Archive of Our Own ^beta

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          Sundays were always Will’s favorite growing up. It wasn’t church — the hard benches were splintery under his little fingers and his mother would pinch his side when he squirmed. It wasn’t the baseball games, though he loved sitting on his dad’s lap and listening to the Rangers broadcast in their little apartment while his mother read. It wasn’t even the fact that Sunday was the one day his family would all be in the same house — Daddy worked on the docks most days and Mama seemed to always have another shift that meant he’d be left with the neighbors for hours on end.

          It was the pancakes.

          Sundays were for pancakes in the Graham house. His dad would snap on the local country station and Will would watch, rapt, as his father conjured pancakes from thin air. Jacob Graham never measured an ingredient in his life. He cracked eggs one-handed and shook flour absently into a chipped ceramic bowl, humming along to Dolly Parton. Will would clap, tugging anxiously on his father’s shorts so he wouldn’t forget that it was Will’s job to stir.

          Once his father was done adding to the bowl, he’d heft Will to his hip and hand over the spoon. Will took stirring very seriously. One time he’d tried to whip the wooden spoon as quickly as his daddy and had sent flour everywhere. Daddy had laughed, Mama had told him he couldn’t stir pancakes anymore.

          “The boy’ll never learn if we don’t let him try.” Jacob had handed the spoon back to Will. “Now you keep the tip of the spoon touching the bottom of that bowl, ya hear? And don’t worry about going fast, worry about making all the ingredients dance together.”

          Will had frowned at that, focused on his task. He’d dragged the spoon carefully through the mix three times before his father’s big hand wrapped around his.

          “Let’s get a rhythm going, huh?” Jacob squeezed Will’s fingers and guided him through the ingredients, murmuring along with Dolly. “Two doors down, they’re loving and drinking and having a party…”

          The large hand securing Will to Jacob’s hip started tapping, and Will began to nod along to the beat. He pulled the spoon through the bowl to the beat of the drum, watching as the heaps of dried flour crumbled into the trenches of milk and egg, making a soft, fluffy batter. It was like learning a magic trick, and he grinned up at his father, who winked as he sang along to the radio.

          When the batter was mixed just right, Jacob would pat Will before lowering him to the floor. It was time for Jacob to pour the pancakes. Somehow, Will’s daddy just knew when to flick his wrist and send the pancakes careening into the air, landing with a sizzle on its uncooked side. Will would watch with wide eyes as the pancakes cartwheeled through the air.

          In a matter of minutes, there’d be a stack of 12 pancakes on the big blue platter Mama had found at a yard sale. She’d said it was real porcelain, and Will wasn’t to touch it no matter what. So he’d wait, grinning ear to ear, as she picked up the platter, pecked a kiss on Daddy’s cheek, and delivered the pancakes to the table.

          They’d say grace with hands held, and Will would wriggle in his chair as Daddy piled his plate high. Will would dig in, butter and sticky syrup smearing the edges of his cheeks as he stuffed his maw with pillowy bites. His mother would tut, but Jacob would smile, pulling his thumb through the smear on Will’s cheek and wiping it away. “He eats like a growing boy, Kitty, can’t fault him for that.”

          And Will would eat himself sick every Sunday. There was something in the pancakes, sweeter than the sugar, more filling than the flour. Every bite made Will feel sated and ravenous at the same time. He’d spend the rest of Sunday laying with his dad by the radio, full to bursting and brimming with a satisfied feeling he couldn’t quite describe.

          The pancakes were also the first indication that something wasn’t right in Will’s world. At first, he could still taste the warm sweet flavor, but something else was in the pancakes now, something bitter. It seemed to flood his mouth and taint the cakes, no matter how much syrup he dredged the bites through. He wondered what changed in the batter, and why the kitchen was so quiet. His father hadn’t put on the radio, no one was talking about what the ladies wore to church or the sermon. In fact, the only sounds were the clinks of forks scraping plates. His mother barely ate, maybe she tasted the odd bitter flavor in the pancakes as well?

          The bitterness seemed to grow every Sunday until Will could barely swallow the pancakes anymore, eyes watering as the unpleasant flavors coated his tongue and teeth. His parents fought more — both staying out and leaving Will with the neighbors. Music had died in the kitchen, and his father never let him stir anymore, ignoring Will’s little tugs to the legs of his cargo pants.

          One Sunday, Mom wasn’t at breakfast. Will had asked where she was and if she’d gotten another shift. His father had told him to shut the fuck up and set the table. The pancakes were inedible that day — a massive stack of slimy cakes sitting on a regular plate because the blue platter was missing. Will cried quietly, tears splashing into a pool of syrup until his father grumbled that he should get his little ass to his room if he wasn’t hungry.

          There were no pancakes after that. No mother either.

          It was just as well. Everything his father cooked was flooded with bitter flavors. Jacob and Will lost weight, both picking at the food on their plates and preferring the hollow ache of hunger to the horrible, hateful food. Eventually, family meals were a thing of the past, and Will picked up burgers or microwave meals that he could eat in his room. He’d hear his father crying some nights and wondered if Jacob Graham was still trying to eat his own cooking.

          Two days after he turned 18, Will was on his own. He’d bought a bowl, some eggs, and a box of pancake mix for his little shithole apartment. He flipped on the radio, about the only luxury he could afford in his tiny home, and found the local country station. He couldn’t find Dolly, but he supposed Reba McEntire was good enough to cook by. He followed the instructions on the back of the Buttermilk Pancakes box, humming along to Fancy as it played on the radio.

          The first two were burnt. But once he adjusted the heat, Will managed a respectable stack of browned pancakes. He still didn’t know how to flip the pancakes in the pans, but with a spatula the previous tenant abandoned in a dusty drawer, he got the job done well enough.

          He slathered the best of the bunch with butter and syrup and dug in. After three bites, Will pushed his plate away. The bitter flavor was still there, mixed with a sort of sour aftertaste that made his teeth ache. He tried again a few days later but ended up feeding the pancakes to the stray dogs that hung out near his apartment.

          Every now and then, when he had a few extra dollars in his pocket, Will would browse the internet, looking up recipes for pancakes. Didn’t matter whether he used Vietnamese cinnamon, buttermilk, or a grate of fresh nutmeg — there was always something missing and the pancakes tasted like sawdust.

          Will was 19 before he realized the ingredient missing was love.

          He was 28 when he accepted the fact that he’d never taste it again.

          He tasted other things. The first time his girlfriend made him chicken tetrazzini, it tasted acidic. He’d smiled when he watched her fiddle with her napkin, anxious eyes studying him as she chewed. Nervous. The chicken tetrazzini tasted nervous. The next time she cooked, there was a tinge of sweetness to the food. It wasn’t the same as Daddy’s pancakes, more like the memory of the taste. Beneath the sweetness was a stodgy greasy aftertaste. Will realized he could taste her confidence with every bite.

          But even as he got brownies and the occasional meal from Carol, the sweetness started to fade even if the fatty confidence didn’t. Soon her food was indifferent, tasteless. And then, worst of all, a hint of bitterness pricked his tongue. He tried calling her more, holding her hand whenever they walked together on campus, but the bitter hint only seemed to take over his palate.

          When Carol had served him spaghetti that flooded his mouth with marinara that tasted rotten, he’d known it was over. Sure enough, she offered him a brownie as she broke up with him. Will didn’t eat it. He couldn’t stomach another mouthful of disappointment.

          In the years that passed, Will developed a system. The more processed a food was, the more impersonal it tasted. He never let dates cook for him; he told them he had allergies. It was better not to know, to keep his expectations managed. Eyes could tell him too much, but one mouthful of food could tell him everything. Microwave dinners, cans of soup, fast food bagged by bored teenagers — it didn’t taste like much, but at least it didn’t taste like the acrid food he made with his own hands.

          There were two exceptions to the rules: His dogs and his catches.

          Whenever Will had a spare moment, he’d head to the river, where he’d try to catch a bass or a bluegill. The spark of satisfaction would translate into a bright savory flavor — not quite the satiation of those childhood pancakes, but something to remind him that food wasn’t always bland and thoughtless. The other exception was Will’s dog food, which he made by hand. As Will mixed the meats, oats, eggs, and fish tripe by hand, adding oils and pumpkin for consistency, he was always tempted to try it. He knew for a fact that he made this noxious substance with love and wondered if he’d be able to taste it again, just once.

          He hoped the dogs could taste it, at least.

Chapter Text

          Though Will had held fast to refusing homemade food for the better part of two decades, he slipped up once in a dingy motel.

          “Good morning, Will, may I come in?”

          Will blinked at the psychiatrist — Hannibal? No, that couldn’t be it, could it? — Jack Crawford’s newest addition to his menagerie of headcases and their minders. He’d been ambushed by Jack and his newest toy once and was in no mood for another attempt. He’d seen psychiatrists, all of them fumbled with Will’s brain like it was too slick to hold. He didn’t need another thick-fingered amateur poking around where he didn’t belong.

          It was early, so early that Will hadn’t managed to get to the 7-11 for his coffee. He hadn’t even managed to find pants before answering the door.

          “Where’s Crawford?” Will made a show of looking behind the man. He needed a buffer for this eager little FBI acolyte, one that seemed to take a special interest in him. Crawford had probably fed him some bullshit about fixing Will and saving lives. He’d had people try to fix him before, but it only managed to chip off more pieces. Will felt his foundation teetering as the man before him smiled his not-quite smile.

          “Deposed in court, the adventure will be yours and mine today.” The man leaned sideways, making a show of sweeping his eyes behind Will, mirroring the gestures of the empath. Finally, chin tucked and eyes raising hopefully, he asked. “May I come in?”

          Will was reminded of Harley, the stray he’d found in the parking lot of the Walmart Supercenter. He’d followed Will at a respectful distance, tail wagging lowly, almost polite. He’d have been happy if Will had just tossed him the bun from the half-eaten hotdog in Will’s hand. Will suspected he’d lived a long while preying on the sympathies of strangers who liked a polite dog with big brown eyes. Will had sighed to himself, he already had five dogs, but he couldn’t leave such a mannerly gentleman with a scrap of food on a busy parking lot. He eyed the dog once before opening the passenger door to the car and tossing the rest of the hotdog inside. True to his nature, Harley had hopped in, gobbled up the hotdog in two quick snaps of his jaws, and coiled himself on Will’s passenger seat, ready to go home when Will was.

          He didn’t even need a hotdog with this eager doctor. He merely left the door open and watched as the man barged right in, shoulders back and head high like he owned the place. Will retreated into the dark, waiting for the doctor to fumble about the room looking for a light.

          Instead, the man merely worked around the beam of light glowing through the gap of the flimsy motel curtains. Perhaps Hannibal did suit him, Will mused, as he watched the man in question vault over the considerable boundaries he’d erected. Hannibal seemed quite comfortable in shadow, hands dancing in and out of the light as he began to arrange the small table by the door. He opened up his case and got to work unpacking containers. Will’s body lurched when he realized what it was: Food, for two.

          It was Will’s worst nightmare, eating the food of someone who thought he was some sort of specimen to be studied. He could almost taste the dispassionate interest, and the treacly fatty smudge of ego, like taffy threatening to pull out your teeth as you chew. He should tell him no. He should send this doctor and his cute little Tupperware packing. He should march to the 7-11 for some anonymous coffee and a microwaved breakfast burrito that tasted of nothing and was still cold in the center.

          Will watched as Hannibal produced two tea towels, folding them in half meticulously and setting them on the table — placemats. He looked closer at the Tupperware, approaching the table like a wary dog. Ceramic bowls with matching pristine plastic lids. This was a man who took pride in his food. Who wouldn’t dream of using plastic cutlery. Even the coffee was poured into little ceramic mugs, that matched the set, steaming away as it left the thermos. It was so particular, so fussy, Will found himself smiling. It would be easier to drive off this persnickety doctor than he thought. Will took his seat, hands clenching as he waited to pop the enormous ego on this pompous creature.

