All of his suits are tailored to fit perfectly. Regardless of how little money his Estate Manager allotted him, he’d never allow for someone of his status to dress poorly. It would reflect badly on himself, and so, of everything from Hannibal’s old life he couldn’t have, he could have nice clothes.
Not that it mattered currently. All of his nice suits, Italian leather shoes, and shiny watches didn’t matter when it came down to what he was going to wear for this official first date with Will. If it can even really be considered a date. Kit said it was, and maybe Hannibal is just more of a romantic, but it didn’t seem like it could really be called that. Of course, he won’t break the illusion, he just had the thought tucked away in the back of his mind.
This is for his benefit, no more, no less. When people start adding extra terms to things then it becomes too complex.
He asked Kit what was appropriate in terms of dress and they told him it depended. Charles liked skin, he liked to flaunt, he wanted to touch in ways that made everyone else uncomfortable. Modesty wasn’t something he wanted or cared for. Will doesn’t seem like the kind to care for that sort of behavior, if anything, he doesn’t seem to like attention drawn his way at all. (Not that he’s willing to compromise his public integrity because some man likes a spectacle.)
Still, he wants to dress smart, in something that won’t be too flashy for Will’s tastes but also feels true to him. It would help if he knew where they were going but Will hasn’t told him. He sent him very few messages from Thursday to today, and they called once, but he’s been very reserved. He supposes that’s fair, but they’ll have to break through that wall eventually. Though, that isn’t a task for now. Tonight is about officially being together. Making good on his end of the deal.
Sex is on the table. Will told him he could say no, but who does that benefit? He can do once a week, hell, he could do more if Will’s half decent. The performance of it is there too. On so many occasions with men and women alike he’s had to perform, he’s an actor in a lot of ways. So, he needs to dress nice enough that he’ll want to have sex with him but subdued enough that he won’t draw unwanted attention to Will – at least for now.
He ends up in a navy suit with a pink paisley tie and matching pocket square. Very briefly, he wonders if this is a good look, but before he can second guess and change again, Will texts him to come down. They have reservations and he doesn’t like being late, as Hannibal’s already discovered.
He walks down, preens just before he steps out into the night air, and looks for Will. At first, he doesn’t see him and he feels shocked. Almost like he’s been played – but he knows he hasn’t. There’s money in his bank account that says otherwise. Still, he doesn’t see the car from Will’s house and he steps a few feet down the sidewalk before he hears a honk behind him.
There’s a black car parked just a bit from the entrance of his building, the window’s down, and Will’s waving him over. This isn’t the car from before, he knows that much, but he comes over and gets into the passenger seat. It’s a much nicer, sleek, car. Where he hides this, Hannibal doesn’t know but he shouldn’t. It’s obviously very lightly used, it smells too new, and for whatever reason he chose to haul it from its hiding spot, he immediately considers how he’s going to get him to use it more.
Along with the nice car, Will’s dressed in black. The entire outfit goes together, not bought separately off of some rack but made for him. Good slacks, a black suit jacket, and a white shirt. He’s chosen to go without a tie, maybe it didn’t come with one, maybe Will just doesn’t like it. Either way, Hannibal’s chest warms as he looks at him. He really did a great job. His masculinity seems to be seeping out of him and into the air more than before. It’s enough to make anyone with good sense and not swoon.
He notes that his glasses are nowhere to be found either. How lucky he is.
The only problem is, without the dog and oil, he can smell his cheap, chemically aftershave. Something he probably bought from a drugstore. It’s an affront to him, to anyone who can smell.
“Where do you get your aftershave from?” He asks without thinking as he tries to settle into the seat.
Will pulls from the curb, he glances over at Hannibal, lips parted. “You can smell that? Are you smelling me?”
“Difficult to avoid. It smells like something that came out of a bottle with a ship on it.” Hannibal answers truthfully. This is one of those things he can be truthful about. How horrendous he smells. Another thing to add to the list then: use this car more, get Will to buy a better aftershave.
“I keep getting it for Christmas.” Will clicks the radio on, perturbed. “Here, play whatever you want.”
Quick to take action, Hannibal starts flipping through radio stations to find something he’d prefer. The music originally started on some Country Music station with some man singing low and trembling.
“That building reminds me of a place I used to live in when I was a cop.” Will’s face tightens in displeasure. It must be that coupled with Hannibal’s upfront insult about his scent.
“The Estate Manager feels that different things qualify as necessities.” Hannibal settles back into his seat. The radio station he’s decided on plays softer, older music. Something from before both of their times. “He reasoned that people don’t have to come to my apartment, therefore it doesn’t have to be nice.”
“But tailored suits are a necessity?” Will laughs in disbelief. “That expensive ass car you drive is a necessity?”
“People have to look at me and if I look unkempt then it reflects poorly on him. Even with my car, though, I am meant to be getting my motorcycle sent here soon enough.” Hannibal rubs a finger over the warm leather interior. “I won’t look a horse in the mouth.”
“A gift horse.” Will corrects lightly.
Hannibal blinks. “What?”
“You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Will says, “that’s the expression.”
“Yes.” Hannibal glances out of the window, folding his hands into his lap. “Tailored suits are a necessity.”
They end up in downtown Baltimore, amid the hustle and bustle of the nightlife, people trying to get home, and lines of people outside of restaurants and clubs. Hannibal rarely comes to this part of town. He has no use for it, and he didn’t have the money to partake in anything worth the drive until recently. It’s a nice surprise, a welcomed one.
Clubs are out of the question. Will has stated his dislike for them, and Hannibal has to agree. Could they build an entire relationship on their hatred for clubs? Probably not, but it’s an amusing enough thought for Hannibal that he considers mentioning it.
It’s some sort of restaurant for sure. There’s no disrespect in the thought but he does wonder if it’s actually nice and if it’s just nice to Will. Of course, he won’t complain either way. The coffee shop was good, he suspects wherever he takes him, it’ll also be just fine.
Finally, after more silent riding, Will pulls into a small parking lot outside of a gray brick building. Two men come to his car almost immediately. They open the door for both of them and Will gives him his keys, his name, and they hand him a small piece of paper to return at the end of their night.
Valet is a good sign, Hannibal thinks.
Hannibal walks around the car and stands by Will as he talks with the oldest of the two men for a moment longer. He’s giving him instructions on how to use the parking feature. The conversation bores him almost immediately so he lets his eyes wander.
The building itself is unassuming, but he can smell the food from outside and it’s obvious that it’s nicer than he expected, given that Will seems to enjoy a far more simple life than the average man of his wealth and status. He told him to dress nice and when he said that, he expected a mildly nice restaurant. Somewhere that sold canned Budlight but also a nice sized but maybe overpriced-for-the-quality steak.
