely catches himself from falling bodily onto Will.
"You could remove your own clothes instead of preventing me from removing mine," he growls, but cannot resist putting his mouth to Will's neck again, the skin now a tender map of bites.
"Don't make this something it isn't," Will gasps.
He leans back gradually against the carpet under the pressure from Hannibal's hand on his chest, but then he balks when Hannibal tries to unbutton and unzip his jeans. When Will writhes and slips from beneath his grasp, Hannibal lets out a sharp breath and slaps Will, open-palmed, across the face. The violence loosens a tether in his mind, one layer shed from his protective exterior, and joy crackles under his skin. Will does not struggle the second time as Hannibal opens his jeans and reaches inside to palm his cock, to take hold of the most intimate part of him and squeeze.
"Would you like me to suck you, Will?"
"No," Will gasps, looking up at the ceiling. "Yes. No. God, fuck, don't, I don't know -"
He is almost hyperventilating, sucking in tight, shallow breaths, flushing red on one cheek and pale on the other. He is beautiful. He lies limp as Hannibal removes his jeans and boxers, only his hands twitching and flexing against the weft of the rug. When Hannibal bends to taste the smooth head of his cock, he makes a sharp noise, then thrusts his wrist against his mouth and bites down as Hannibal takes more of him, lets his mouth water at the sharp taste of musk. The pained, desperate noises Will makes against his own wrist are sweeter because he does not want Hannibal to hear them. When he senses that Will is losing focus, Hannibal releases his cock to bob wetly in the cold air, and moves up to pull his wrist away from his mouth and lick away the wet bite marks; then he has to kiss him again, force Will to taste himself on his tongue. Will tries to say something into Hannibal's mouth, but Hannibal eats the words, swallows them, and Will whines as his cock brushes against Hannibal's thigh, then thrusts up against him wildly. Hannibal pulls back and presses Will's hips down against Hobbs' carpet. Will closes his eyes immediately rather than meet his gaze. The flush on his left cheek has settled and spread, and his lower lip is swelling.
"Look at me, Will," Hannibal says. Will takes a sobbing breath, and keeps his eyes closed.
"Do you want to look at me as I fuck you?"
Will shakes his head and mouths no, but no sound comes out. He does not open his eyes. Hannibal watches him, enraptured. He is, perhaps, in love.
"Then turn over."
Another shudder passes through Will's body, and Hannibal feels all his hairs stand on end as Will hauls himself up, struggles free of the jeans around his ankles, then clumsily turns over, his skin pimpling and prickling in the cold room, and wobbles on his hands and knees. His head is bowed, and his bare skin is pale under a dusting of dark hair that begins at his upper thighs and up around his anus. Hannibal makes him wait for a moment, allows the silence to stretch out as Will shivers, exposed. The carpet must itch his knees; soon it will burn. Then Hannibal presses himself against Will, allows him to feel his rough, wool-blend pants against his bare buttocks, lets him feel that he, Hannibal, is still fully clothed.
"You like this," whispers Will. "Humiliating me."
"Yes," Hannibal agrees. He kisses Will's shoulderblade through his sweater, then pushes the fabric up and traces his lips down the nubs of Will's spine, feeling the bone slide under the skin as Will shifts. With one hand he unbuttons his own pants, and considers briefly the condom in his bag. There is no risk of sexually communicable disease. Will may be processed later by forensics, but he is unwilling to deny himself this pleasure, and besides, he has already left trace evidence all over Will. In for a penny, he thinks, and smiles against the delicate skin of Will's lower back. He is hard, has been for some time, and his erection is well lubricated with his own arousal. He augments this with his own saliva.
"I'm going to fuck you now," Hannibal whispers into Will's ear, breathing hard with arousal and exertion. "I am going to hurt you."
Will's laugh becomes a cry as Hannibal positions himself and forces the head of his cock through the tender ring of muscle. It is tight, almost unbearable, and he pauses to draw breath, overwhelmed by the feverish heat of Will's body clenched around the head of his cock.
"But – ah – not too much. I know you pleasure yourself this way. You have quite a nice collection of toys in your dresser. I suppose Jack Crawford has them now."