          “I’m very careful about what I put into my body. Which means I end up preparing most meals myself.” Will was too, but for different reasons. With a grunt, Will grabbed the Tupperware container Hannibal had opened, not affording him the opportunity to plate the meal. He’d take a bite, throw his fork down, and tell Hannibal it tasted of desperation, slimy and cloying. He had a feeling nothing would wound the doctor more than to be thought unctuous and clingy. He had the air of a pampered housecat and no doubt the temperament to match. Hannibal smiled at him. “A little protein scramble to start the day — some eggs, some sausage.”

          Will rolled his eyes mildly, spearing a piece of sausage and shoving it into his mouth. He could feel Hannibal’s eyes on him, the weight of the gaze settling on his lips as he chewed. Will had an insult ready, but — he chewed slower. He’d never tasted this before. There was interest, yes, the cloying sticky flavors of someone who wanted to glom onto him and pry him apart. The fatty taste of ego wasn’t overwhelming or stodgy, but indulgent. Instead of feeling like he was mired in taffy, there was a sharp note, something bright and earthy. His mouth watered, and he felt the urge to gorge, to fork piece after piece into his maw like he was obsessively eating popcorn at the movies. But he couldn’t glut himself thoughtlessly, because there was something more to this meal. Something that danced on his tongue. It was beyond mere curiosity. Will felt intense interest, sharp and savory on his tongue, the type Will experienced when was researching a particularly engrossing topic. It was beautiful, addicting. Will could get lost in it.

          But there was another note, something…metallic.

          Will’s mouth watered, this flavor was dark and delicious. He couldn’t place it. It was sumptuous, like a bite of salted meat after too many sweets. Will felt sharper, intrigued, and famished. He swallowed, composing himself as he muttered. “It’s delicious, thank you.”

          “My pleasure.” Finally, those keen eyes dropped and Will felt like he could breathe again.

          Will scraped the rest of the food onto the provided plate. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this ravenous.

          “I would apologize for my analytical ambush, but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you will tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly.” Hannibal stared at Will over his plate, practically cataloging every movement of Will’s fork.

          “Just keep it professional.” Will felt like a fish who’d taken an ill-advised bite of bait. The tear of the hook seemed imminent.

          Hannibal returned to his food “Or we could socialize like adults.”

          The doctor forked a healthy bite into his mouth, chewing politely with a satisfied little smirk before he caught Will’s eye again. “God forbid we become friendly.”

          Will kept his gaze on his coffee, which was rich and warming, unlike the bitter liquid he usually grimaced through. “I don’t find you that interesting.”

          He swallowed down the lie with another gulp of delicious coffee.

          “You will.” Another long stare, another big bite. Will felt like he was missing something, as if an association was being made he couldn’t follow. It was uncomfortable, worrying that he couldn't decipher the full picture being presented, no wonder so many people resented him. Hannibal just kept eating as if he’d won some prize Will wasn’t aware they were competing for. “Agent Crawford tells me you have a knack for the monsters.”

          Will put his fork down. He wouldn’t give this smug prick the satisfaction. It didn’t matter if it was the best meal he could remember since Sunday breakfasts, Will would fight…whatever was happening right now. He pushed the plate away to move the temptation. He’d obfuscate. Let Hannibal think he’d won some small victory and distract him with the notion that Will trusted him and wanted to talk cases. “I don’t think the shrike killed that girl in the field.”

          Hannibal put his fork down, disregarding his food. Still mirroring his dining companion, trying to court favor, the empath noted. Will braced for this pampered society psychiatrist’s rebuttal. He’d be like Jack, citing the similarities, telling Will he was inventing things, pretending the evidence was conclusive. Then Will would leap, would expose the delicate underbelly of this fish and gut him. Send him back to Baltimore clutching his leaking innards and a bit wiser about swimming in dark waters. Hannibal smiled as if he could read that thought on Will’s face. “The Devil’s in the details — what didn’t your copycat do to the girl in the field? What gave it away?”

          Will paused, taking a sip of coffee to buy a moment to reshuffle his thoughts. He hadn’t expected Hannibal to go with him. Hadn’t expected this interested posture, finger-pointing as he asked a question…as if they were picking apart a philosophical notion instead of the corpse of a dead girl.

          “Everything.” Will wiped his mouth. He needed to get the taste of that damn food off his tongue, scrape the want he felt from his skin. “It’s like he had to show me a negative so I could see the positive. That crime scene was practically gift-wrapped.”

          “The mathematics of human behavior, all those ugly variables.” Hannibal wasn’t skeptical, he was nearly breathless with interest — perfect posture crooked forward just a bit as he prodded for more. “Some bad math with this shrike fellow, huh?”

          Will poured more coffee, still buying time and reassessing the man before him. He sipped at the coffee again. His dad used to put an eggshell and salt in the grinds to mellow the flavor…he wondered what Hannibal put in his to chase the bitterness away.

          “Are you reconstructing his fantasies?” That probe struck close to something dark and vulnerable that Will tried to hide from the general public. But Hannibal persisted, he seemed almost pathologically unable to keep himself from leaping over every boundary Will set. That fucking name really did suit him. “What kind of problems does he have?”

          Will laughed, hoping a sardonic response would drift them into polite territory. “He has a few.”

          “Ever have any problems, Will?”

          Will swallowed, offering his most insincere smile as he put his hand to his chest in faux shock. “No.”

          But that wasn’t quite true…he had a problem now. Who the fuck was this man and how dare he refuse to fall into the predictable patterns that Will had designated for all of humanity?

          “Of course you don’t. You and I are just alike — problem-free. Nothing about us to feel horrible about.” The fork was at Will’s lips before he realized what was happening. He hadn’t meant to eat again, but the taste was soothing as he grappled for a foothold in this conversation. “You know, Will, I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup. The finest China used only for special guests.”

          Will smiled as he chewed. The truth of it bubbled out of him in a laugh. Jack Crawford liked to throw tea parties for killers, and Will was there to contain them, to bear the steaming liquid until it was palatable for the rest of the FBI and the Justice system. But he was a cup without a saucer, and sometimes that liquid spilled down his sides, staining him in ways he didn’t want to think about. He did the only thing he could, he fell back into his seat, relaxing into the laugh, letting his shoulders drop.

Hannibal didn’t look at him like he was crazy, the man seemed to be genuinely enjoying this odd breakfast of gruff dodges and intellectual barbs. Will gathered himself and made eye contact, his gut lurching just a little when his eyes bored into Hannibal’s. “How do you see me?”

          It was suddenly rather important to him.

          Hannibal dropped the jovial act. No longer chummy and grinning, the mirth fell from his face, but not the keen interest. “The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.”

          Will smiled at that a moment and blinked. There was something he was just missing. The significance of the statement seemed outweighed only by the sincerity of the compliment. His brow furrowed.

          Goddamn if he didn’t find this man a bit interesting.

          Hannibal speared a sausage and gestured to Will’s plate. “Finish your breakfast.”

          The excuse he needed to go back to eating. Still, Will counted to 15 in his head before he picked up the fork. Hannibal huffed, apparently pleased by the delay but eventual obedience. Will thought back to Harley again, how easily the dog had followed him into the truck. He was pretty sure that between him and Hannibal, one of them had taken the bait and leaped into the truck, but he wasn’t exactly sure who.

          The rest of the meal was a symphony of cutlery on plates. Will had spent his share of time eating in stony silence, but this was different. Instead of oppressive, it felt light, as if Hannibal had removed the awkward small talk from the equation to allow Will to enjoy his meal. He caught himself glancing at Hannibal, at the strong hands spearing food, at the way his fingers cupped the coffee cup. He even felt his eyes trace a droplet of dark roast as it fled from the slope of his lip into the corner of his mouth. Suddenly the food didn’t seem enough, Will felt starved.

          He forced himself to put his fork down, two bites of scramble still on his plate. His fingers flexed. It felt wasteful not to gobble up this meal, who knew if he’d ever get it again?

          Will frowned. He wouldn’t. He’d never taste it again because he’d never sit down at a table with Hannibal Lecter again.

          “Are you finished?” Hannibal dabbed at his mouth, reaching across the table. “I’ll take the plates back to my room for a quick wash and then we can-”

          Will snatched at his plate almost instinctually. He repressed the urge to snarl, to defend his food from someone who would take it. The vet called it resource guarding, when an animal either lived with scarcity or the threat of it felt the need to defend what little they had with a snap of teeth and a growl. He’d worked on Buster for half a year before the little menace could be fed with the rest of the pack. Now, Will understood the raised hackles and curled lip. It was hard to let satisfaction go once you’d had a taste.

          “I, uh…I got it.” Will muttered, grabbing Hannibal’s plate as well and plucking up the cutlery. “You cooked, least I could do is wash these off.”

          Hannibal watched him, those keen eyes taking him in with fathomless interest. “A gentleman. Thank you, Will.”

          Will performed a twitchy nod, keeping his eyes on the dishes as he gathered them. His eyes remained glued to the floor until he crossed into his little bathroom, kicking the door closed behind him.

          Alone, Will turned on the sink to full blast and stared at the water for a moment. When he was sure the rushing sounds of the tap were loud enough, he raised each plate to his mouth and licked them clean. The flavors exploded on his palate again, sweet and savory, filled with ego, intrigue, and… that illusive metallic flavor he couldn’t place.

          When the plates were clean, Will sucked each piece of cutlery, tonguing at the tines of forks and pressing flat to the bowl of the spoons, seeking any trace of flavor he could find. He licked the knife but hissed as the sharp blade split the muscle in his mouth. Will swallowed, the blood coating his mouth coppery and sharp.

          Somehow, it complimented the last remnants of the food.

Chapter Text

          The cut on Will’s tongue knitted together in a few weeks. It would have been sooner, if he hadn’t kept running it along his teeth, pressing the seam open and swallowing the slow leak of blood that emerged. The sting, the metallic taste, the pain — all of it reminded him of Hannibal and the best food he’d eaten in decades.

          Not that Will needed much reminding, Hannibal was doing a great job of that. Every conversation they had seemed to be punctuated with a dinner invitation. Nothing untoward, it seemed the good doctor threw dinner parties the way others bought overpriced coffees. And Hannibal assured Will that there was a seat at his table waiting just for him.

          He’d thought about it. It probably wouldn’t be so bad. He liked talking to Hannibal, despite himself. The doctor was whip-smart and sly, and Will often found himself turning Hannibal’s words over and over in his head on the ride home, finding crafty tricks in his language that opened new meanings or small jokes. Will had started looking up the things that stuck with him. Sometimes, they were quotes, and Will would stay up until the small hours of the morning reading biographies of Thomas Aquinas or clicking through paintings of Artemisia Gentileschi. Sometimes, the phrases seemed to emanate purely from Hannibal’s mind. Those phrases Will had taken to jotting down in a little notebook his aunt sent him three Christmases ago.

          Will had thought about the food too. Not quite the same as the pancakes of his childhood, but still brimming with flavor and emotions that didn’t send Will spiraling. Though he’d never tasted it before, Will had thought about that protein scramble again and again, trying to distill what it was that danced over his palate that he could not name. He’d come to think of it as potential. He’d dreamed about it. About a feast laid out before him, one he could finally taste without gagging. Sharp, metallic, yet sweet and filling — his mouth watered at the thought. But when he dreamt of the feast, he was always alone with Hannibal, not surrounded by party guests. It wasn’t necessarily sexual, but they would stare into each other’s eyes while Hannibal hand-fed him pieces of exquisite food. But when Will looked down, he saw that Hannibal hadn’t been feeding him any of the delicious dishes on the table. He’d been tearing chunks of flesh out of his own chest and holding them bloody-fingered to Will’s lips.