Will places a hand on the small of Hannibal’s back the moment he steps away from the valet and he starts to guide him inside. The simple gesture nearly startles him, but he relaxes into the touch with ease. His hand is warm, he can feel it through the layers, and it doesn’t waver. He appreciates that he’s sure in his touch, he’d hate for him to be too skittish.
One thing, he’s good at playing a part, and with $800 in his bank account and the guarantee of a fine dinner ahead of him, he can enjoy it enough. That, plus the fact that Will isn’t second guessing this, he isn’t acting shy, emboldens him more. He wants this too, Hannibal doesn’t know why he keeps reminding himself of that, but he wouldn’t have entertained the idea if he didn’t. The hand on his back tells him as much.
The lights inside the building are low, somewhere somebody is playing a piano, and there’s chatter all around them. Around the room, he sees men making business deals, couples on dates, and groups of people talking loudly, laughing like no one else is there. This place may be nice, but it isn’t the sort of place his kind of rich would go to. Stuffy and quiet with stuck up noses and haughty eyes. This is robust, warm. He doesn’t hate it either.
“We have a reservation for Graham,” Will says to the smiling girl at the hostess stand. She must be about his age, probably fresh out of college.
She doesn’t check the book, only continues to smile and nods in agreement. “Of course, Mr. Graham, we have your usual table ready for you. If you’ll just follow me.”
They follow behind the girl, Will’s hand still firmly placed on Hannibal’s back. No one pays them any attention. No one cares, too engulfed with their own lives. This isn’t odd to them. Whatever they might think in passing holds no bearing on their own life so what is there to judge? Plenty of the men (and some the women) here probably bring younger dates all the time.
It’s a horribly freeing feeling to realize no one cares.
They’re sat in a far corner, away from the loudest of the people. This room has a handful of other occupied tables, but no one spares them a glance. The table is small but comfortable. White table cloth, wine glasses, a candle in the middle (one that upon closer inspection isn’t real. Fire safety. No one cares about aesthetics anymore).
“Bradley will be with you shortly,” the hostess chirps before leaving them with two menus and a fake candle between them.
Hannibal tries to take it all in. The candle is a minor infraction compared to the rest of the ambiance. Cherry wood floors, the scent of fresh food, behind Will he can see that the kitchen is pressed against the bar and some people can even watch the food being prepared, others are just living their lives without worry of what the rest of their rich friends might think. When he looks at the menu the prices make his mouth water, not with the desire to spend Will’s money necessarily, but with the knowledge that he’s going to eat something good. That’s he going to be full.
“You look surprised,” Will ventures. His fingers are tapping against one of the wine glasses, his lips pressed into a firm line.
He hasn’t picked up his own menu, and maybe he won’t. He likely knows what he’s ordering, he probably orders the same thing every single time he comes.
“This doesn’t seem like a place you’d frequent,” Hannibal replies. And of course, it doesn’t. Not because of the atmosphere but because Will seems to keep a lower profile outside of his very public position with the FBI and these prices are anything but low. “You have a usual table.”
“What can I say, I like a good steak.” Will stops his tapping.
He smells bitter, suddenly. Nervous.
It’s somehow the most obvious and shocking thing in the whole world and Hannibal doesn’t know what an appropriate response is.
The waiter, Bradley, appears in a timely fashion saving him from having to find a comment.
For a moment, he seems shocked by Hannibal’s presence at the table. Just as much shocked as Hannibal is that Will comes to places like that and that he’s nervous. He looks at Hannibal a hair too long, and then turns his attention to Will. “Would you like to start with your usual, Mr. Graham. We just started buying a new brand of whiskey and our first shipment came in today.”
“I think we’ll look at the wine menu tonight actually and the waters on the table are fine,” Will says. Another shocking development for Bradley. For Hannibal too. Forgoing his usual whiskey for wine? He’s really trying to set the mood.
Bradley smiles. “Of course.”
He hands the menu to Will. He doesn’t even give it a glance before passing it to Hannibal. “You’re the connoisseur.”
Breathing a laugh, Hannibal flips open the little book. “Hardly.”
“You went to the club and had a glass of wine.” Will hums, a slight hint of mocking in his voice.
Hannibal scans the first few lines and allows himself to laugh. “Is there something wrong with that?”
He shakes his head. “No, but it speaks a lot about you as a person.”
The wine menu is short but contains an ideal selection of wines, ranging in a varied spectrum of dry to sweet. He just needs to pick the best according to the type of steak they order; Will looks like the kind of man to order something fatty – he likes a good steak after all.
Hannibal closes the little book with a smile. The amount of smiling he’s going to be doing for the next two years is probably ridiculous, but whatever works. “A nice Shiraz would go well with steak. Is Henschke fine with you?”
“Yes.” Will nods and the waiter reappears as if on cue. It makes Hannibal wonder if he’s specifically selected to serve just Will while he’s here. It seems likely if he’s a regular who spends plenty of money here.
Nice whiskey, expensive steak, a suit, and a car. Is that all he spends his money on? He’ll have to look around his house later and see where else he might be splurging. There’s a sneaking suspicion in the back of his mind that he doesn’t enjoy spending the money. That the car and the suit are only skin deep investments. That there aren't any larger purchases to be named, aside from the house in Louisiana. (Which he’s very interested in and he hopes that it’ll be the first trip they go on. Oh, to see Anne Rice’s House.)
“Are you trying to prepare me?” Hannibal accuses lightly. “Will it make you feel better if I’m drunk?”
“I thought a nice dinner would be fair, especially for a first date. You don’t have to have an attitude every time I do something nice.” Will scoffs and goes back to his finger tapping.
They’re both doing it. Not that Will can see the way he taps his fingers against his lower thigh, but they’re both ill at ease. As relaxing as this may be, and however good of an actor Hannibal is, he so desperately wants to impress Will.
Hannibal takes his cloth napkin from the table and folds it over his lap. Once, twice, and a third time. “Nice is not in the vocabulary for this.”
Will lowers his voice and says, “Someone really does need to teach you to mind yourself.”
The tone his voice takes curls up inside of Hannibal, it makes everything in him feel hot and sticky. If he’s trying to set the mood, he’s doing a phenomenal job of it. He won’t lie to himself and say that there isn’t something about Will that has got him going for the last two weeks. A mix of masculinity, his blasé (maybe even snarky) attitude, and something familiar. He can’t place it, but something in Hannibal recognizes something in Will. He can feel it now, as they stare at each other across the table. Maybe he noticed it that night in the club, subconsciously, or maybe it’s a new development, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t know if he should either. If he cares too much, it could end poorly.
