Archive of Our Own ^beta

The tradition varies from country to country, region to region. In the US, most places opt for the handshake, along with most of Europe, though Russia and other former soviet countries typically choose the ‘forearm-grab that pulls into a hug’ thing. Northern Africa and the Middle East supervise introductions in their communities, with men and women shaking hands in front of large groups of families. Northern Asian countries typically hold both hands out to new people, who take both hands in theirs, or some variation on this. In South Asian countries, people brush their hands against each other's arms in passing. There’s even a centuries-old rumor that everyone in Vatican City has to wear gloves. But a casual touch when meeting a new person is usual in the rest of the world. Finding your soul mate is considered romantic; when a gentle touch can reveal your fate and find your partner for life, it’s encouraged.

Will isn’t opposed to the notion of soulmates; he watched his old partner from his police days,  Jake, find his mate when he picked up his coffee one shift. It was chance, casually brushing their hands when taking his cup from the barista. Jake and she were married a month later; they have three kids now. No, Will’s hesitation comes from The Bond. The Bond happens the moment you touch your soulmate. You and your mate become utterly conscious of the other: their thoughts and feelings. For a man burdened with an over-abundance of empathy, Will figures he knows what The Bond feels like, but whatever poor soul Bonds with him is in for a shock. Will has so many murderers floating around in his head that the soul he’ll Bond to is as likely to run for the hills as they are to stick around and get married. Emotionally, taking the chance is anxiety-inducing. Will isn’t confident that fate will make the right pairing.

“Did you hear Price Bonded with his new intern last week? The new guy, Brian, shows up on day one to start his co-op for the semester and finds his one true love.” Beverly Katz talks about it with a sense of amused detachment. She found her mate at university and is happy to Monday-morning quarterback everyone else’s love lives from afar.

“I suppose the FBI will be hiring the guy once he graduates,” Will comments.

“Seems likely.”

“Why are you on the Minnesota case? There’s no crime scenes or bodies to analyze?” Will wonders why Beverly is in the office at 8 for a case she isn’t needed.

“Oh, you didn’t hear? We have a body,” she informs Will, her standard not-quite-a-grin lighting her face.

Without comment, Will stands and leaves the lab, heading towards Jack’s office.

“Will, I was just coming to get you. We’re heading to Minnesota,” Jack Crawford greets the profiler as he enters the office.

“I heard there’s a body.” Will's greeting is just as curt. 

“Yes. I want you there. Which brings me to the other reason I was going to get you. Will Graham, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. He’ll be helping us on the profile for this killer in Minnesota.”

Jack gestures to his guest. Hannibal stands, straightening his suit subtly with a quick, practiced motion that speaks to his comfort in dressing so formally.

Will has barely registered the third person in the room until Jack makes the introduction. He takes the chance and reaches out automatically to shake hands.

People have said it’s like a lightning strike. Hannibal has patients who describe the fated Bonding moment as suddenly submerged by a warm wave. For him, though, the moment of Bonding, the instant he shakes hands with Will Graham, is like a free-fall jump from a cliff, where fate has pulled the ground out from beneath his feet.

“Agent Crawford, would you excuse us for a moment?” Hannibal still has Will’s hand in his grip, pulling the shocked man along with him. He navigates them through the hall and into an empty conference room around the corner. He releases Will’s hand in order to shut and lock the door behind them.

“You’re the—”

“Don’t say it,” Hannibal directs. “Not here.”

Hannibal’s gaze is glued to the shaggy, twitchy man pacing the length of the conference room table. The doctor shifts to keep himself between the Will and the door, the only exit.

“You are a dark man, Will. For someone in law enforcement, you certainly spend a lot of time entertaining murders in that brain of yours.”

“Other people’s murders, Dr. Lecter.”

“Not just other people’s, though, is it? Some original works are circulating in that skull of yours, Will. And, call me Hannibal, mate of mine.”

“You’re crazy,” declares Will.

“I imagine some people would label me as such, true.” Hannibal smirks.