          For some reason, that dream had come to mind when he absently accepted what must have been Hannibal’s 27^th dinner party invitation. And though he’d frozen the moment he accepted, Will had every intention of joining Hannibal at his table. He’d even made it past the threshold of Hannibal’s imposing house, a bottle of wine worried between his sweaty palms. But when he’d seen Hannibal in the kitchen, fear had gripped him. What if the food didn’t taste the same? Surely such an intimate taste should be reserved for private dinners, not large gatherings. He thought he could hear Dolly Parton singing faintly in the background, he could smell pancakes.

          Will made an excuse about needing to study the Ripper, and Hannibal paused in his showy cooking activities as if debating something. Ultimately, the doctor wished him well and accepted the wine. Will thought he’d finally escaped Hannibal’s table.

          He hadn’t.

          At their next session, Hannibal produced two paper parcels from a back room, handing one to Will as he sat. “If Will Graham will not come to dinner…”

          “Dinner will come to Will Graham?” Will picked at the butcher’s paper, peeling back the precise folds to reveal a sandwich.

          Sandwich was probably not grand enough of a word for what Will held in his hand. A roll with a firm, gleaming crust was split nearly in half, and piled high with pink meat and vibrant green sauce. It looked like something that would be featured in an ad — Hannibal’s Bespoke Breads and Sundries, for your finest sandwich needs.

          Hannibal settled into his chair across from Will’s, his own sandwich in hand. “Hardly the meal I had planned on serving you last Tuesday, but you refused that meal so I-”

          “I wasn’t refusing the meal, I was-”

          “Refusing my company?” Hannibal’s mouth ticked up slightly in amusement.

          “I had to work.”

          “If we were in a proper therapy session and not merely having conversations, I might point out that work is your go-to deflection.”

          “If we were in a proper therapy session, I would have reported you for asking me to dinner.”

          Hannibal’s head tilted, that odd quirk like a dog confounded with a new noise. “Would you?”

          “Of course.” Will frowned at the hollowness of his statement. He should, obviously, report any form of transgression. But…would he? He held up the sandwich. “But since nothing inappropriate is going on…what, uh, what’s for dinner?”

          Hannibal watched him a moment, eyes brimming with amusement as he let Will squirm. Finally, he leaned back, crossing his long legs and opening his own sandwich. “A favorite of mine, lampredotto panino. It’s a common street food in Florence, consisting of a crusty bun and cow stomach that’s been boiled in fresh herbs and sliced thinly. I served it with Florentine green sauce, as I think capers, anchovies, and gherkins bring out the sharp flavors of the herbs in the meat.”

          Will squinted at the sandwich.

          “Are you uncomfortable with offal?”

          “I deal with the awful every day, a stomach isn’t going to upset me.” Will raised a brow, working to keep his face straight when Hannibal smiled at his pun. “I’m just trying to picture you eating something classified as street food.”

          Hannibal huffed softly. “If it eases your mind, it was actually inspired by a delicacy only the nobility of Florence ate, the lamprey.”

          “The eel thing with the nightmare mouth?”

          Hannibal nodded. “The same. Though Florentine peasants couldn’t hope to have access to a rare sea creature, their frugality inspired them to find a meat option that at least resembled the dish.”

          “How does a stomach look like an eel?”

          “The abomasum quadrant of a cow’s stomach has a rippled texture that somewhat resembles lamprey flesh when sliced thinly. Granted, the two dishes aren’t similar in flavor, but I appreciate the Florentine commitment to aesthetics, nonetheless.”

          “Hannibal Lecter doesn’t mind the knockoff, as long as it looks like a brand name?” Will grinned. “Is that a fake Gucci belt?”

          “I’ve found that those who bother with labels often lack taste.” Hannibal hooked a finger under his belt. “I can assure you that this isn’t… Gucci.”

          “I can see it now. You have a herd of cows in Tuscany dedicated to your personal leather goods, don’t you?”

          Hannibal’s brow ticked up. “Define herd.”

          Will snorted. “Would it concern you that I buy my boxers in a five-pack at Walmart?”

          “Would you like me to be concerned with your boxers?” Will flushed bright red, hands digging into the roll and crackling the crust. Hannibal offered him another small smile. “The beauty of street cuisine is that it can be enjoyed by everyone who uses the street, whether they’re headed to supervise their herd of bespoke cows…or driving to a Wall Mart. But that food cannot be enjoyed unless you eat it, something you seem almost desperate to avoid. May I ask why you won’t eat my food?”

          Will should have said he’d eaten, that he wasn’t hungry, that he was allergic to gherkins. Something, anything. But the truth clawed at him, tearing at his chest and throat until he had no choice but to let it out. “I have a thing.”

          “Don’t tell me you feel pure empathy for cows.”

          “No…but I…have a sensitive palate.”

          That got a questioning look from Hannibal. “I’ve seen you eat an entire meal from the gas station across the street from a crime scene. If the Gas N Go is offering Michelin Star cuisine, I wish you’d told me when we were in Minnesota.”

          Will sighed. “I like fast food, packaged food because it tastes like nothing. If I eat food prepared by someone I know…”

          Will closed his eyes. “You’ve already noted I have trouble with taste.”

          Hannibal was leaning forward now. Will hadn’t realized he moved. It felt like those amber eyes were peering into the carefully crafted shadows of Will’s mind, shedding light on all the things he’d tucked away safely. “Your insight into people extends to the food they prepare?”

          “Yeah.” Will winced. “Not always. If it’s some kid at McDonalds just trying to make it through a shift, then no. They didn’t really prepare the food for me, it tastes like nothing. But when someone makes me food…”

          “What did you taste when we shared a breakfast, Will?”

          “See, I knew this was a bad idea. You tell someone, and then you can never eat in peace again.”

          “Deflection.”

          “It’ll make you self-conscious. Then that’s all I’ll taste.”

          “What does it matter? You’ve pointedly avoided letting me feed you since that breakfast.” Hannibal licked his lips. “What did you taste, Will?”

          “It was…good.”

          Hannibal’s stare flattened. “Ah, well, I can see why you’ve avoided telling me.”

          Will sprang from his chair. He’d be damned if he had to suffer Hannibal’s scrutiny while he did this. He walked around Hannibal’s sofa to stare out the window, watching traffic. “You’re an arrogant prick, but that much I could have pulled from your clothes or general demeanor. But most people who are interested in me offer up fatty dishes, it feels like I’m chewing through a wad of gelatinous, sticky gristle, drowning in their own self-satisfaction. Your dish was almost…violent.”

          He heard Hannibal shift but didn’t turn around. “It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was like an explosion of flavors. An arterial spray, chaotic and overwhelming, but with a beauty and a pattern if you know how to read it. Cloying arrogance, savory interest, and…”

          Will turned. Hannibal was nearly on top of him. The doctor lowered his hand and Will frowned. Had Hannibal been about to pat his shoulder?

          “And what?” Hannibal sounded nearly breathless.

          “It was metallic, cut through the whole dish like it was marinated in it.”

          “What does metallic mean to your palate, Will?”

          “I don’t know…but it was delicious.” Will’s cheeks pinked. “I licked the plate when I took it to wash off.”

          Hannibal took a deep breath, licking his lips as he watched Will. “Try the sandwich.”

          Will did. He’d never dropped the damn thing. He brought it to his lips and sank his teeth in. Closing his eyes, he let the flavors wash over him. “Arrogance again.”

          He opened his eyes to watch Hannibal, who smiled softly.

          “But I can taste the care. You cooked the meat…baked the bread…chopped the anchovies in the sauce…grew the herbs…you’re in every morsel. The salt is there, no…umami? You’re fascinated by me, but there’s something else…care? It’s on the back of my tongue…sweet and light, like you thought of me while you made this.”

          Hannibal let out a shaking breath. “And that metallic taste?”

          Will nodded. “It’s in every bite…like acid brightening the flavors. It reminds me of snagging a prize fish or…”

          Garett Jacob Hobbs popped into Will’s mind and the incandescent snarl of victory that had welled in his chest as he watched the man fall to the kitchen floor. He shook his head.

          “Does that mean you enjoy it?”

          “It’s beautiful,” Will whispered. The world seemed to still, the air shimmering between them. Will didn’t dare look up.

          “What an extraordinary man you are, Will Graham.”

          Will laughed, hunching his shoulders. “I bet that’s what you say to all your psyche evals.”

          “Not only do you possess pure empathy, you have an uncanny ability to apply it to your palate.” Hannibal seemed to be murmuring more to himself than Will. He walked back to his desk. Will noticed Hannibal laying a thin metal object on the surface before picking up a pen and squinting at Will’s file. “I had no…there’s no mention of this in your files, in any of your-”

          Will scoffed. “You think I was going to mention that to some FBI shrink eager to sink their sticky little fingers into my brain? Hey doc, I know you think I’m already nuts, but also I can taste feelings.”

          Hannibal looked up, eyes black in the shadows. “But you’ve told me.”

          Why the fuck had he told Hannibal? Will blushed and turned back to the window, the feeling of those eyes on him unbearable. “I have.”

          “Do you regret it?”

          “Not yet.” Will glared at his own reflection. “Don’t…please don’t tell Jack.”

          “I won’t. You have my word.” Hannibal closed his notes. “And I always keep my promises.”

          “You’re the only one.” Will swallowed. “In my experience, promises are about as worthwhile as my stupid fucking tastebuds.”

          “Will, you have gifts that ordinary people could barely comprehend.” Hannibal sat back in his chair, gesturing for Will to return to his customary seat.

          “Ah yes, incomprehensible gifts,” Will flopped back in his seat with a grimace. “no one’s ever been burned at the stake for those.”

          “But surely you could-”

          “What? Become a food psychic? If Jack knew he’d have me licking corpses.” Will ran a hand through his hair. “Better to just ignore it.”

          “Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is,” Hannibal murmured, fingers playing with the loose paper on his sandwich. Will raised a brow, huffing slightly.

          “Camus had his wife committed; seems he didn’t want everyone to embrace who they truly were.”

          That head tilt again. “I suppose he did. But one could argue that extreme measures are necessary for true transformation.”

          “Spoken like the one doing the committing.”

          Hannibal hummed, picking up his glass and sipping from it. “I have a thought on your treatment. It’s a slightly unorthodox three-prong plan, but I believe it would benefit you.”

          “…said the spider to the fly.” Will took another bite of the sandwich, fighting the urge to close his eyes as Hannibal’s flavors washed over him. He swallowed hard. “Go on.”

          “First, I’d like you to allow me to continue feeding you-” Hannibal held up his hand when Will immediately opened his mouth to object. “Only once a week, I have no wish to overwhelm your palate.”

          Will bit into the sandwich again, savoring. “Second?”

          “I’d like you to see a neurologist.”

          Will coughed, little flecks of cow stomach erupting from his mouth and landing on Hannibal’s pristine carpet. “What?”

          “It has nothing to do with your palate or your empathy, I’m beginning to suspect that you have encephalitis.”

          “How do you begin to suspect that?”

          “You have your tongue; I have my nose.”

          “What?” Will blinked, shaking his head. “I have never felt crazier than in this moment.”

          Hannibal smiled, sliding off the chair to blot his handkerchief on the carpet, cleaning Will’s mess. “My sense of smell is very keen. I knew a professor was suffering from cancer long before he announced it to the class. You have a fevered sweetness to your scent, which, though not conclusive, when paired with your symptoms of hallucinations and loss of time make my diagnosis likely.”

          Will leaned forward. “My cologne.”

          “What about it?”

          “You told me you didn’t like the scent. Was it the encephalitis you were smelling?”