“I believe this is usually the time when people start asking each other questions.” Hannibal changes the subject, the sound of Will’s voice still ringing in his ears. “Not berate them like a child.”
Will leans back in his seat, rolling his shoulders. Hannibal’s pleased he seems more comfortable now than he was on the phone. Telling him how in the South he’d have been handled, he knows better but he thinks about asking him to show him how it would go. A mild demonstration. Where’s the harm in that?
“Ask then.” Will makes a vague gesture, spurring him on.
It takes him a moment to decide what he wants to ask right now. There’s a lot he wants to know, especially about his work with the FBI, but asking that immediately might be too big of a jump. So, he settles on something easy. “Tell me about your family.”
That catches him oddly; Will looks him over. “My family’s dead.”
“We have that in common, I suppose.” Is that a good thing? Can they bond over dead families? Dead families, their hatred for the club. There’s surely more.
Will debates for a moment, he can tell that he doesn’t want to say more about it all, but then he sighs. “My mother was from Beaufort, South Carolina. Her parents were rich, and she married my father. He wasn’t rich and we lived in Louisiana usually, but we also traveled. He worked on boats so I also work on boats. There’s nothing very special to say.”
Hannibal’s eyebrows shoot up. “You do?”
“I’m a certified diesel mechanic.” He beams, eyes crinkling. “I can work really well with my hands.”
“You’ve lived many lives.” Hannibal takes a sip of his water to hide the smile that forms across his face. “Is there anything you’ve enjoyed the most?”
He thinks for a moment, mouth curled up. Probably none of them, and Hannibal could understand that. “Teaching has been the most fulfilling but I’ll always feel connected to the water.”
The water. It must be why Will bought that house in Louisiana. Is it odd for him to love so far from the ocean now? His blood must sing when he gets close to it.
Before Hannibal can respond, Bradley comes back with their bottle of wine. He pours them both a glass, eyes Hannibal, but doesn’t ask what he should. Instead, he takes their orders – bone-in ribeye for Will, petit filet for Hannibal who decides to come off as somewhat modest, both medium rare, and then a side of creamy spinach and a half serving of fries.
“What about you?” Will finally goes for the little bread basket that’s been sat at the table since they got here, tearing a piece of sourdough for himself. “What about your family?”
“I told you–“
“No, no you told me things I wanted to hear. I’m sure a lot of it was true but in a very specific way. Tell me about your family.” He dips the bread directly into the dish of salted butter. “Your parents, your uncle. What was life like before this? It’s only fair.”
“My parents died when I was very young and I moved in with my uncle,” Hannibal tells him that, but it’s the same as before. He needs to give something else. “Lithuania and France are such different places. The United States too. While my parents were alive we lived very well, in castle, and when my uncle was alive too. His home in Paris was exquisite.”
Will nods along, though his eyes widen a bit when Hannibal mentions the castle of his childhood. “Any siblings?”
Hannibal hesitates, and he feels himself going down a bad path. The cold of winter creeps up into his bones, and the chortle of harass Lithuanian in his ears. He clears his throat and takes a piece of the bread too. He needs something to do. “I had a sister. Her name was–Mischa.”
It happens again. All the color drains from his face, he’s almost sickly. For a split second, Hannibal thinks he might vomit, then he takes a long breath, swallows, and gives him a somber look. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
When it, whatever it is, happened before at the coffee shop Will didn’t recover so quickly. How odd the behavior is; then it had nearly frightened him that he said the wrong thing and was going to be rejected. Now he wonders if it’s something more. Chronic pain? Or something deeper? Something mental?
“Can we talk about something else?” Hannibal takes the little butter knife and smears it across the airy bread. He thinks about the smoothness of marrow, how rich it tasted that night. “Were you close to your grandparents?”
Maybe that isn’t different but it’s not Hannibal. He thinks of Mischa often, but announcing anything about her, especially to Will of all people, feels sacrilegious. Only the people he knows deeply should know about her, not a man he’s using for money. What could Will even understand about that pain? If he knew what happened to her, what he was forced to do… a man like Will might be able to stomach it but it would surely make him reject Hannibal.
Will downs half his glass quickly, licking the beads of leftover wine from his lips. “Not at all. I hadn’t seen them since my mother’s funeral when I was five. I didn’t even go to their funerals.”
“They still left you everything,” Hannibal takes a sip of his wine. It’s good, just like he expected it would be. “My father was a Count, just as his father before him. My uncle had the title and the money after my father’s death. I was meant to get the money when I was 18. I did get the title.”
“I remember you saying that. It’s still just words to me.” Will shrugs again, lips thinning and he stares off just beyond Hannibal’s shoulder. “My grandparents probably felt guilty. The things they left me are nice so I forgave them for not trying. They let me grow up poor, or–“ he closes his eyes for a moment, “they could’ve tried harder.”
“Do you like the life they’ve bequeathed you?” Hannibal asks. “I don’t think forgiveness can be bought, even in death.”
“Having money is nice. Strange. I feel like I’m sleepwalking and I’m going to wake up and all of it’ll be gone.” Will takes another piece of bread, dips it in the butter, and eats it. Then he takes another long drink of his wine. “Growing up, forgiveness was instilled in my head. Churches, my father, anyone that could talk. You forgive the dead. It’s the kind thing to do.”
Hannibal finishes his glass. “I don’t always care about being kind.”
He thinks of how quickly his own life changed. How he went from the comforts of old money, money that never ran out, to living in a horrible apartment surviving on cheap cup ramen. Even before that, those days in the cabin in the blistering winter. How it’s changing again, in some way that should, by all accounts, be shameful.
Here though, in this back room with only a handful of people who don’t pay them any attention, he doesn’t feel ashamed. Not that he’s felt shame in a long, long time. Just, he doesn’t even feel the twinge of it that his family tried to instill in him. No one here cares, Will doesn’t care, there isn’t a performance to have. At least, not in that way.
Will refills their glasses. “So why medical school?”
“I want to help people.” That’s the appropriate answer, but Will doesn’t seem to believe that so Hannibal aims for more truth. Not the full thing, but something close enough. “And I enjoy learning about the human body. What goes where, how to take it apart, how to put it back together again if I want. It’s very intimate.”
They stare at each other, Will is unblinking with the bottle of wine still in his hand. He doesn’t look disgusted or pained. He doesn’t look like anything at all. He’s neutral. Calm – he’s studying him.
Finally, Will clears his throat and sets the bottle back down. “That’s an interesting answer. You want to learn to take bodies apart correctly. Most people wouldn’t be keen to say that.”
“The human body is fascinating.” Hannibal hides behind his glass. “Intrigue isn’t a crime.”
Will makes a noise from the back of his throat, a mix of a laugh and a grunt. “You could just learn how to hunt.”