Will stops pacing and decides to chew on the cuticle of his thumb instead.

“You are coming home with me. I will escort you to Jack’s office. We will tell him about our Bond and leave.”

“Then what?” Will asks.

“We talk.”

“You’re not going to kill me?”

“Not unless I have to. Though, I hope it does not come to that,” Hannibal says sincerely.

Will senses the sincerity and looks at Hannibal, whose gaze is still glued to him.

“You’re a romantic,” Will summarizes.

“It has inspired poets and painters for centuries. I would be lying if I said I did not want that for myself.”

Will scoffs. “A romantic psychopath, an artist.” Will stops himself. “That’s not true, though. You’re not a psychopath. You feel. You feel deeply.”

“I appreciate the flattery, but there is no need, Will. I am already yours.”

Will sense Hannibal’s arousal through their Bond. It’s subtle, but there. Will stops fidgeting and looks at his mate, inspecting the suit-clad doctor, his soulmate.

“You’ve found a mate who sees you, all of you. Someone who understands you for who you are.”

“I would very much like to take you home now,” Hannibal reaffirms. “Come,” he states, holding out his hand for Will to take; he takes a chance and takes his hand.

“I must apologize, Agent Crawford. We must cut today’s meeting short. Will and I Bonded.” Jack’s face while Hannibal explains this would be comical if either of the other men were paying him any attention, but they are not.

“But the case,” Jack offers weakly.

“Will and I will head to Minnesota tomorrow. Right now, however, he and I need to get to know one another.”

“Email me what you can, and I’ll read it on the plane,” Will promises, following Hannibal out the door, the pair still holding hands, though this time, Will is holding onto Hannibal just as firmly as Hannibal is holding onto him.

“Where are your things?” Hannibal asks when they are in the hallway.

“In the lab,” Will says, taking the lead and directing the way with clasped hands.

“Will, when are we — oh, sorry. Who’s this?” Beverly asks.

“Beverly Katz, meet Dr. Hannibal Lecter. My mate.”

Beverly’s face morphs into one of happy shock.

“Graham!” She punches the profiler in the shoulder. “Nice to meet you,” she shakes Hannibal’s hand, his left still linked with Will’s right.

“Likewise. I apologize, however, for being unable to stay and talk. Will and I are going to get better acquainted.”

“We’ll meet you in Minnesota,” adds Will, grabbing his jacket and bag before Hannibal resumes navigation duties, directing the pair from the lab and out of the building.

“This is me,” Will points at his old Volvo. Hannibal inspects the car briefly.

“No,” is all Hannibal says. He directs them two rows further back in the lot to his car.

When Will sees the Bentley his mate drives, he admits defeat, muttering, “Okay, that’s fair.”

Hannibal reluctantly releases Will’s hand, allowing the man to slide into the passenger seat.

“You find Baltimore tolerable,” Will chuckles as Hannibal pulls out of the lot at Quantico.

“You are not interested in pretending to have small talk,” Hannibal states.

“I don’t like small talk in general, but The Bond makes it fairly moot,” Will emphasizes the last word, clearly amused with the feel of it in his mouth.

“Make sure someone looks after your dogs,” Hannibal reminds Will of an idea that wasn’t spoken aloud.

“Thanks,” Will says, smiling. Hannibal catches the expression from the corner of his eye. Will Graham may be another dark soul, but that doesn’t mean he can’t also be a pretty face.

You think I’m pretty? Will thinks at Hannibal, chuckling softly, while he waits on the phone for his neighbor to answer.

I do, Hannibal confirms mentally, also chuckling.

Will frames Hannibal’s face with both hands before sliding one hand back to comb through the dark blonde hair atop the nape of his neck; Will’s other hand cradles his head, and Will’s thumb gently strokes Hannibal’s sharp cheekbone. Hannibal’s lips part slightly; Will licks his bottom lip. Will leans in, closes his eyes, and presses his lips against Hannibal’s. Hannibal closes his eyes as their lips connect. There is gentle, firm pressure as their lips enjoy the soft give of the other’s. Will licks into Hannibal’s mouth, causing the other man to moan at the heady sensation.