          Hannibal rose to his knees. Will hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten until Hannibal raised the handkerchief to Will’s lips, carefully wiping at the sauce. When Will was clean, Hannibal smiled. “I promise, both smell horrible, Will.”

          “And you always mean your promises.” Will laughed. He couldn’t help it. He felt warm and full for the first time in years. He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m not crazy? I’m just sick?”

          “You are remarkable.” Hannibal stood, moving back to his seat. Will felt cold. “And you will be more so once you’re well.”

          “So…how does this work? Do you refer me?”

          Hannibal shook his head, jotting something down in his notebook. “That would take months. I’ll make a call. Can you meet me tomorrow at 9 am at this address? My colleague Donald owes me a favor, he’ll see you.”

          “Yeah. Yeah, ok.” Will took the paper when Hannibal tore it neatly from the notebook and offered it to him. “I’ll see you then.”

          He stood but found himself hesitating before he moved to the door. “Hannibal?”

          “Yes?”

          “You gonna eat that?” Will gestured to the sandwich the doctor had abandoned on the glass coffee table.

          Hannibal smiled wide and toothy. “No. Please take it.”

          Will grinned, scooping up the lampredotto and tucking it into his satchel. “Thanks.”

          “My pleasure.”

          Will fled before he could blush again or do anything truly mortifying, like ask if he could stay for another protein scramble. It didn’t matter. He had encephalitis. And once that cleared up, so would these odd thoughts about Hannibal.

          Will was halfway home and four bites into Hannibal’s sandwich before he realized he never asked what the third prong of Hannibal’s plan was.

Chapter Text

          Will hadn’t eaten since Hannibal’s sandwich. He’d pulled into his local gas station for some coffee, but somehow the memory of Hannibal’s food seemed more appealing than the comforting nothingness of a frozen burrito. He regretted that the moment he met Dr. Sutcliffe, who regarded him with a raised brow before shooting meaningful looks at Hannibal. Will didn’t have to eat anything the man prepared to know that Donald Sutcliffe was disdainful of his new emergency MRI patient. More annoyingly, Sutcliffe seemed to be interested in Hannibal.

          It irked Will how Sutcliffe would sidle into Hannibal’s space, tip his head closer to murmur. And though Hannibal did nothing to encourage it, he didn’t move away. It made Will’s stomach clench, but he couldn’t say he was hungry. He let that uneasy feeling fester while the MRI banged around him. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander. He saw himself forcing his hands into Sutcliffe’s smarmy smile and tearing, opening up that bitter head for all to see.

          Will had a lump in his throat ever since Dr. Sutcliffe had ushered him out of the MRI and into his office. Hannibal had offered to step out, but Will had asked him to stay. He’d almost asked to hold his hand as Sutcliffe outlined just what Anti-NMDAR Encephalitis was and how they’d have to treat it. Weeks in the hospital…a near constant cycle of IVs…increased vomiting and a course of pills…the need to board or hire someone to look after the dogs…

          He hadn’t realized Hannibal had taken his hand until he felt the squeeze.

          “This is good news, Will.” Hannibal smiled slightly. “There is a cure, and though it’s daunting, your mind will be yours in a matter of weeks.”

          “I’m not crazy. I’m sick.”

          “Exactly.”

          Will smiled feebly at Hannibal. Dr. Sutcliffe cleared his throat, offering Hannibal a raised eyebrow before he continued his description of Will’s treatment. There was no time to prepare or even pack a bag. One moment he was squeaking in Dr. Sutcliffe’s overstuffed leather chairs and the next he was blinking at the fluorescent light of a hospital hallway trying to remember his social security number for the intake nurse.

          “Here,” Hannibal produced a chocolate chip muffin from seemingly thin air. Will had noticed that Hannibal enjoyed going through life like some sort of be-suited magician. He wondered what other slights of hand Hannibal performed on a daily basis. “I know you skipped breakfast.”

          “I had coffee,” Will grumbled, taking the muffin and peeling back the paper that surrounded it. In truth, he wasn’t particularly hungry, but the thought of Hannibal’s cooking, that sharp sweet taste filling him up, was comforting as he sat in the sterile waiting room.

          He took a bite.

          Nothing.

          Will blinked, chewing harder as panic flared, pressing his tongue into the mush in his mouth. He swallowed, his head snapping to glare at Hannibal. “You didn’t make that.”

          Hannibal beamed, pride oozing from him as he regarded Will. “Extraordinary.”

          The doctor snatched the muffin from Will’s hands and tossed it into an open trash can in the corner. Immediately there was another muffin before Will, this one wrapped in similar paper, but the difference was clear. The delicate purple coloring of the pastry was cut by a violet-red swirl, almost like veins traversing the muffin. Will grabbed it, mouth-watering. “I should have known you’d never make something as banal as chocolate chip.”

          Hannibal pursed his lips. “I’m not against chocolate chips.”

          Will cast a sly look at Hannibal as he peeled back the paper. “Bake a lot of Tollhouse cookies, do you?”

          Hannibal squinted, “I’m unfamiliar.”

          “I bet you are.” Will snorted. He bit into the muffin and groaned, it was perfect. Sweet, tart, and with that delicious metallic note that seemed to drum up Will’s heart and appetite at the same time. “Arrogant, that’s probably your base note, though. But your arrogance isn’t greasy and cloying it’s…indulgent. Earned maybe? Maybe you’re just a particular type of arrogant bastard. I taste something a bit sour in the jam…concern?”

          Will let his mouth coil into a lopsided smile. “You’re worried about me.”

          “I am waiting with you to get a hospital bed, Will.” Hannibal didn’t directly answer, but he didn’t deny it either. Will chewed on another bite. “Does the sour note ruin it?”

          “No,” Will swallowed. “It makes the sweet brighter.”

          Hannibal smiled at that. “Anything else?”

          “Still that metallic taste,” Will squinted. “What do you think that is? It’s in every dish you serve.”  

          “This particular dish is cardamom and rose water muffins with fig jam.” Hannibal grinned. “And a touch of arrogant bastard.”

          Will shrugged. “Must be you, then. A keen intellect? No…fierce protectiveness? I can’t…?”

          “Take a stab at it later, we need to focus on your intake now.” Hannibal smiled. Will frowned. The phrase seemed odd for Hannibal, too young, too colloquial for a man who seemed to pride himself on speaking like the Sphinx. He shook his head, he’d been up for 30 hours, and Hannibal had likely been up at least 12 if the muffins were made this morning…he supposed a slip of the tongue was fair. Still, he wished he’d brought his notebook, he would have jotted the phrase down so Will could parse it later, picking at the oddity of it until he understood Hannibal’s full meaning.

          “I need to figure out what to do with my dogs,” Will murmured, finishing the last of the muffin. He looked at the empty wrapper with what could only be called despair until a fresh muffin appeared out of thin air in his field of vision. “How do you do that?”

          “I’ve installed a trap door in the hospital for muffin purposes.” Hannibal winked. “And I’ve already called Alana, she’s happy to see to your dogs for the night. I’ll take over tomorrow. We can continue to switch or you can find a service if you’re unhappy with our level of care.”

          “You’re taking care of seven dogs tomorrow?” Will grinned. “God I wish I had a camera in the house.”

          Hannibal straightened, primly smoothing his suit. “I’ll have you know I had a dog and a horse in my youth.”

          “Unless that horse was six high-prey-drive dogs in a costume, I’m not sure you know what you’re getting into.

          Hannibal sniffed. “I’m better equipped to deal with high prey drives than you give me credit for.”

          Will snorted. “We’ll see.”

          Overall, Will rather liked hospital food. It was anonymous and bland, except for one incident of a bitterly malicious-tasting chicken breast that had worried him enough to have Jack interrogate the kitchen staff. But for the most part, he could happily tuck into the meal without worrying about gnashing his teeth through anyone’s errant feelings.

          And lately, Will had been swallowing a lot of feelings.

          Alana texted him every other day with dog updates and pictures. On Friday, she’d sent a video with the message Don’t tell him, he’ll kill me.

          Will played the video.

          The video was of Hannibal’s back, the dogs surrounding him in a semi-circle on the kitchen floor.

          “The key to an excellent meat mix is understanding fat content as well as flavors.” Hannibal lectured to…no one. “Now your father’s mixture has three parts chicken to one part beef, but I think you’ll agree with me that a more equitable 60-40 split improves the texture when we mix the oats in.”

          Max woofed.

          Hannibal sighed. “Yes, I remembered the fish oil, Max. But I must remind you that we do not bark in the house.”

          Buster, who was doing his best to maintain a sit, had his front paws tapping furiously on the linoleum as he watched Hannibal. Finally, the little dog could stand the excitement no more and stood, pawing at Hannibal’s leg.

          “Buster, we have discussed claws on my wool trousers, I believe.” Buster sat. Hannibal leaned down, offering him a small morsel of food. “That’s a good boy. As I was saying the oatmeal will of course absorb some of the meat’s moisture, but I still believe that fresh pumpkin instead of canned can enhance it texturally and boost both the flavor and water content.” He turned to the dogs. “Please remind your father that canned produce is a last resort, not a staple. Now, to roast the pumpkin we simply quarter it…”

          Winston broke away from the Hannibal Lecter Canine Cooking Show to greet Alana.

          “Winston? Where are you- Alana! You’re early. Is that-” The video cut off.

          Will played the video again.

          And again.

          “Your boyfriend is cute.” Will jumped at the nurse who appeared by his side. She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, baby, I thought you heard me come in.”

          She nodded to the phone as she wrangled the bags on the IV stand, changing out antibiotic drips. “He coming for dinner again tonight?”

          Will nodded. “Yeah, it’s his night.”

          “Good. He brings us cookies. And,” She gave him a wink. “You eat better when he’s here.”

          Will nodded, smiling. “I do.”

          “Maybe with a good meal in you, you won’t go running off.”

          “Sometimes I need to stretch my legs, Kiya.”

          The nurse made a face. “You are a fall risk. Don’t you want to go home to your man? Can’t do that if you break something.”

          Will hummed. He did want to go home, to his dogs, to his peaceful house free of beeping machines and buzzing hospital lights, and maybe to a nice man, one that must be on his way by now, a delicious meal settled beside him in the car.

          Kiya took a moment to note his vitals and left him with a smile. It was harmless really, if a few nurses at Johns Hopkins thought Hannibal was his boyfriend. Honestly, it would be more trouble to correct them, to explain that Hannibal was his not-quite-psychiatrist who fed him, fluffed his pillows, and fretted over Will’s charts while murmuring about needing a better water filtration system at the Wolf Trap house. They'd get the wrong idea about Hannibal, about them. And Will was supposed to be avoiding stress.

          Will hit play on the video again, feeling his stomach rumble. For the first time in years, he looked forward to dinner.

          “Smells delicious.” Will’s voice felt rough as he watched Hannibal plate two bowls of soup as if he were in the midst of a Michelin-star restaurant instead of a hospital room that smelled of stinging ammonia and sterilized plastic.

          “Silkie chicken in a broth. A black-boned bird prized in China for its medicinal value since the seventh century.” Hannibal gave his customary history lesson that accompanied each meal. Will struggled to sit up in the hospital bed, half to pay attention to Hannibal, half to get a better look at the contents of the bowls Hannibal was fussing with. “Wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates, and star anise.”

          Will couldn’t help himself. “You made me chicken soup.”

          Hannibal froze, soup suspended mid-air, processing Will’s little jab with a blank face. Finally, he seemed to settle on a response. “Yes.”

          He turned on his heel and took both bowls to the small table at the far end of the room. Apparently, Will would be denied dinner in bed for that little jibe. It was fine with him, he wanted to get out of bed. Wanted to pretend that he was eating a normal meal with Hannibal, not some sad sickbed soup prepared by a concerned friend.