Hannibal had read about the Minnesota Shrike. The hunter who butchered and ate girls that resembled his teenage daughter. Will was on that case, Freddie Lounds wrote about it. She writes a lot about Will. The things he says, the things he does. However, that one in particular has stuck with him.
Learning to hunt would be efficient, but who would teach him? Could Will? He is, in many ways it seemed, a good Southern boy, he likely knows his way around a gun. Not that Hannibal doesn’t, and he had enough knowledge of how to take a body apart, but nothing beats surgical accuracy.
“Why didn’t you do art?” Will adds quickly after, changing the subject just as Hannibal did before. “If you’re so good at it.”
The question catches him abruptly. They’re both good at that. “Excuse me?”
“You said if you didn’t go to medical school you would’ve pursued art. I’m sure once you have your family’s money, you could laze around and draw or paint or whatever else all day.” Will leans forward. “You told me your art is very good.”
“Art is a hobby,” Hannibal repeats exactly what he’s been told his entire life. “I love it, I plan to be much more famous for it, but not right now.”
He was in Italy, though, famous for his art. He’s sure he hasn’t peaked yet.
“Art seems to be a passion,” Will presses on. “Shouldn’t you follow them if you have the means to?”
Is this a challenge? Is he calling him out for some sort of preconceived idea of his status? You’re poor now but you weren’t always and you won’t be forever. He hates it. He wants to be a surgeon and do art. Can’t they both be passions?
“Do you have passions? I know teaching isn’t it.” Hannibal leans back in his seat, folding his hands into his lap again. He knows he soundsserious, borderline sneering. “You could follow yours now.”
“I didn’t have the luxury to chase my passions. I had to be realistic.” Will looks behind Hannibal. Bradley must be coming with their food. “And now… I was content with the life I had before the money.”
“Maybe I didn’t either.” Hannibal declares, but he knows that isn’t really true. While he had money, he certainly could’ve just pursued art and it wouldn’t have made a difference, except in how he butchered bodies.
Will’s obviously unconvinced but he doesn’t poke at it again. They aren’t meant to be getting under each other’s skin, at least not yet. Even if they both seem rather good at it. Hannibal isn’t meant to take offense and act childish toward him either, even if Will seems to intentionally goad him.
The food comes and their water glasses are refilled even though they’ve barely touched them in favor of the wine. Still, it’s enough to take both of their attention away from the conversation at hand. They weren’t getting anywhere, anyway. They don’t need to argue about passions, not when Hannibal’s current passion – a well cooked meal – sits right in front of him on a hot plate.
Each bite of steak is tender, perfectly charred. When he sinks his teeth into the meat, his entire mouth fills with a mix of saliva, the taste of iron pours out over his tongue. He understands why Will likes this place so much. The wine pairs greatly (he’s pleased with himself for that) and the spinach – he never wants to taste a fry again – is creamy enough to cut through the heaviness of the steak itself. The bread is good, house made he assumes, and the ambiance, save for the fake candle, is amazing.
Eating is always a comfortable thing for him too. It always has been, and it always will be. He appreciates it far more than the average person and after months of the cheapest meals possible, it takes everything in him not to moan each time the steak touches his tongue.
He forces himself to be slow about it though. To savor it. The wine in his system makes him just a bit hazy, but he still has good sense. While he’ll get a good bit a money every week, he won’t be eating like this except for days Will wants to go out. If they only ever eat here though, he’ll be happy. (At least he tells himself that for now.)
After an extended period of silence, taking mouthfuls of steak and creamy spinach, Hannibal circles back to some of their previous conversation. “Tell me about your father.”
Will hesitates, his knife clinks hard against the bottom of the plate, missing his nice slice of steak. “There are things you don’t want to talk about and things I don’t. I think we can both respect that.”
“You just said he worked on boats.” He pushes.
“You didn’t tell me anything about your father.” Will sets him with a glare. A kind of look he hasn’t seen from him and is almost positive he will see again. Often. “I’m very serious, Hannibal. Mind yourself.”
Sulking, Hannibal takes another bite of his steak. It’s the best meal he’s had in what feels like an eternity and he won’t ruin this for himself. He should just keep his mouth shut and fill himself with meat and spinach. He doesn’t though, he’s bad about that. Worse of all, he decides to take a risk.
“Tell me about your job then.” He places his utensils down in favor of his wine.
Will forks another piece of steak into his mouth, then a fry for good measure. “What about it?”
Hannibal sips from his glass, lets the flavor bloom over his tongue, and then he responds. “You’re a professor but you work for the FBI in other ways.”
So much for not getting under Will’s skin. That didn’t even last a full minute and a half minutes.
“You need to stay off of tattle crime.” Will stabs his steak violently. “Freddie Lounds and her followers are–“
“People you want to get rid of?” Hannibal cuts in. “You say a lot of interesting things to her.”
Will purses his lips, pressing his fork so hard into the meat that red fluid starts to leak onto his plate. “Yes, on occasion I am called to assist on cases when they can’t find whoever is killing people. Whatever you’ve read is garbage and I’d prefer it if you stopped interacting with it entirely.”
Hannibal smiles into his glass. This is better, this kind of angry is the kind he can get behind. “Do you enjoy your job? Do you get lost in it?”
“It’s easy,” he huffs out exasperated. Still, it sounds like a lie. “I help people.”
“You killed the Minnesota Shrike.” Hannibal’s really on a roll today. A good one. He’s hit a nerve, better than the family one. One that seems to matter. “That was your first case with the FBI.”
Will puts his fork down, sparing the poor steak. “I did.”
Hannibal can’t help but love it, how stern he is, how upset. He must not want to think about that, or, be reminded that he does think about it. Who could know for sure, but Freddie Lounds has an awful lot to say about it and him in general. She seems to believe he’s some kind of psychopath. Is Hannibal sure of that? No, but there is something about Will. Something different.
“Did you hate that?” Hannibal watches him, each movement of his face, the way his eyes tighten and his teeth seem to sink into the fat of his cheek. “Killing? Is it as horrible as they say?”
Will’s throat bobs. There’s this look in his eye that answers the question. “I don’t think about it often. It’s the most ugly thing.”
“Sometimes I think that we should be allowed to do it–think about it. God does, doesn’t he? Aren’t we all a speck of God?” He’s toeing a line he knows he shouldn’t. “Created in his own image but not allowed to merely lust for things he takes pride in?”
“God takes pride in killing?” Will is pouring himself another glass of wine, then refills Hannibal’s glass even though it doesn’t need it. “Never heard that one before.”
“Yes of course. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t do it so often.” With that Hannibal helps himself to another heaping spoonful of creamy spinach. “Tell me, do you believe in God?”