“Will, I need to drive,” Hannibal states, his cheeks are flushed. Will’s thoughts broadcast so easily that he isn’t aware he is doing it until it happens.

“Sorry,” Will admits before his neighbor answers the phone. Over the phone, the farmer tells Will that she is happy to watch the dogs—they’re well-behaved, and Will always generously compensates the woman for her hospitality.

They sit in the quiet of the Bentley as Hannibal navigates the highways, staying a mere 5 mph above the speed limit and allowing the even speedier cars to pass.

“I don’t frighten you,” Will says after minutes of silence.

“Hardly,” confirms Hannibal.

Will scrubs at his face with the heels of his palms, dislodging his glasses in the process.

“You wear these to hide, yet you do not need them,” Hannibal prompts Will, picking up the glasses that fell onto Will’s lap.

“Eyes are distracting,” Will concedes.

Hannibal acknowledges with a soft hum of approval while he navigates from the highway towards the Inner Harbor and Federal Hill. He makes quick work of the surface streets and pulls into the driveway of his house in short order. Will is mentally processing the house from the passenger seat when Hannibal is at his side, opening the vehicle door for him, holding his hand to help Will from the car. Will accepts—they both know Will doesn’t like to be looked down on or viewed as weak or fragile. But Will knows that’s not what this is. Hannibal just wants to woo Will.

With a helping hand, Will stands, putting him face to face with his mate. Hannibal gives Will a small smile and, still holding hands, escorts him into the house.

“May I?” Hannibal asks, offering to help Will with his jacket. Will accepts, and Hannibal guides the jacket off his shoulders while inhaling Will’s scent deeply.

“Did you just sniff me?”

“Hard to avoid. I will be buying you a new cologne,” Hannibal informs Will while hanging Will’s jacket and shrugging out of his coat.

“You don’t have to do that—buying me stuff,” says Will.

“That is true, but I want to, and I will.”

Will explores Hannibal’s thoughts and intentions.

“You intend on spoiling me,” Will summarizes. Hannibal leads them into the kitchen, where he begins to prepare a meal.

“Yes,” Hannibal confirms succinctly. “You have never been in a position to be spoiled. You barely have your needs met now, which is an improvement from how you grew up, Will. Before I came into my inheritance, I was homeless and starving. If you let me, Will, you will want for nothing.”
Will lets out a shuddering breath. “This all feels one-sided; what do you get from this?”

“My one true mate,” Hannibal says, momentarily turning away from his sauté pan. “You are the one person who can see and understand me, Will. Authenticity, not having to hide, I dare say it is beautiful enough to take a chance on.” Hannibal turned back to the stove to resume their meal preparations.

To escape the heavy topic he’s now avoiding, Will says, “It’s early for lunch.”
“You skipped breakfast,” explains Hannibal.

“I had toast with my coffee.”

“A single piece of not-quite stale bread hardly counts as breakfast, mano drauge.”

Will tilts his head, unfamiliar with the words.

My mate, Hannibal provides mentally.

Lithuanian, Will mentally states as confirmation.

Hannibal plates their meals and walks out to the dining room to set them at the table before returning to grab a pitcher of juice from the refrigerator and glasses for them both. From Hannibal’s thoughts, Will finds the correct location for the utensils and grabs them from their drawer. At the table, Hannibal pulls out Will’s chair before taking his seat.

“I prepared brunch, given the time of day. Protein scramble with avocado toast.”

Will chuckles. “Protein.”

Before Hannibal can ask if it’s a problem, Will takes a bite of the long pork along with a fluffy piece of egg. Will makes a noise of approval while he chews. Will pours them each a glass of juice—POG—from what Hannibal’s mind provides; the man never does anything simple.

“It’s good, thank you,” says Will.

“You look good in that suit. I wonder how good you’d look out of it.” The man brazenly approaches Hannibal at the coffee house while waiting for his drink. Mentally, Hannibal rolls his eyes.

“Do you have a business card? I would love to get your number.”