          Will settled into the chair, conscious of his undershirt and boxers. The nurses had asked for him to wear a hospital gown, but the idea of sitting bare-assed in front of Hannibal when the man had prepared him such a lovely meal felt disrespectful. On Hannibal days, he wore boxers and a t-shirt. The nurses had given up.

          As they tucked into their food, Will smiled when he felt that watchful amber gaze land on him. He made a production of slurping up soup, creating the most obnoxious noise he could. He heard Hannibal’s little huff, the one he gave because snorting was not nearly elegant enough for such a refined soul.

          “Well?”

          Will tilted his head, trying his best not to let his smile break through. “From a can?”

          Hannibal gave him a flat stare. “Yes, Campbell’s silkie chicken soup, it was on sale.”

          “It’s sweet and sour, mostly.” Will let his smile take over. “Dr. Lecter, you’re worried about me.”

          “Of course I am.” Hannibal’s eyes immediately dropped to his own soup. Will noticed that Hannibal was a fan of eye contact only until Will accurately identified his feelings. “My friend with a discerning palate is in the hospital. I can only hope that Jello hasn’t dampened your ability to taste.”

          “Well, I do taste Reddi-Wip and lime, is that not in the broth?” Hannibal’s nose twitched, pulling his lip into a little snarl. Will felt a wave of heat rush through him. He tucked into another spoonful. “Sweet and sour, the base is care and concern. But of course, there’s that treacly arrogance…and that bright metallic flavor.”

          “You called that violence once.”

          “It was…is…” Will squinted. “It’s like I can taste blood in the water. Like I’m consuming life and swallowing death in the same moment.”

          Hannibal blinked at him.

          “Do you butcher your own chickens or something?”

          Hannibal dabbed at his mouth with a cloth napkin. “I’ve been known to butcher my own meat every now and then.”

          Will frowned, he thought of the little notebook, the one filled with Hannibal. Perhaps he’d ask Alana to bring it to him, so he could write down a few more little tricksy phrases. It always seemed easier to parse Hannibal’s words dispassionately without that amber gaze on him. “Maybe that’s it.”

          He tucked back into the soup, letting the liquid burst on his palate. He thought back to the silent, bitter meals with his dad. The silence now wasn’t oppressive, but there was a weight to it. It felt like anticipation. Will glanced at Hannibal, who was unabashedly watching him eat, a small smile on his face.

          The moment seemed to stretch, and Will found his feet moving forward seeking contact.

          He cleared his throat, tucking both feet underneath the hospital chair. “Did Jack send you the file on-”

          “He did, and I gave my opinion.”

          “Which was?”

          “That you needed to rest and he should consult me and leave you be,” Hannibal said primly, dabbing at his mouth.

          “I think the killer doesn’t know they’re alive…I laid the crime scene photos out and-”

          “Will, it may fascinate you to know that the FBI has been operating since 1908 and has been able to find and catch criminals since its inception.” Hannibal tilted his head. “In fact, the bureau has been involved in the apprehension of several serial killers before you joined.”

          Will snorted. “You share that little factoid with Jack?”

          “I did.” Hannibal sniffed, leaning back in his chair and looking like a lord in repose. “There was a considerable amount of yelling and he called me an ugly-suited bastard, but eventually he was made to see sense.”

          Will raised a brow.

          “Well, Alana and I expressed a willingness to make on-the-record statements to Human Resources and Freddie Lounds about the head of the BAU going against medical advice.” Hannibal smiled. “That seemed to convince him.”

          Will laughed. “I didn’t know Alana had it in her…I’ll have to thank her.”

          Something shifted in Hannibal’s manner. He sat up straight his face carefully blank. “Yes, you will. You must remember to do that the next time she brings you soup.”

          Hannibal shifted to stand, but Will caught his hand, marveling at how warm the doctor was even in the frigid hospital room. “Of course, I’m grateful to you too Hannibal. I’m just surprised Alana was on my side too.”

          Oddly, the doctor who loved to stare at Will wasn’t very fond of eye contact at the moment. Will sighed, tightening his grip. “I’m sorry, I just…took it for granted you’re on my side. You’re my paddle after all.”

          “I am.” It sounded odd, almost like a question.

          “Yeah, I’d be out at a crime scene somewhere with my brain on fire if it wasn’t for you.” Will smiled. “Hannibal, you saved me.”

          Those beautiful amber eyes flicked up. “The world is more interesting with you in it.”  

          Will shook his head. “An anti-social fisherman makes the world interesting?”

          “A man with pure empathy, whose palate can decipher feeling? A man who can, even with encephalitis clouding his judgment, be a top criminal profiler and incisive conversationalist?” Hannibal’s mouth twitched into a smile. “A man who owns seven dogs and seems to name them at random? What could be more interesting than that?”

          Will was glowing, his hand rubbing small circles on Hannibal’s wrist before he stopped short. “HEY! Those names are great!”

          “Winston is a great name, I believe it means joyful stone.”

          “JOYFUL STONE? What?” Will laughed.

          “In Old English Wynn meant-”

          “He just looked like a Winston.”

          “Excuse me?”

          Will shrugged. “He looked like a Winston.”

          Hannibal leaned forward. Will realized he still had a grip on the doctor’s wrist. He didn’t let go. “Tell me, Will, how does one look like a Buster?”

          With a smile, Will rubbed his free hand over his face. “The first night I brought him home was hot as hell. I didn’t have the AC working yet, so I left the windows open and the screen door locked. It wasn’t a big deal, no one ever comes by the house and the dogs all sleep through the night. But apparently, something went by the house, something Buster couldn’t abide. I woke up in a panic to the dogs barking at a small hole in the screen door.”

          Will laughed. “Looked like an entry wound from a small caliber gun.”

          “He busted out…so he is forever Buster.” Hannibal paused, head cocked. “But your screen door isn’t a full screen, there’s metal at the base.”

          “It is now.” Will snorted. “I replaced that screen three times before I learned my lesson and just bought a new door. He only tried to crash through that one once.”

          “Still, I would be loathe to be remembered for eternity by a single misdeed.” Hannibal smiled.

          A knock made Will jump. Kiya stood in the doorway smiling softly at them. “Sorry, boys, I’ve got to get this one’s vitals then get him back in bed for his next round of meds.”

          “Thank you, Kiya, we were just wrapping up.” Hannibal shifted and Will realized the doctor’s palm was now resting against his own. “But I must say I’m curious what would you name me?”

          “Gordie the gourmet?” Will burst out laughing at the horror on Hannibal’s face. “I’m kidding, something melodic, but that you’d have to think about spelling would fit you. I guess, Aloysius maybe? No that sounds like a vicious cat. Nigel? -Nah, that’s no good. Beau? That’s better, a little more approachable. David?”

          Will looked up, smiling at Hannibal’s amused expression. “Eh, you look like a Hannibal.”

          “I suppose I do.” Hannibal stood, gathering the dishes quietly. Will flexed his hand, fingers still chasing the warmth of Hannibal’s skin as it evaporated. “Do you know much about the meanings of names, Will?”

          Will kept his eyes down, scraping the chair across the linoleum as he stood. Shuffling to the bed he flopped down, the pit of his stomach souring as Hannibal finished packing. “No. Why?”

          “Just curious about your selections. David, especially.” Hannibal looked at Will as Kiya strapped the cuff to his arm. Will focused on the pressure, the squeeze in his arm — anything other than Hannibal’s gaze.

          “I told you, I just let the names come to me.”

          Hannibal smiled. “Another remarkable empathic sense, I suppose.”

          “Your blood pressure is a little elevated, though I think we can put that down to environmental causes,” Kiya winked as she pulled the cuff from Will’s arm. He felt his cheeks heat and kept his eyes down. “And thank you for the cookies, Dr. Lecter. It made our day.”

          “You’re welcome, Kiya. I do hope they tide you over until I return.”

          “I didn’t get any cookies,” Will grumbled. Hannibal was leaving and now he had a long night of vital checks and mechanical beeping to look forward to.

          “Did you not?” Hannibal smiled, stepping forward and putting a small packet on the rolling tray by his bed. “Goodnight, Will.”

          Will swallowed. “See you tomorrow, Hannibal.”

          Will watched in silence as Hannibal bowed his head, taking his leave. He glanced at the cookies on the table. He’d have to savor them, draw out the flavor the feeling of care until Hannibal came back. Hannibal almost always left him with a token piece of food — cookies, candies, jellied treats rolled in sour sugar. Will would ration them like a starving man, hiding them furtively from nurses and visitors, afraid they might take the treasure from him. It helped sometimes when the hospital smells and noises grew in the small hours of the morning. One bite and suddenly Will was wrapped in care, worrying that metallic taste against the roof of his palate.

          “You two are darling,” Kiya said. “Your temp’s almost in a normal range. Another four days and the doctor will probably let you go home with him.”

          “We don’t live together.”

          “You should. Man that cooks like that? Lock him down, honey.” Kiya smiled. “He’s smart too. What was he saying earlier about name meanings? Does the name David mean something bad?”

          “No,” Will kept his eyes on the empty space Hannibal once inhabited. “It means beloved.”

Chapter Text

          Will fiddled with his collar. He’d put a tie on, then taken it off. He’d buttoned his shirt up fully, then left three buttons open. Nothing had felt right. He had settled for leaving his salmon shirt (the only shirt currently hanging in his closet without a stain, plaid pattern, or frayed thread) open at the throat, just enough to ease his stressed breathing.

          Why was this so nerve-wracking? He’d dined with Hannibal dozens of times. Shouldn’t it be easier when nurses weren’t buzzing around in the halls and Will was in an outfit that didn’t tie in the back?

          So why did he feel more exposed now?

          Since he’d been home from the hospital, it seemed that Hannibal would find any excuse to stop by. The first time, he’d driven Will home, fussed over his medication organization, and greeted the dogs like an old friend. He’d stuffed the freezer and fridge with enough Tupperware-clad meals to feed 17 people.

          Will had finished it in four days.

          He’d never had much of an appetite in adulthood, but now he found himself gorging. He’d wake up craving the taste of Hannibal’s food, the sweet care, the savory worry, and always that violent spark of metallic flavor that seemed to ignite the ingredients and make the dish come alive on his tongue.

          He was a plate licker now, and a man that went back for seconds. For the first time since he’d hit puberty and grown four inches in a summer, he found himself needing new clothes. The physical ravages of the encephalitis, which had left his body looking concave and frail, were almost fully gone. Will carried himself differently with his new weight. His shoulders didn’t seem to hunch as much, his chest broader and stronger than it had been in ages pulled at the buttons of his shirts.

          Hannibal had noted that the second time he dropped by, saying how happy he was with Will’s more robust appearance. Jack had called Hannibal in for a consultation — Will wasn’t sure who Jack was afraid of, or if Hannibal had somehow blocked the Head of the BAU’s number, but Jack hadn’t dialed him once in weeks. Hannibal had arrived, staunchly refusing to speak about the case, even playing tug-o-war with his briefcase when Will tried to peek into the files. He did, however, bring treats. Some for Will, some for the dogs. The way they all lined up eagerly for them, Will guessed Hannibal’s food had a similar effect on the pack.

          The third time Hannibal stopped by, he’d said he was in the area. Apparently, the opera board was considering an alfresco performance and someone had suggested they look at Wolf Trap’s outdoor stage. That didn’t explain why he had a cooler filled with 6 meals in his car, but a lot of things about Hannibal were unexplainable — like how he still looked graceful leaning on the arm of Will’s chair listening intently to Will’s thoughts on a paper Hannibal was writing on Utilitarianism and its justification for criminal actions while holding a drool-soaked lamb stuffie that Buster was desperately tugging on. Will had been smiling about that very thing when Hannibal had asked if he was feeling up to a proper meal.

          “Huh?” Will blinked. He’d been leaning on his hand and realized belatedly he was cupping a positively goofy grin.