“I haven’t believed in God since I was a little kid, sweetheart,” Will confesses. “I have no use for it.”
Hannibal nods, understanding. “I do. There’s too much irony and cruelty in the world for there not to be a God but I can see how that exact reason may lead someone to not believe as well.”
The conversation ebbs once again and they go back to eating. He knows he’ll be too full for dessert, but he wants it anyway. Something rich and chocolatey, the thought of it alone makes his mouth water. Next time, though. His night isn’t over, he can’t gorge himself to the point of discomfort when he knows he’ll have to be at his prime later.
They finish the wine. Hannibal’s impressed with how much Will can drink without being affected. He’s gone from hazy to drunker than he’d like to be, but the ride to Wolf Trap is long, and doesn’t he deserve this? Isn’t this the whole point? He prefers drunk sex anyway.
The last bite is, in his opinion, the best. He takes another piece of bread and lets it soak up the juices from the steak. Will copies him, and they eat it at the same time.
“That was one of the best steaks I’ve ever had.” Was it? He doesn’t actually know, but currently, he’d like to believe it, and saying it pleases Will.
Will stretches and grins. “I told you it was good.”
The waiter comes back, asks about dessert but they both say no. This time, Will pays with a black card, and Hannibal feels much more content with their meal than he previously did.
When they stand, Will’s hand finds its way to the small of Hannibal’s back again. If this is what it’s going to be like, then he’ll take it. It’s nice, almost comforting if he’d let himself believe that. The heat of Will’s body against him, the smell of the food, the soft piano in the background. Two years of this is hardly a prison sentence. Thank God he picked the right one.
“Thank you, this was very nice,” he says as they walk out of the building. The air is cooler than he expected it to be, and the sounds of the city have started to die down.
“I’m happy you liked it.” Then Will adds, as if it hurt himself to say, “It’s nice not eating alone.”
Hannibal leans into Will’s side, the unyielding form of his body makes him relax before he can think better of it. “I agree. I feel so much more informed.”
“Oh, I bet.” Will laughs, handing the man the little card he received at the beginning of the night.
The two valet’s go to retrieve his car and Will’s hand moves from Hannibal’s back to his side, rubbing little circles there. His lips find his hair, leaving a tender kiss to the side of his head. The alcohol must have had some affect on Will, not that he particularly minds. Hannibal feels like he’s on a stage and the world is watching them both. They’re untouchable actors, performing for what they both want.
The drive to Wolf Trap is quiet, save for Hannibal’s music. For once he doesn’t mind the silence, he feels like he learned a lot about Will tonight and the wine has really started to settle. He knows if he talks too much he’ll say something he regrets so he says nothing at all.
It was, despite their slight bickering, a good night. He likes this life, what he’s getting out of it. He doesn’t have things to worry about, so long as no one from his life back in Europe discovers what he’s doing. How would they anyway?
Will breaks the silence once they’re near to his house. “When are you going to show me your art?”
Hannibal all but beams, remembering that Will has taken an interest in something he enjoys. “I’ll get a portfolio together.”
He thinks of his best works. The ones that anyone would fawn over and then he thinks of the ones that might unsettle Will. Or better, make him suspicious. Maybe, when he puts everything together, he’ll slip one in. Just to see what happens.
“Fancy,” Will chuckles.
He parks the car beside the one he usually drives. His house is dark, but Hannibal can already smell his wild pack of dogs.
When they get out of the car he looks at him. “Where did you get this car?”
“People take you more seriously when you have a nice car, it was one of the first purchases I made. I usually keep it in the shed back there.” Will gestures behind him. “It’s expensive to have money.”
The shed in question is almost too far to see in the dark of the night. He barely makes out the outline of it, but it’s definitely large. It must house all sorts of things. He imagines it doubles as some sort of work shop. Perhaps he still works on boats in his spare time, or maybe he likes to build things.
By the time he makes his way up the porch, Will has let the dogs out. They bump Hannibal’s hand, licking his fingers until they receive adequate attention, and then dash off through the yard.
Hannibal shuts the door behind him and follows Will into the living-room-turned-bedroom.
“Is there a reason you sleep in your living room?” He asks.
Will is across the room from him, messing with the thermostat, clicking it down from 72 to 68. He’s already come out of his jacket, it lies crumpled up on the floor. “Some of the dogs can’t make it up the stairs.”
Hannibal takes his jacket off and lays it on a chair. He intends to make himself comfortable, at the very least. “You need to be here for them?”
Will looks over his shoulder. “I’m very dedicated to being there for what’s mine.”
He doesn’t think there’s any way they can go about this that feels natural. They both know why they’re here, and there’s no point in beating around the bush. They’ve already had their fill of talking tonight, and Hannibal needs to know what he’s working with.
He moves to take his belt off, pulling it through the loops, and laying it over the arm rest of the chair.
Will eyes him for a moment. “You sure?”
Hannibal’s throat jumps. “Yes, I’m sure.”
It’s astounding how quickly people can get into a state of undress. Hannibal folds his clothes, putting them on the same chair he laid his jacket and belt and Will’s clothes make it all into one simple pile on the floor. Nothing is thrown around haphazardly. They don’t immediately devour each other. Instead they stand in their underwear observing.
Will is far more attractive undressed than he expected. His body is lean, with the slightest bit of softness around his stomach. There’s trail of dark hair that comes up from his boxers and up his lower abdomen. His arms are thick, they look better out of his shirt. One of his shoulders has a scar, slightly puckered, but definitely old. He’s tan from yard work. All of this works well for Will.
He gives himself another pat on the back. This just keeps getting better and better.
After they’ve had their fill of each other, the feeling of Will’s eyes roaming over Hannibal’s slight body, he steps over his pile of clothes toward him. The heat from his body shocks Hannibal’s sense and without hesitation, the older man kisses him, hard and hungry. His hands find his hips, locking him in place against him.
The scrap of his beard is just as delicious as Hannibal remembers it being, and now he doesn’t have to leave wanting more. Will is devouring him whole. It’s a demanding thing, and he can’t get enough. He gives in immediately, lets himself be held, for his body to be touched freely, and whimpers when Will’s lips move from his. He’s trailing over Hannibal’s cheek, his jaw, down to neck where he sinks his teeth into the delicate flesh of his neck then runs his tongue over the skin to soothe it. Hannibal squirms, pressing his hips harder against Will’s, looking for friction wherever he can find it.
The co*ck pressed up against Hannibal’s belly is throbbing, and he wants to see it, feel it in his hands.
After another bite and a feeling of certainty that he’ll have to hide his neck on Monday, Hannibal’s hands find the waistband of Will’s underwear and rolls them down his thighs as fast as he can. He pulls away slightly determined to see all of him, even as Will tries to chase him to bite again.