The scene quickly shifts, and Hannibal is expertly carving the man.

“Should I expect a call for a tableau from The Ripper?” Will asks when the mental image fades.

“No. The Chesapeake Ripper is dormant for now.”

Will nods, wrapping his head around his mate, who he is learning is a prolific serial killer.

The man is asleep in the chair, or more accurately, has passed out. The empty cans of PBR litter the floor around his brown, lumpy recliner. With leather work gloves, the noose slips around the drunken man’s neck. He’s pulled from his chair by the noose to the front of the house. The length of the rope is tied to the hitch of the man’s truck. He’s driven—dragged—into the woods, as far as the truck can handle without hitting the thickening tree coverage. The man is stripped of his clothes, and leaving the noose around his neck, the ropes are brought behind the man’s back. He’s hog-tied and left on the forest floor; his neck is broken, but he’s not dead. He’s left in the woods for the animals to find him. It won’t take them long; there is a lot of blood to lure them to the kill.

Back at the victim’s house, Will removes the plastic shoe covers and stuffs them in his coat pocket. He’ll throw them out at Wawa when he stops for dinner, far from the scene. He collects the victim’s dog, lifting the animal off of its broken front paw. The animal will go to the vet in the morning. Will has already made the appointment and has a dog bed ready for the animal at home.

Will looks up to find his mate, Hannibal, looking at him, and his gaze is smoldering. The look is equal parts desire and appreciation.

“Finish your meal, Will,” Hannibal encourages softly. Will returns to the avocado toast, the protein scramble long since finished.

Hannibal looks up at Will. Without his glasses, Hannibal can see the man’s clear blue eyes gazing back down at him. They are pressed chest to chest—skin-to-skin—and Will’s weight is on his forearms. Hannibal runs his hands along Will’s back, shoulders, and arms, feeling the strength of his muscles shifting under smooth skin. Will is thrusting into Hannibal with long, powerful strokes; each thrust feels designed to bury himself further in his mate, to try and fuse them into one. Hannibal captures Will’s lips in a kiss, pressing his tongue into him, stroking tongues desperate for more contact with the other.

Will looks up to see his mate smiling, the Cheshire cat, who has shared his thoughts with him.

“I take it you’re done,” Will surmises.

“If you are,” Hannibal demurs like he wasn’t just broadcasting vivid, pornographic imaginings through their Bond.

Will nods, tossing back the last of his juice like taking a shot. Hannibal stands and collects their plates and utensils, heading to the kitchen. Will collects their glasses and the carafe and follows, passing the glasses to Hannibal to load into the dishwasher while Will returns the juice to the fridge.
After they close the appliance doors, the two soul mates look at one another across the short length of the kitchen island, their eyes connecting. Their Bond is thrumming with anticipation; each man is eager for the other.

Surprising them both, Will makes the first move, taking a few tentative steps towards Hannibal; the older man turns towards him as he comes around the island. With confidence, his empathy borrows from his mate, and Will places his hands on the other’s biceps, the lithe muscle evident to the touch, even through layers of clothes. Hannibal releases a breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding. At first, Hannibal mirrors the gesture, wrapping his strong hands around Will’s flannel-covered arms; then, he slides them up to Will’s shoulders. When his hands caress the skin of Will’s neck, they both shudder at the sensation—the touch more intimate than holding hands, their only touch to this point. One of Hannibal’s hands stays on the nape of Will’s neck while the other combs into dark, wavy curls as Will takes a half-step forward, closing the last distance between them, and presses soft, full lips against Hannibal’s eager mouth.

Will, Hannibal thinks, and even in their heads, it is clearly a moan of pleasure.

Will spreads his lips, and Hannibal rabidly presses his tongue in, exploring the wet heat of Will’s mouth. Their tongues stroke and explore inside each other, their breath ragged and panting. Will cants forward, his hips pressing against Hannibal’s, Will’s erection pressed firmly against the older man.