          “Do you feel up for a proper dinner, at my house?”

          “This is a proper dinner.” Will gestured to the empty container before him, resisting the urge to drag his finger through the dregs of sauce still left pooling at the bottom of the ceramic.

          “I confess, I have spent nights awake picturing you microwaving my food until smoke wafts through the kitchen.” Hannibal finally won the game with Buster, tossing the lamb to the far end of the room. Buster skittered to get it, then returned, ready to tug again. “I would like to think that one meal I feed you wouldn’t be wrapped in butcher paper or encased in Tupperware.”

          “Don’t worry yourself,” Will cocked his head. “I never bother with microwaving them.”

          “Will.” The word was pained, but Will could taste the fondness in it. He grinned.

          “Just stand at the open fridge in my boxers, eating with my hands.”

          “That is an appalling thing to say about my osso buco.”

          “Nah, it wasn’t that bad, just threw some Tabasco on it and it tasted fine.” Hannibal’s eyes narrowed and Will felt his heart race. It had been doing that a lot lately, some horrific side effect of the medication, no doubt. He’d have to speak to his doctor about it at his next visit. “Yeah, alright, it’s not like I have anything else to do since you and Alana chased Jack off and I’m on sabbatical until the next semester. I can do dinner.”

          It had seemed natural to accept, easy even. But now, standing with his hand hovering over the door and a bottle of expensive wine the girl at the store had promised was good clutched in his free hand, he felt the need to flee. But if he turned around now, he wouldn’t get any of Hannibal’s food. He’d been rationing a few bites a day of the last meal, giving himself just enough warmth and worry to keep him going until today.

          Will knocked.

          Hannibal opened the door precisely four seconds after Will knocked. It was odd, Will hadn’t heard the doctor’s footsteps approach, and he wondered for a hysterical second if Hannibal had been on the other side of the door just as nervous, counting in his head so he wouldn’t look too eager. Will shook the thought from his mind. The meds were still swimming in his system and sometimes led him to flights of fancy.

          “Will, please come in.” Hannibal ushered Will in, taking the wine with one hand and slipping Will’s coat from his shoulders with the other. It was like watching a ballet. “I just pulled the entrée from the oven and am shaving radishes for the salad.”

          “Thank god, I hate hairy radishes.” Will smiled when Hannibal raised a brow at him. Will nodded at the wine. “I hope that isn’t…bad.”

          Hannibal glanced down, eyes scanning the label.

          “It’s excellent, and fortuitously pairs well with dinner.” Hannibal held out the bottle to Will, their fingers brushing as the empath accepted his offering. Hannibal turned, hanging Will’s jacket. “Thank you, Will. Could I prevail upon you to open it while I finish the salads?”

          “Yeah, sure.” Will was unreasonably pleased that his wine would be part of dinner. Though he usually didn’t get much from drinking other than a headache the next morning and blissful unconsciousness the night before, he wondered what he might taste tonight. Maybe he’d finally understand wine pairings, or maybe he’d just get to watch Hannibal enjoy it. He had a creeping feeling that would be enough. Frowning at himself, Will followed Hannibal into the kitchen. “Where’s your thingy?”

          Hannibal looked at him, radish poised over a mandolin. “The…thingy you seek should be in the third drawer from the bottom, right there.”

          Will smiled as Hannibal indicated with a radish. The drawer was of course meticulously organized and the corkscrew was right on top, as if it was waiting for Will. “Got it.”

          They worked in silence, Hannibal arranging paper-thin slices of radishes with stainless steel tongs and Will twisting the corkscrew.

          “What are you humming?”

          Will looked up, a yank releasing the cork of the wine with a pop. “Huh?”

          Hannibal started to hum, the melody creating an ache in Will’s gut. His face heated and he focused on untwisting the cork from the screw. “Nothing. It’s a Dolly Parton song. You wouldn’t know it.”

          “Ah Ms. Parton, I had the pleasure of making her acquaintance years ago. Lovely lady.”

          Will almost dropped the wine. “You’re fucking with me.”

          “I have interests outside of medicine and culinary arts,” Hannibal sniffed.

          “If you tell me you go two-stepping in a rhinestone shirt on Saturdays, I’m checking myself back into the hospital.” Will felt himself grinning.

          Hannibal reached into a cabinet and produced a crystal pitcher. “Decant, please.”

          Will took the pitcher but grabbed Hannibal’s wrist as well. The doctor didn’t pull back. “I’ll decant, but I’m going to need more information on Dolly.”

          Hannibal smiled. “I was part of a committee that helped establish a branch of her Imagination Library in Baltimore. She came to the dedication ceremony to thank us for our work. I admit I wasn’t familiar with her entertainment career, but I do believe in supporting literacy and found her devotion to the cause quite touching. Did you know her father was illiterate?”

          Will blinked. “Yeah. I…you met Dolly Parton.”

          Hannibal nodded. “She was an ideal dinner guest, game to try any dish, sparkling conversational skills, and a charming laugh.”

          He paused, tweezing a radish and looking off almost wistfully. “It’s a pity she doesn’t live closer, she’d be a welcome addition to my table.”

          “She…was here. Dolly Parton was here?”

          “Did I not mention that I hosted the reception at my home?”

          “Dolly Parton was in this house.”

          “Ah, I see…If only I had told you that Dolly Parton had touched my silverware, I could have lured you to one of my dinner parties.” Hannibal, finally satisfied with his meticulous radish placement, lifted the salads. “It may raise me in your estimation to know that she deemed me sweeter than mama’s molasses cookies and just as tempting to bite. Bring the decanter, please.”

          Hannibal walked into the dining room and Will stared after him.

          Hannibal fucking Lecter had met Dolly Parton. That might be the weirdest thing he’d ever heard of. Only slightly weirder was the pang of jealousy Will felt knowing Dolly had flirted with him.

          Will walked into the dining room and paused. It was dark, strange, and oddly pretentious. It looked like something designed by a snobby vampire, and yet, it was so perfectly Hannibal it made him smile. The walls were deep blue, with textured paper making them look like the interior of a clay pot. One side of the room was lit by a fire, over which rested two massive tusks, dimly glowing lamps, and a painting in a gilded frame. On the other side was a wall of vegetation, growing from stepped platforms.

          Furtively brushing his fingers against a few leaves as he passed, Will realized they were herbs as fragrance bloomed around him — sage, thyme, and a scent that he remembered and couldn’t place from his time walking the beat in New Orleans when the kitchens left their backdoors open in the height of summer and spice hung in the air. He felt like he was being led into a dark forest in a fairytale and wondered if he’d encounter a wolf.

          Hannibal placed the salads on the giant dark wood table that was festooned with red anemone flowers, black centers gaping at the ceiling and opened pomegranates. Will cocked his head at the display, thinking back to Greek mythology. He had an impulse to gobble up the pomegranate, just to see Hannibal’s reaction.

          The man in question rounded the table, taking the decanter from Will’s grip. “Please, sit. I’ll pour the wine and retrieve the entrée.”

          “Where do you want me? By the museum or the herb garden?”

          Hannibal’s mouth pulled into a small smile. “Where would you like to be?”

          “Herbs.”

          Hannibal seemed pleased by the answer, pulling out the chair. Will sat, anxiety bubbling in his chest. This didn’t feel like their friendly meals. This felt…charged. When Hannibal leaned over him to fill his wine glass, Will found himself swallowing hard, the scent of sage and Hannibal’s cologne coating his throat.

          Realizing he was staring, and worse, breathing on Hannibal’s face as the doctor poured the wine, Will coughed, and turned away, pretending to study the plants. “You know, I bought a basil plant once. Kept it in my window, watered it, talked to it. It died in a week.”

          “Perhaps it didn’t enjoy the conversation.” Hannibal was up and on the other side of the table, filling his own glass. Will missed the encroachment. “What did you discuss with it?”

          “Cases, mostly.”

          “Ah, I think it best to discuss murder with a heartier plant, like mint. Basil might have been too delicate for such things.”

          “Certainly scares away people, why not plants?” Will huffed a self-deprecating laugh. “How do you keep them alive? It’s so dark in here.”    

          “You’d be surprised how many things thrive in the dark.” Hannibal backed through the door to the kitchen. Will reached forward, plucking a seed from an open pomegranate and popping it into his mouth. The aril burst between his teeth tart and sharp, though he got little by the way of emotion from the fruit, his eyes fell on the jagged edge of the pomegranate. Not cut, but torn, to preserve the arils. Will could see Hannibal’s strong hands prying the flesh apart, crimson juices running along his fingers.

          He was considering reaching for a second aril when the door bumped and Hannibal reentered the room, carrying two steaming plates. He sat one in front of Will, a small cast iron skillet settled into a wooden block. Will could feel the heat emanating from the dish. He watched as Hannibal sat at his own place, the fire silhouetting his frame so he appeared almost black.

          “Tavë kosi, the national dish of Albania,” Hannibal said with a sniff. He always seemed to sniff right before launching into his little food speech. Will bit back a smile. It was as if the scent of his cooking reminded him of his prepared remarks. “A peasant’s dish of lamb and rice cooked in kos, a yogurt derived from goat’s milk. Though deceptively simple, the intricacy of flavor and texture made it a favorite dish of Sultan Mehmed II when the Ottoman Empire invaded Albania. The sultan’s obsession with the dish was so strong that the dish was required to be cooked wherever he went, spreading the meal and culture of Albania throughout the 15^th century Ottoman Empire.”

          Will raised a brow. “So, it was the mac n cheese of the 15^th century?”

          Hannibal’s lip curled into the barest snarl. “I suppose that’s the lesson one could take from the story of Mehmed II.”

          The scent of the dish wafted up, spiced and rich, Will swallowed, licking his lips. “What lesson would you take?”        

          Hannibal tilted his head, the movement sent shadows streaming across the ceiling and for a moment it looked like the doctor had grown great antlers from his skull. “That people too easily dismiss things with humble origins when they’re the very thing that can bring a ruler to his knees.”

          Will’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a lovely way to say old Mehmed was a fan of slumming it.”

          “I prefer to see it as sometimes the greatest treasures mask themselves as simple things.” Hannibal sipped Will’s wine, eyes closing as he sniffed the Cabernet before tipping it down his throat. He let the wine rest on his palate for a moment before swallowing luxuriously, eyes opening to meet Will’s stare. Will marveled at how much Hannibal enjoyed the taste, at the indulgence of it. It had always been a curse to Will, but lately, he was starting to see the appeal of savoring things. “If one’s lucky enough to find treasure, why allow anything to stop you from enjoying it?”

          Will smiled. “I’ll remind you of that when I invite you over for Easy Mac and root beer.”

          Hannibal’s mouth slid into a half smile, the expression he often wore when Will began to tease him. The slow curve of his lips made Will lick his own. He cleared his throat and moved his gaze from the doctor across from him to the food steaming before him. “Let’s see what all those Ottomans were raving about, huh?”

          Digging his fork into the dish, Will cracked through the golden top to soft rice, herbs, and browned meat. The smell was almost overwhelming now, the richness of the dish flooding his nostrils and reminding him of just how long it had been since he’d had a good meal, a Hannibal meal. He used to go years, decades between food that made him feel something, but now…even a few days without Hannibal’s cooking, the feeling of warmth and satiation that came with each mouthful, felt like an eternity.

          He speared a piece of lamb, careful to scoop rice, browned yogurt, and egg into the fork. Will was always careful with Hannibal’s food. It seemed disrespectful not to get the perfect bite when such a gift had been offered. Will anticipated a complex swirl of flavors and emotions.

          What he didn’t anticipate was a flood of lust so intense it made Will light-headed. Will chewed, the spiced taste of the lamb flooding his palate. He could feel heat climbing up his neck, sweat beading at his hairline. He was hard in his seat, teeth gnashing as he closed his eyes. He was too hot, too overwhelmed to do anything but swallow, his balls drawing tight to his body as his stomach clenched.