Hannibal blinks. The feeling of it against him did not give him a true representation of his co*ck and it takes everything in him not to gawk at it.
He’s not fully hard yet, but the length and girth of it makes his stomach twist up. He wouldn’t have guessed he was so well endowed and while he’s by no means upset with the fact, he’ll need a moment to compose himself, and give it a good inspection.
“Are you okay?” Will all but laughs.
“Completely,” Hannibal wraps his hand around his co*ck and squeezes.
Will’s shoulders drop a bit, his lip is sucked between his teeth, and Hannibaldrops to his knees without thought. He peers up at Will for a brief moment, observing all of him from his knees is so small feat. He looks divine. He doesn’t ask for permission, and Will doesn’t try to stop him.
The tip of his tongue presses against his co*ck head, touching the slit, catching a burst of precome as he rolls it around him and wraps his lips around the head. His co*ck twitches in his mouth, growing harder and heavier, and presses to the back of his throat.
“Damn,” Will mumbles.
Hannibal tries to take all of him in one fell swoop. He both needs to work up the nerve to be f*cked by Will (for multiple reasons) and he needs to prove himself, he just doesn’t know who he’s trying to do that to. He’s always been complimented on his ability to give head to anyone, but this would be testing his limits.
He looks up through his lashes, trying to give some kind of show of innocence as he takes more and more of him into his mouth. He’s able to get a handful of inches down his throat before he chokes. The girth of Will’s co*ck causes his entire throat to spasm and tears blur his vision. That doesn’t stop him though, and he tries to take even more of him in.
Will grabs him by the back of his hair and pulls him back slightly, holding him there. His grip doesn’t hurt, but it is firm. “Don’t get overzealous.”
He pulls all the way back, a string of saliva connects his bottom lip to Will’s dick.
When it breaks, Will thumbs over Hannibal’s bottom lip as if wiping the lewdness from him.
“I can take it,” he says through bated breaths.
The corner of his mouth quirks and Will puts his thumb against Hannibal’s tongue, silencing him. “Maybe, but not now.”
Hannibal wraps his lips around his thumb, sucking it for a moment, before Will pulls it away. As soon as it’s gone, he takes the head of his co*ck back in his mouth and goes as far as Will lets him. He tries to wiggle free of his grip, but he doesn’t budge. His fingers are locked into his hair and his nails dig softly into Hannibal’s scalp, but it’s obviously enough given the sounds Will makes above him.
Hannibal looks up at him again, he thinks of begging through his eyes to just let him do this but Will isn’t looking at him at all. Will’s chest trembles, lips parted, and the hand in his hair tightens. He’s in his own little world where the only things that exist are his co*ck and Hannibal wet, warm mouth.
He wraps his hand around the base of his co*ck instead, moving it up and down in time with his head, taking extra care to press his tongue against the squishy underside of his dick. Precome spurts into his mouth and he moans around Will.
Pulling back, Hannibal holds his co*ck in place and mouths at it, at the parts he can’t reach yet, and then down to his sack. He licks over it, sucking it into his mouth, and then runs his tongue from the seam all the way up to the tip.
“f*ck,” he groans, wrapping his free hand over Hannibal’s and forcing the tip of his co*ck against his swollen mouth, rubbing precome over his lips and then pushing his co*ck back down his throat until he almost can’t take it anymore. “I don’t even wanna know where you learned to suck co*ck like such a whor*.”
The fingers in his hair hold on so tightly his scalp starts to hurt. The pain, coupled with the feeling of Will’s subdued thrusts into his mouth, makes him moan, eyes rolling back. He can feel his own co*ck twitching, precome soaking his underwear as he’s used for Will’s pleasure.
He comes with a harsh sound and Hannibal can tell it takes a lot in him not to slam his co*ck down his throat and choke him like he means it. He almost wants him to, but he knows it would ruin his voice and that would worse than the bruises forming on his neck. Instead, he swallows and sucks the sensitive head, trying for the last few droplets of come.
When he’s pleased with his work, Hannibal stands, tears and spit on his face, and Will kisses him again. This kiss is no less hungry but it’s far more sloppy. His tongue searches for a taste of his spend on Hannibal’s, moaning when he finds it. One hand holds him by the hair, just as he had moments before, and the other slips under his silk underwear and gropes his ass.
Finally, he pushes him back toward the bed and Hannibal lets himself fall with ease. His face tingles from the constant rub of his beard, his legs come apart, and he stares up at him with that begging look he meant to give him earlier.
Will hooks his fingers around Hannibal’s underwear and pulls them down swiftly, past his knees and ankles, and then disposes of them on the floor somewhere. Hopefully not lost, but he’s far too preoccupied to worry about that.
He isn’t shy or embarrassed by the size of his co*ck, he’s aware it’s smaller than average and has known for much of his life, but Will seems shocked. Above him, he blinks several times as if his eyes are somehow tricking him. Once he accepts it though, which honestly takes an excruciating amount of time, he wraps his hand around it. It fits completely from base to head in his palm. Looking at it like that, hidden well, Hannibal becomes far more aware of just how little it is, but he feels no shame. What he does feel, however, is heat licking up his spine as Will strokes him.
He bites his lip as precome soaks his hand, forcing himself not to smile. He does tease him though, and Hannibal nearly kicks him for it. “Isn’t that cute?”
Hannibal swats at him. “There are more important matters.”
Will takes a long, dramatic breath. He seems content to just play with his co*ck but he nods, still smiling. “Of course there are.”
He steps away from where he had slotted himself between Hannibal’s thighs. The loss is noted, and he shivers. He watches him intently, tracking his every move as Will opens the drawer to his nightstand and takes out a bottle of lube. He squirts a very generous portion onto his fingers and rubs them together quickly in an attempt to warm it up.
Hannibal’s not anxious, but something like it. He wants this to go well, he wants to appease Will and he knows exactly how to, but the mix of too much alcohol and the fact he’s pretty sure Will has the largest co*ck he has even and will ever see, makes him tense up in anticipation.
He spreads his legs when Will comes back, letting him slot in close between his thighs again. The return of his body heat is welcomed. His fingers find his hole, slick with lube, and Hannibal takes a breath when his fingers circle him. Light touches, and then he dips one finger into him, not too far, just testing.
The two of them look at each other, as if they’re both waiting patiently to see what happens. His finger keeps teasing him, just barely slipping in him and then coming out again. His co*ck twitches and his hips jerk, trying to meet his hand so he can have more.
“Are you just going to do this all night?” Hannibal bites out when it’s really gotten too long for his liking. “I can just go home if that’s the case.”