“Fuck, Hannibal,” Will gasps, pulling away from their kiss slightly, desperate for air. He quickly relocates, his tongue, lips, and teeth kneading Hannibal’s jaw before making his way to Hannibal’s neck; Will’s mouth is hungry to get more of Hannibal, laving and sucking at the sensitive skin.

“Bed,” Hannibal says, half-direction and half-question, though he already knows Will’s answer.

Yes, Will agrees mentally while sucking a deep bruise into Hannibal’s neck. Will can sense Hannibal’s pride in being claimed so instinctively, like an animal marking his territory, and in a spot he can’t hide, something Will had clearly considered. When Will releases Hannibal’s neck, he leans back to see the red of broken blood vessels already forming—it will be dark and vicious, he thinks.

Fitting for the pair of us, Hannibal replies through their Bond.

Holding hands again, Hannibal leads them through the house, up the stairs to his bedroom. Once in the room, Will instinctively wants to be nervous, but Hannibal has him in his arms again before he can disengage.

“I want you, Will. Stay with me,” whispers Hannibal before he kisses Will. This kiss is deep and powerful but controlled, like Hannibal. His mouth shifts its attention to Will’s neck while he undresses Will.

“Where else would I go?” replies Will.

Rather than reply, Hannibal softly laughs a warm chuckle that ghosts along Will’s neck. The sensation is intimate, marking this encounter as not one of lust but of affection.

Soul mates, Will’s mind murmurs happily.

“Mmm,” Hannibals hums happily in confirmation before separating to undress. Will is almost surprised to find himself in only his boxers and socks. He sits on the bed to pull off his socks and watches Hannibal deftly remove his suit, the armor that facilitates his ‘people suit.’

Hannibal is standing naked in front of him when Will realizes his boxers are still on. Hannibal grabs a bottle of lube from the nightstand before relocating to the center of the king-sized bed. In short order, Will removes the last vestige of his clothes and joins him on the bed.

Will crawls forward and lies on top of Hannibal, pressed between his legs, chest to chest. Their kissing is slow and deliberate—purposeful. Commandeering the lube from Hannibal, Will shifts his weight, snaking a hand between them to start working Hannibal open. Will is focused, and his hands are deft and strong. Hannibal’s very vocal appreciation is encouraging Will; their Bond and Will’s empathy have them tied so closely that every reaction from Hannibal spurs him on, his cock achingly hard, pressed between them, with a trail of precum dripping onto Hannibal’s stomach.

Please, Hannibal begs through their Bond, unsure of the steadiness of his voice.

“Yes,” Will whispers, taking himself in hand and pressing into Hannibal’s slick heat. Will slowly rocks into Hannibal, his body tight, and despite Will’s thorough attention, it still leaves Hannibal with a pleasant stretch.

Fuck, so tight, Will projects, rocking into Hannibal, his mate now taking all of his girth.

Gods, Will, Hannibal thinks before ‘yes’ escapes his lips.

Rocking his hips, Will slides into the exquisite heat of his partner. Hannibal is filled with the hard length of his partner. Each thrust is intense, driving deeper. Will picks up the speed and force of his thrusts, the desirous shouts and moans of his mate, encouraging him to move ‘harder’ and ‘faster.’

Though they both want it to continue, the positive feedback loop of their Bond amplifies their arousal, and the physical touches and mental sensations consume them.

Close, Hannibal warns/promises. His cock is hard and aching, the friction pressing with each thrust the only relief.

Will pivots his hips to ensure each of his strokes brushes Hannibal’s g-spot, sending sparks of ecstasy with each thrust. Soon Hannibal is cumming, his cock twitching, his hole spasming, and the tight clench of his body drawing Will closer to the edge. After a few moments more, thrusts erratic and deep, he finds his climax, emptying himself deep inside Hannibal, painting his inner walls with his release.

“We’re clearly compatible,” Will confirms, breathing heavily, pulling out, and laying beside his partner.

“Now we need to figure out the logistics,” Hannibal adds.

The logistics of two careers and two houses in two different states. Through their Bond, they confirm that neither is worried about the other being a serial killer.