          “Will? What do you-”

          Will fled, stumbling to the bathroom in the hallway, slamming the door. He threw the lock with trembling fingers as he tried to draw breath. He ached, his breathing was shallow as he tried to gather himself. What the fuck was that?

          He ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the gelled curls, anything to snap him out of this haze. What had Hannibal been thinking of? Who had Hannibal been thinking of?

          Against his better judgment, Will ran his tongue along his teeth, searching for any dregs of the food still in his mouth. The spice was not unpleasant, but it was overwhelming, heating his skin and tightening his chest. Will thought of walking with Hannibal through a spice market, the air heavy with heat and perfumed with curry and sumac. He would run his finger through a pile of achiote, drawing the red spice across Hannibal’s lip before pulling him in for a heated, wet kiss.

          A bright burst of lust hit him again, so longing and painful that Will could hardly breathe. He moaned, slightly, his ears ringing as his teeth sank into his lip. His cock throbbed, pressing painfully against his zipper.

          Fumbling with his belt, Will hissed softly as he opened his pants. He glanced at the lurid wet spot on his boxers, he was already leaking. Pulling his boxers down, Will fell back against the door as he gripped his cock. He closed his eyes again, baring his teeth as he began to stroke. Hannibal’s face popped into his mind, Will licked his lips as he thought of that little snarl that curled Hannibal’s lip. What would he taste if he licked Hannibal’s neck? Would it be the same spiced intoxication that had him jerking off in a guest bathroom?

          Thumbing the tip of his cock, Will smeared pre-come down his length, tightening his grip to jerk faster. New thoughts of Hannibal, that beautiful mouth panting, licking into his. Those sharp teeth bared as he groaned. Will wanted to fling open the door, throw Hannibal onto his gaudy table, and paint him with his own food as Will consumed him. He pictured biting into Hannibal’s throat, his thigh, rending bloody flesh from Hannibal’s body and swallowing it whole. A metallic taste of violence and lust filled him as his teeth gnashed.

          Will came with a low keening sound, bucking his hips as he imagined the taste of Hannibal’s flesh, metallic and spiced. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, red-faced and panting. He looked like a wild thing, something bright and feral with teeth bared.

          He startled at a soft tap on the door. “Will?”

          Will shivered, a sudden chill in the air. Had he really just jerked off in his sort-of-doctor’s fancy guest bathroom? He stumbled to the toilet paper, cleaning his hand and the floor before righting his clothes with clumsy fingers. He knew Hannibal was still looming near the door. Will could see his shadow shifting along the door sill, a bleak reminder that Will couldn’t make a clean escape.

          He let his head fall against the bathroom door, knowing that Hannibal was milling just outside the door. What the fuck had Hannibal been thinking? At best, Hannibal’s feelings were genuine and he’d decided to ambush Will with them. At worst, Will couldn’t shake the odd feeling that this was a manipulation. That the paddle he had trusted to help him through rough waters was steering its own course instead of the one Will set. Hannibal was, above all, a curious creature. Will had been looking at his notebook of Hannibal quips recently and noted just how often Hannibal’s little interjections were bare provocations, just to see what would happen.  

          “Will, if the food wasn’t to your taste-”

          Will wrenched the bathroom door open. “You didn’t seem too concerned with my taste a few minutes ago.”

          “I was cur-”

          “You’re always curious.” Will rubbed a hand over his face. He was so fucking tired. “I should have known better than to give you a new toy and think you wouldn’t play with it.”

          Hannibal took half a step forward but thought better of it when Will leveled him with a stormy glare. “You weren’t upset when I gave you the muffin.”

          “There’s a difference between testing the waters and throwing me into the middle of a porno.”

          “Would it make a difference if I told you the emotions were ge-”

          “Don’t you fucking dare.” Will held up his hand. “You ambush me and somehow you’re the victim?”

          “I believed us both to be following along the same path.”

          “So did I.” Will bit his lip, eyes blurring as he focused on his shoes. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt…since I’ve allowed myself to feel…”

          He looked up at Hannibal, who looked uncertain for possibly the first time in human history.

          “I gave you a piece of me that I’ve never shared.”

          “A rare gift,” Hannibal agreed.

          “And you didn’t want it.”

          “I did.” Hannibal stepped closer. Will stepped back, further into the hallway, eyes already on the door. “And in my haste to keep it, I tried to reciprocate. I wanted to share mine with you in return.”

          “I’m not sure I can trust that.”

          “I want your trust very much.” Hannibal sighed. “I want nothing more than for us both to be fully aware of each other, to perceive each other clearly.”

          “I’m not sure I perceive you at all. I’m wondering if I’ve ever perceived anything you didn’t want me to.” Will moved to the hall closet to retrieve his coat. Hannibal made no move to stop him or aid him. “I’m going home. I think it’s best we skip dinner for a while.”

          He regretted the words the second he said them. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted more of the damn lamb. He wanted to gorge on it, to let Hannibal draw him down into a pit of lust. But he still felt used. He’d fed on Hannibal’s feelings, but there were still too many unknowns. Something he was missing. Something important. Until that was sorted anything between him and Hannibal would never last. And the idea of really losing Hannibal, of never talking to him or jotting down a Hannibalism in his notebook, that scared him.

          “Will?”

          “What?”

          “Promise me you’ll eat.” Will whipped around to glare at Hannibal, but the doctor’s gaze was on a cufflink. “Even if it’s gas station sushi. You need to eat to recover fully. I’ll never cook for you again, but please… in return I must know that you’ll eat regularly.”

          Will licked his lips. The idea of eating a microwaved burrito now seemed almost sacrilegious. It had been horrible, accepting that he’d never enjoy pancakes again. Would Will survive another separation, just when his life had gone from tasteless to succulent?

          “I’ll grab McDonald's on the way home.” It was a provocation. An easy one that should have earned him a sneer and a lecture on the evils of mass-produced food. But Hannibal merely kept his focus on that cufflink, nodding slightly.

          “Thank you.”

          Will left before he did something stupid, like run to Hannibal and tell him everything was ok. He wanted another bite of Hannibal’s food, the warmth and spice of the passion he’d tasted. He got in his car and drove home, stopping as promised by a McDonalds. The fries tasted like ash in his mouth. He shoved the food down and swallowed dryly, tasting nothing after weeks of bright challenging flavors.

          Worse, his stomach rumbled through the night, a fathomless hunger that he knew wouldn’t be sated.

Chapter Text

          The problem with hope was that it made disappointment so much harder to stomach. Will had gotten used to hope, to nurturing his idea of a future with every bite of Hannibal’s food.

          And now Will wasn’t hungry, even though he was starving. He grimaced through every bite of his breakfast burrito, forcing himself to swallow. His —stomach rumbled in protest. He’d been ravenous all week, and even with his careful rationing of the remaining frozen Hannibal dishes, they had only lasted a few days. It felt like ages since he’d eaten anything that nourished him. Still, he had a class to teach and a cold-in-the-center burrito to finish.

          He approached both with dour resignation.

          He recognized the Tupperware the moment Alana pulled it out of her bag. She set four pristine little ceramic containers on the table at the FBI commissary, smiling to herself as she arranged them. Hannibal had made her roasted root vegetables, a seared, sliced steak of some variety — jus on the side of course — and some mashed potatoes. Not exactly a dazzling culinary creation, but Will was sure the story of Roman history he wove around the damn thing had made up for the lack of cooking innovation.

          “You had dinner with Hannibal?” It was more of an accusation than he’d meant it to be, but something bitter and hard formed in his stomach as she unboxed the food.

          “It’s good to see you too, Will. Thanks for meeting me.” Alana squinted at him. Will kept his eyes on the Tupperware. “He wanted me to review a few patient files for him.”

          “Which files?”

          “The confidential ones.” Alana cocked her head, forking food she had no business eating into her lovely mouth. “Will, are you alright? Hannibal was positively morose yesterday and now you’re-”

          “Morose?”

          “Yes, when I stopped by he had made dinner, but we ate in the kitchen.” Alana smiled, “Which should have tipped me off that things were not going well. Everything was delicious of course, but I don’t think I’ve ever eaten such a quiet meal with him. Then, he ushered me out after we talked about possible referrals. No late-night wine, no dessert, not even a look at his latest find from the antique market. You can see why I was concerned.”

          The image of Alana and Hannibal sharing a dessert and late-night wine made Will’s lip curl. How often was Hannibal having late-night wine with people? Why wasn’t Will offered late-night wine? But then one of the words Alana said registered in Will’s mind with a cold sting. “Referral? Who is he referring?”

          “That’s confidential.” Alana’s steady gaze faltered. She dragged her fork through the mashed potatoes.

          “Even if it’s me?”

          “He said you skipped your session yesterday. Said you no longer had faith in his abilities. Is that true?”

          “My faith in Hannibal’s ability to manipulate the mind was never in question.” Will tore open the gas station tuna sandwich he’d picked up on his way to the office. Giving himself food poisoning was about the only interesting thing he could do with food anymore. Maybe then he’d end up in a hospital, and if he did, perhaps he’d get a visitor. “He was never my official therapist anyway.”

          “I know you two like to hide behind this conversations label and pretend it’s all very intellectual and refined, but just what were you fostering if not a therapeutic relationship?”

          Will took a bite of the sandwich, the smell fetid as it neared his mouth. “What does that mean?”

          “It means I don’t bring hospitalized patients food every day. Or worry that their dogs might not like real roasted pumpkin because they’re used to canned.” Alana raised a sculpted brow. “I don’t glower at well-meaning friends who ask what’s going on.”

          “Nothing happened if that’s what you’re implying.”

          “I figured.” Alana took another bite of her meat. “Both of you are far too unhappy for anything to have happened. But I guess, I wanted to talk to you.”

          “To see how I felt about the referral?”

          “To see if you were as miserable as Hannibal.” Alana dropped her fork. “I can’t say I approve of how this mess started, but I approve of the results.”

          “Results?”

          “You’ve gained weight. Not in a bad way, but it’s like someone was caring for you for the first time in ages. The bags under your eyes were going away.  You smile more. You smiled at me before I brought out Hannibal’s Tupperware.” Alana took his hand. “I don’t think it was just the encephalitis, Will. You seemed…”

          Sated. For the first time since Will was a child, he wasn’t howling for nourishment he was denied. Will squeezed Alana’s hand. “You think he fixed me.”

          “No. Well, in a way.” Alana laughed. “But you’ve made some changes of your own. You know I caught him humming a Dolly Parton song the other day? I know he didn’t pick that up at a cocktail party. He cornered Dr. Grimmel two months ago at an opera after-party so he could quiz the poor woman on foods that would help large breed dogs as they aged. He noticed Max was having trouble settling on the bed and was concerned about joint damage.”

          Will frowned. “I find myself at a precipice. I’ve spent my life leaping off of them. Diving into the brains of people I barely know, recreating crimes I wish I hadn’t seen. Every time I land, I break, sometimes a lot, sometimes a little. But now I know I’m not the only one going over the edge, and for the first time, I’m hesitating.”

          “Who are you afraid will break?”

          “I’m afraid I’ll find I’ve jumped on my own after all.” Will swallowed another bite of the sandwich. “That my arms will be empty when I land.”

          “And if they’re not?”

          “Well, that might be even scarier, Dr. Bloom.” He pulled his hand away. He wasn’t hungry, so he put his sandwich down.

          Alana picked up her fork, gesturing vaguely with it.

          “I’m not here to advise you either way. I just wanted to let you know I’m your friend, and if you need- HEY!” Will didn’t know what possessed him, but he snatched the fork from Alana’s grasp and speared the meat in front of her. “Will! What are you- THAT’S MY LUNCH!”