That spurs Will on. His eyes harden and he presses a finger all the way inside of him. Hannibal bites into his lip, waiting, and then his body heats up. Will finds his prostate with ease, and Hannibal watches in horror as his co*ck twitches and sticky, clear fluid beads at the head and then drips down onto him.
A second finger slides into him not long after; Will doesn’t give him time to stop and think, he just curls his fingers up against him and watches him shake and tremble. Hannibal feels hazy and warm and his entire body jolts each time Will rubs his fingers inside of him. It’s almost unfair how undone he’s becoming, even if some of it is an act.
It’s pathetic, actually, how it feels, how good Will is with his hands – he had said he worked with his hand earlier, and well, it seems to have paid off. Part of it is an act though, of course, it has to be. As good as it feels, Hannibal’s sure to play it up. Everyone tends to like that, he’s found in the past. Moaning a little louder, forcing the tremble a little more than necessary. Luckily, Will makes it easy. He knows what he’s doing, so half of the work is already done for him. Not having to pretend to like it helps so much more with his performance.
After Will seems pleased with the state of him, he pulls his fingers out of him (Hannibal’s momentarily dismayed at the loss) and then he presses the blunt head of his co*ck against his ass. They’re both slick with lube, far too much lube. His dick slips upward, forcing Will to grab himself at the base and hold it in place.
The feeling of his co*ck head against his hole jerks him into reality. It’s all felt so good, and now he’s about to be split open and bared vulnerable in front of a man he hardly knows.
“Do you have a condom?” Hannibal asks, shocking himself.
He’s never even been fond of condoms, why he asks now can only be attributed to the alcohol.
Will pauses, looks down at him confused. “Do I look like planned parenthood? Do you want to use one?”
Hannibal swallows. “No. I don’t.”
Will laughs breathlessly. “Okay, good.”
He definitely doesn’t have one, Hannibal realizes, even if he did want one. He has a bottle of lube and no condoms which either means Will never has sex or he goes raw every single time. He’d have to drive down to the gas station and hope they had a decent pack and that just wouldn’t do either way.
The head of Will’s co*ck is back against his ass, slowly sliding into him, and Hannibal pushes himself up on his elbows to watch. Will’s so focused, it’s a strange thing to see, like he thinks he might lose control if he doesn’t.
He can’t be more than an inch inside of him when Hannibal chokes back a groan. He feels like he’s coming apart, being split in two. Hot and thick and slick, his body tries to adjust to this new, unwavering force but it hurts.
“It’s too much,” Hannibal blurts out before thinking. He knows he can take it, in the rational part of his mind he knows he can, but he hasn’t ever taken such a big co*ck before so a ridiculous bit of fear comes out. Pain has never bothered him, he’s never been frightened, but he blames the alcohol for the words spilling out of him. “It won’t fit.”
So much for his declaration of I can take it.
Will stops and rubs a thumb over Hannibal’s hip, shushing him gently. His face is so soft, so caring, and when he speaks, his voice is comfortably low. “I’ll make it fit, sweetheart.”
His stomach drops, his thighs tense, but he can’t look away. He doesn’t notice, too entranced by what’s happening, but Will is watching him closely.
It’s slow, inch by inch. Every couple of seconds Will asks if he’s okay and he says yes but Hannibal feels like he’s coming undone. His body isn’t adjusting as fast as he’d like it to, each inch burns despite the lube, and when Will is pressed flush against him, Hannibal lets out a shaky breath.
“That’s it,” Will whispers, “See? You take me so well.”
His lip quivers. “It’s so much.”
He thinks he can feel him in his ribs. In his lungs. His legs over the side of the bed keep tensing and his co*ck has gone half soft from the burn but he doesn’t want him to pull out, he wants him as close as he can get him. It makes him feel insane.
Will rubs his hip bone again and waits until he feels Hannibal’s legs relax. He’s trembling himself, sweating, Hannibal can see it. It’s taking everything in him not to f*ck him into this bed. If he loses his focus for one second, all bets are off. Despite the pain, he can’t help but smile. Hannibal has him unmoored. (He’s also unmoored but one thing is more important than the other.)
“Just breathe,” Will says just as gently. “You’re fine.”
It takes time, but slowly, Will starts to move. He must be used to people needing time, and Hannibal hates to admit that upsets him. Not enough that it’ll ruminate in the back of his mind, but it’s a passing thought. He isn’t better than everyone else in the regard. However he reminds himself just as quickly that none of those other people are going to matter. He’s going to be the best Will’s ever had, and when their two years are up, Will’s never going to be able to f*ck someone else without thinking about Hannibal.
Hannibal, who will be living the life he deserves without having to use Will to get it. He’ll just be an afterthought, someone he thinks of on random occasions and laughs about. Saying remember that time I used that older man for his money?
Will pulls out just a few inches and then rolls his hips until he’s flush against him again, much easier than the first time. That snaps Hannibal from that line of thought without warning.
Hannibal grabs at the sheets, the coolness of them is a stark contrast against his burning flesh, and Will takes one of his hands in his. Holds it against Hannibal’s chest as he leans over to get a better angle, driving his co*ck go new depths.
If he could think about anything that wasn’t the co*ck inside of him now, it would be the fact that he was right to peg Will as a romantic. He can’t though, all he can muster up to think about is how full he is.
The very next time, Will pulls almost all the way out, just leaving the head inside of him, and slides back in. Faster than before and so much smoother.
Hannibal throws his head back and moans before he can stop himself. It isn’t for Will’s viewing pleasure. It isn’t an act. And when he looks up, tears forming in his eyes for the second time tonight, Will has this look on his face like he knows it. Like he was determined to make it so.
The pain is quickly turning into pleasure and each time Will thrusts back inside of him, filling him up so beautifully, his little co*ck squirts clear fluid all over himself. That should be embarrassing if anything. He’s soaked, sticky, and so close to begging for him to f*ck him harder, into the bed just like he knows he wants.
“Look at that,” Will almost laughs but he’s breathing too heavily to make the sound come out right. “You’re so wet.”
The drag of his co*ck inside of him is the best thing he’s ever felt. There were others before, sure, but no one ever filled him up like this, no one knew how to f*ck him like this. There isn’t room for anything else anywhere, everything is Will. He shouldn’t like it this much–he makes a mental note too nitpick is later–but right now, all he wants is for Will to bury himself deep inside of him and use him as he pleases.
Will gives his hand a little squeeze and then lets go, leaving Hannibal, once again, dismayed. He quickly makes up for it though by wrapping it around his co*ck, thumbing the head until every muscle in his stomach starts to twitch.
Hannibal presses one hand down against his stomach. Debauched, teary eyes, shaking. “I can feel you here.”