"Oh God," Will chokes out, as Hannibal's cock slowly opens his body. His back has gone rigid, and his muscles flex and ripple under Hannibal's ravenous gaze. He runs his fingers over Will's bare lower back and up beneath his sweater, gentles him like an animal. Gasps hiss through Will's teeth.
"Let it out," Hannibal says gently, "There is nobody to hear," and Will slams the palm of his hand down on the floor silently once, twice, then makes a harsh, grating sound like a scream being ripped unwillingly from his throat as Hannibal drives forward into him, entering his body an inch at a time. Hannibal's fingers are white against his hips and he harnesses every ounce of his control against the Bacchic wildness that is rising in him. He wants to tear Will apart. He thrusts into him instead, just once, and Will sobs and scrabbles at the carpet. His eyes fall closed without his conscious volition, the better to savour his breach of Will's defenses, the way his body's resistance falls away and his muscles yield to make room for Hannibal. He thrusts again, experimentally, and finds his way easier; he is surprised by the depth of his own pleasure, and arches forward, mouth open in a silent moan against Will's back.
"Do it, do it," Will chants in a terrible whisper, "Do it, come on."
Another tether of his self-restraint frays and snaps.
He fucks Will hard, violently, kneeling behind him at first then supporting himself on one hand on the floor behind Will, and Will sweats and curses beneath him, his small, furious noises spurring Hannibal on to find the spot that will make him cry out. He finds it at last, and Will's moan surprises a gasp from him. He is abruptly close to his climax, and his hand trembles a little as he reaches down to wrap his hand around Will's cock, which is no less hard now for his pain. With sudden strength, Will bucks and pushes up and backward, taking Hannibal in to the hilt and grinding down onto his lap, giving his weight to Hannibal so he can touch himself. Their fingers tangle together around Will's cock, slick and hot, and Hannibal bites at the back of Will's neck as Will curls into himself and spills over their joined hands, his whole body tightening and shuddering, as if rejecting the pleasure.
When he has finished, Hannibal forces him onto his hands and knees again and fucks him mercilessly, his breath coming in barely-controlled gasps now, his semen-stained fingers digging into Will's hip, his orgasm coiling and winding in his belly like a snake. Will moans, unrestrained and open-mouthed, and Hannibal takes his hair in his fist and pulls upward, so that Will's head is forced up in the direction of the mirror in the corner of the living room. Will's face is a mess, red and sweating, his mouth swollen and bleeding where his teeth have opened his lips, his cheeks wet with tears. Will's dark reflected eyes meet his, and Hannibal climaxes, heat wracking him in silence.
When he comes back to himself, he withdraws from Will, who collapses immediately onto the floor and stretches out his legs with a groan. Hannibal removes a handkerchief from his pocket and cleans himself, then tucks and buttons until he is presentable. This takes only a few seconds. He means then to rise, to stand, but he finds he is not confident that his legs can support his weight. Will rolls slowly onto his back, genitals exposed, semen matted into the hair on his thigh. His tongue darts out to lick the blood from his bottom lip, and Hannibal is unable to look away. Will starts to laugh, laughs until he covers his eyes with his arm and shakes, grimacing, tears leaking into his sleeve and rolling back into his hair. Hannibal is frozen, speechless, fascinated by his own intoxication.
"Will," he says, when he finally finds his voice, "Clean yourself up." He tosses Will a handkerchief.
Will comes back to himself slowly, and seems to remember where they are; his colour heightens even more, if possible, and he fumbles at his pants, grimacing in discomfort when he sits up and bends. Hannibal forces himself away, and returns to the kitchen to find the gun, and his cellphone.
*
Hannibal enters the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. As the bars scrape shut behind him, Hannibal closes his eyes for a moment. He forced Will too far, too fast, but he is about to get what he wanted all the same.
Will is sitting on the bed, still, silent. For a strange second, Hannibal sees himself in his place, overlaid like a transparency on a photograph. It has the force of a premonition for an instant, but no, it is only his own reflection in the bulletproof glass.
"Hello, Will."
They are meeting for the first time. Hannibal is leaving the orphanage with his hand obediently in his uncle's, shedding the suspicious gazes of the nuns and his own rough, ugly clothes; he is coming to America, he is entering medical school, he is building a palace with bare, clean rooms for the beauty he will make.
Will looks up, and he sees. He sees him.