Will curses under his breath and slides his hand up over the head of his co*ck in time with a thrust so deep, if it weren’t for Will’s unyielding grip on him, Hannibal’s would’ve certainly been pushed up the bed. It’s so hard, so good, he cries. It’s needy, desperate, but god he thinks he could live just like this.
If he were to remove his own hand from where he placed it, he knows he’d see his co*ck presses up against his stomach. The sight would just be too much for him, too dirty, so he leaves it where it is and watches as Will f*cks into him.
Heat is pooling inside of him, building up in his lower belly. Will rolls his hips back, his entire body feels like flint and Will’s, steel. It’s burning him up, deep down inside of him, all over his skin. Each time Will makes good of touching him, fingers running over his thin chest, his ribs, his hip, or grabbing his leg and hauling him toward him while he slams into him, it leaves his skin ember hot in the cool air of his bedroom.
Another thrust into him and Hannibal jolts. He can’t see Will clearly for the tears but he could swear he’s smiling. It’s horrible. He grabs for one of his hands and Will drops his leg and takes it, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles.
“You’re taking it so well,” Will whispers, “you’re even behaving.”
Hannibal opens his mouth to respond but Will snaps his hips forward and he falls back against the bed. His body doesn’t feel like his own, he’s just floating there. The only thing keeping him in the present is the hand in his.
“I’m so close,” he whimpers. “So close. Please– f*ck me like you mean it,” and for good measure, “f*ck me like I’m yours.”
Will lets his hand go again and pulls him up by the back of his hair, slamming into him in time with each motion of his hand on his co*ck. “Come on, sweetheart, it feels good, doesn’t it? Are you gonna come for me?”
Hannibal tenses, wrapping his legs around Will’s waist to pull him impossibly closer. His body moves against him and Will is whispering how badly he wants it, how he knows Hannibal’s so close, how it must feel so good, how no one else will ever compare.
Hannibal comes with a cry, thin strands of come soak his stomach and chest, and he tries to take deep breaths but can’t. He’s filthy, breathless, and he can’t stop the tears that pour down his cheeks.
His body goes limp in Will’s hold, each snap of his hips makes him jolt but he can’t do anything. He’s in aftershocks, it’s too much, it’s not enough. All he can do is take it.
Will makes a noise, pathetic like Hannibal has been, and lets him lay back against the bed, trying to pull out at the same time.
“No!” Hannibal wraps his legs around him again, pulling his hips close to him. “Come inside me, please,” and for good measure, “I’ve been good today. You said so.”
Will crushes him, tucks his arm under his shoulders, pushing them back flat against the bed, and kisses him open mouthed and desperate. Hannibal’s eyes roll back, his thighs still wrapped around him so he can’t escape, and Will comes inside of him.
They suck in air, trying to regain their sense, but it’s so hard.Everything is warm and musky. Hannibal runs the tips of his fingers over Will’s back, feeling over the muscles and sweat. They only separate because the dogs start clawing at the door, if they hadn’t, Hannibal suspects they would’ve laid like that for the rest of the night.
“That’s Winston,” Will huffs and then stands. He doesn’t seem annoyed, but he does roll his eyes as he walks toward the door.
Hannibal pushes himself all the way on the bed then, waiting patiently for his return. Will lets the dogs back in, they circle through the room and then find their way to their food bowls. Once they’re perfectly distracted, Will comes back to the bed with a warm washcloth from the hall bathroom.
He cleans him up, tender touches, a soft smile on his face. It’s really a dream, Hannibal thinks. This was good, it was nice. He can definitely do once a week, maybe more if their schedules allow for it. He’d happily do more, actually, which he won’t admit out loud.
It doesn’t take long for him to get cleaned up. Will sets the washcloth on the nightstand and they lay in the bed together. They’re too tired to do anything else, so Will pulls him close and Hannibal tucks his head against his shoulder. He feels Will kiss his hair again, and for a second this all feels… normal. Like they’re a real couple, not just–he doesn’t even want to think that right now.
Hannibal runs his fingers over Will’s side, bringing them up to touch the scar on his shoulder. He murmurs, “How did this happen?”
Will looks to wear Hannibal’s finger is pressed deep into the scar. His voice is gravely. “When I was a cop in Louisiana I worked in the homicide unit. I couldn’t pull the trigger. Fatal flaw.”
Sex always makes people feel more intimately involved than they actually are. Sentimental even. The feeling of Will’s scar under his finger and the shoulder tucked nicely under his head only adds to that. He’s pulpy, comfortable, weak.
It’ll never do.
Once his heart and breathing have returned to normal and he trusts himself to stand, Hannibal removes himself from Will’s side and starts getting dressed. Each item of clothes rubs his skin; he somehow feels raw all over. It’s a job to get dressed, but he does it anyway.
Will pushes up on one arm, watching him so intently that Hannibal pauses. “What’re you doing?”
“Getting ready to go home.” Hannibal starts to button his shirt.
Will’s eyebrows furrow together. “Home?”
He pulls his belt off the chair and starts looping it through his pants. “Yes?”
That makes Will sit up. The clock on the nightstand reads 1:47 AM in bright blue numbers. He frowns. “Hannibal, it’s the middle of the night.”
Hannibal nods as if he understands Will’s confusion. “Nights weren’t a part of the deal. I prefer to sleep in my own bed.”
Will falls back against the bed with an heavy sigh and scrubs his tired eyes, exhausted and annoyed. Good, Hannibal thinks. “You’re just gonna be here tomorrow. Wouldn’t it make sense to stay?”
“I know,” Hannibal starts to put his tie back on. “However, I didn’t bring clothes and again, nights weren’t a part of the deal.”
“I’m not driving you.” Will declares like it might get him back in the bed. For a moment, he really seems to believe it too.
Hannibal stops and looks at him. His face has been schooled back to a steady neutral. “Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not,” Will grits out. “Get back in the bed right now.”
“Drive me or I’ll call some sketchy cab company to get me and I won’t text you when I make it home.” Hannibal pulls his jacket on. “I won’t let you know I’m safe until tomorrow morning.”
That almost makes him laugh. Of course, he’ll be safe. Who could hurt him? Everyone who has is already dead but it’s the right thing to say.
Will takes a breath, lays there a moment longer, and then gets up. The vexation radiates off of him in waves. If looks could kill, well Hannibal would be dead ten times over.
He pulls on his boxers and pants. This annoys him far more than the dogs wanting to come inside did. He looks like he might comes right out of his skin. “Fine. Fine.”
“Thank you, Will,” he says sweetly. Once he’s fully dressed he comes over and kisses the corner of his mouth.
Will’s jaw ticks, and Hannibal can’t help but feel absolutely victorious. Kit will be proud, he’ll have to tell them after their clinicals on Monday.