          Will was already chewing, a grin forming as his mouth worked. He stabbed another slice of meat to be sure, dragging it through the mashed potatoes and jus.

          Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Will could have picked up a drive-through burger and gotten the same results.

          “It’s awful.” Will was radiating joy.

          Alana snatched the containers back from him as he grinned. “It is not! I know you’ve had your issues with Hannibal, but this is perfectly-”

          “Bland. It’s got no flavor at all. He was so disinterested in making you dinner he barely even thought about it at all.”

          “OK I know you and Hannibal are not on the best terms right now, but-”

          Will wasn’t listening. He smiled to himself as he chewed the flavorless food. It didn’t matter if Alana got dessert or late-night wine, she wasn’t getting Hannibal. Not really. He offered her nothing of himself, not even the treacly sweet arrogance that seemed to be his base note. And certainly not the bright metallic flavor that seemed to light up Will’s palate whenever he tried it.

          Perhaps he’d been too hasty when he’d rejected Hannibal’s dinner.

          As Alana talked, Will pulled out his phone and thumbed to his text messages. There wasn’t much to be found. Will left every group chat Beverly had ever included him in. Beyond Verizon offering him a new phone and Jack mentioning a new case, there was only one other conversation. He opened it.

          Alana’s steak tasted like shit. Maybe I should make you dinner?

          “Will? Did you hear me? I think you need to-”

          The reply was almost immediate, as was Will’s smile.

          Name the time and place, I’ll be there.

          Will promised himself that his second date with Hannibal wouldn’t be a disaster. Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Dating. Hell, maybe they’d been dating since the sandwiches in Hannibal’s office, or the breakfast they shared as they chased Garret Jacob Hobbs across Minnesota. One day, he’d have to ask Hannibal when they started dating, compare notes, and see just how willfully oblivious he’d been.

          But for now, there was trout to clean.

          It took him the better part of his Saturday to hook a trout big enough for their dinner. He’d cleaned it meticulously, careful to keep the filets smooth as he cut them from the body. He let his mind wander as he worked his knife through the body, slipping between flesh and bone in a meditative motion. He thought of Hannibal again, of what he looked like as a surgeon if he ever slipped a scalpel beneath the skin of a patient in the same manner. Suddenly he regretted cleaning the fish, it would have been something to let Hannibal cut the filets himself.

          He’d showered, put on a clean hunter-green flannel shirt and his favorite pair of jeans. Comfort seemed like a decent goal for the evening since the last time they shared a meal had gone disastrously. Maybe if they made it past this meal, Will would start dressing up a little. He was sure if this became a thing, he’d end up at an opera eventually.

          At exactly 4:45 a knock sounded from Will’s front door. Before he could respond, the dogs, who had all let their guard duties slip in hopes of receiving a sliver of fish, bombarded the door barking and wagging their tails furiously. When Will opened the door, Max immediately sat, tail frantically sweeping the floor. Harley jumped up but thought better of it before those big paws landed on Hannibal. He sat by Max; muscles coiled with excitement. Buster abandoned the group to fetch his favorite lamb stuffie, dropping it on Hannibal’s foot and looking up expectantly. 

          Will smiled. “I’m not sure I can top that welcome.”

          “I find myself content that I’m welcome at all.” Hannibal’s eyes met Will’s for a brief moment and Will fought the urge to reach out, to draw the man before him into a hug. It didn’t help that Hannibal seemed softer today. He wore a crimson sweater that seemed to bring out red flecks in his whiskey-colored eyes. His hair was soft, clean, and falling boyishly across his forehead.  

          “You’re welcome,” he whispered because it sounded less pathetic than you were missed.

          Hannibal raised his left hand and Will noticed the black leather catering bag. “I know I wasn’t to bring any food, but I did bring treats for the dogs if that’s still acceptable.”

          “I think there’d be a riot if you didn’t.” Will looked at the row of six dogs, all sitting at attention with hopeful, limpid eyes. Buster, though he would undoubtedly collect an offered treat, was still trying to stuff his drooly lamb toy into Hannibal’s left shoe. “When you’re done doling out treats, maybe you could give me a hand?”

          Hannibal looked up sharply, eyes studying Will. “I would like that.”

          Will nodded, ducking his head as he felt heat rise along his neck. Back to the fish.

          Hannibal was by his side in a few moments, washing his hands at the sink and quietly admonishing Buster to leave the lamb off his shoe. It felt domestic. Not in the pinched trapped way his mother used the word, but in the way he’d longed for since the pancakes had lost their wonderful flavor. He thought about a life, not heart-pounding chases or published papers in forensics journals, but the thousands of inconsequential moments that made up a lifetime.

          A cup of coffee being pressed into his hands when he was still bleary from a bad night’s sleep. A soft laugh as he tried and failed to start the lawn mower he’d picked up for $7 at a yard sale. A warm presence next to him as he watched the dogs sniff every blade of grass in the yard as the sun set over the trees.

          The specter of Hannibal seemed to slot into place in each of the fantasies. In turn, he thought of a life he’d never imagined, thousands of little moments that he’d never have volunteered for. Pouring wine as Hannibal explained the history behind his dishes. Making eye contact across a group of Baltimore society, sharing a little smile just to let Hannibal know he’d caught his joke, even if the rest of the world hadn’t. Taking Hannibal’s hand and being led through a museum, letting himself sink into the doctor’s vision of the world. Reading quietly in a well-appointed study, stretching out his bare foot to poke at Hannibal’s thigh, drawing a little snarl that both knew was all for show.

          The enormity of that life, the preciousness of each inconsequential piece as it fell into place shook Will. One piece missing, one miscommunication and pancake Sundays would turn into quiet crying alone in his room again. He thought of the missing porcelain platter, of the hollow set to his father’s eyes. How could you ever keep track of the pieces, keep the foundation from cracking and crumbling?

          “Will?” He jumped, eyes wide when he looked at Hannibal. “Do you want me to sit? I don’t have to help you with-”

          “What if it doesn’t taste good?” He sounded panicked, it felt like the moments he’d collected in his mind were already running through his fingers. He clenched his hands.

          “Isn’t that why I’m here? To find out?” Hannibal toweled off his hands before neatly folding the kitchen towel and laying it on the counter by the sink.

          “I believe that any meal prepared in good company will be delicious.” Hannibal smiled, plucking a knife from the counter and flipping it in his hands. “Now, do you need any chopping done? I’m an excellent sous chef.”

          “Can you skin the filets?”

          Hannibal frowned. “If you’re pan searing, it’s optimal for the skins to be on so that the-”

          “I’m poaching the filets.” Will raised a brow. “And if you’re already backseat cooking, we’re in trouble.”

          Hannibal’s lip snarled just the barest bit, but it quickly soothed into an amused curl. “Apologies, it’s perhaps been a while since I was a sous chef.”

          “Get the skins off, then.” Will pulled some broth out of the fridge. Nothing special, per se, just a mix of lemongrass, tomatoes, and ginger blended fine and strained before sitting overnight. He paused as he walked past Hannibal, watching as he peeled the skins from each filet with almost musical grace. Each scale seemed to simply float off the flesh, Hannibal’s knife never caught or hesitated in its task.

          The doctor in question paused after the final skin was removed and sniffed. “Ginger, lemongrass, and tomatoes.”

          “Yeah, it’s pretty simple.”

          “Simplicity is often overlooked.” Hannibal held up a skin. “What am I to do with this?”

          “Tear them into strips, pat them dry, and toss them on the baking sheet.” Will nodded to the oven. “Throw some Old Bay and salt on them, and stick ‘em in the oven.”

          Hannibal did as he was told, strong fingers ripping the skin into long strips. He seemed to be contemplating as he worked. Will wondered if his brain ever turned off.

          Will found a large pan and poured in his broth, turning the burner on the oven to medium before gathering the cleaned vegetables on the counter.

          “Is it a chip?”

          Will jolted at the feeling of breath on the back of his neck. He hadn’t realized Hannibal had gotten so close. “The skins? Yeah. I used to work at a processing plant. The guys there would pull the skins that were discarded and bake ‘em till they were crisp. After a long shift, they’d sit around drinking beers and eating the skins.”

          Hannibal hummed. “Did you like the way that tasted, Will?”

          Will frowned. “I never ate them. But it always looked like a good time.”

          “I look forward to a culinary adventure, then.” Hannibal shifted beside him, hands floating over the vegetables. His fingers stopped to stroke over the brown and grey fans of a mushroom. “Coriolus versicolor? Did you harvest this?”

          “The turkey tails? Yeah.” Will held one up. “My neighbor used to pay me to find them for her. Said they helped with her digestion. I ate one once, figured maybe they were the mushrooms that made you trip.”

          Will shrugged. “Turns out they just taste good. Still, I think they go well with the trout.”

          “Your neighbor was an astute woman.” Hannibal’s finger still traced the frill of the mushroom. “Coriolus versicolor is a popular ingredient in Eastern medicines. They contain polysaccharide peptides and polysaccharide krestin, which when brewed can alleviate symptoms caused by chemotherapy and radiation. Eaten, they boost the immune system and there is some evidence that they help in the treatment of infections and promote muscle strength.”

          “So…they won’t make us trip?”

          “No, but if it’s any consolation, those,” Hannibal tapped a bunch of mustard greens Will had found in the tree line by the stream, “contain trace amounts of cyanide. So the thrill isn’t completely gone from dinner.”

          “You’re kidding.”

          Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “I never kid about food.”

          “But my meemaw used to gather this for dinners all the time.”

          “Apples, pears, and grapes contain traces of arsenic absorbed from the soil or leached from pesticides. We still consume them.” Hannibal smiled. “There is always risk in life, Will. But often the rewards are worth the chance taken.”

          Will laughed. “So anything I eat could kill me?”

          “I usually find that to be the case. You yourself killed plants and a trout to provide us dinner, didn’t you?”

          “We’re all murderers when we’re hungry, huh?” Shaking his head, Will handed Hannibal a handful of ramps and the mustard greens. “Chop these up, I’ll get the asparagus before it gets us.”

          They worked in silence, shoulders touching as they made their meal.

          “Will, the food is getting cold.”

          Will blinked, he’d speared a piece of trout on his fork and was watching the sauce drip in a daze. He offered Hannibal a slight smile before popping the bite into his mouth.

          The love was the first thing he tasted. Rich and sweet, bursting on his tongue and almost bringing tears to his eyes. As he chewed, more tastes bloomed on his tongue. The salted curiosity that seemed to come from both of them, an endless interest in each other and the world that seemed to intensify the longer he chewed. Sour concern sharpened the more earthy flavors, no doubt coming from Will’s own anxiety at how the meal would taste. Will could even suss out the lust, spiced and subtle this time as it augmented the meal instead of overpowering it. It was all there — Will’s hesitance and hope, Hannibal’s arrogance and interest — all blending beautifully into a whirlwind on his tongue.

          “It’s beautiful,” Will whispered.

          “I’ve always thought so.” Hannibal’s smile was soft, almost human.

          Will leaned in. “There’s still something I can’t quite place. But I guess I’ve got time to figure that out.”

          Hannibal pulled back. “Would you like to know now?”

          “What?”

          “You said you’d given me a rare gift, a piece of yourself you’d never shared before.” Hannibal licked his lips. “It seems only fair that I return your gesture.”

          “Quid pro quo?” Will shook his head. “I don’t need a sacrifice. I just want honesty.”

          “And that’s what you’ll have.” Hannibal stood, walking to his catering case which still sat by the door. He produced two ceramic bowls. “I’m aware I promised never to cook for you again. I’m loathe to break that promise, but if you want to see me, to know me, I think this would be the best way.”

          Will took the offered cup, glancing at the contents. It was an absurdly innocent-looking chocolate pudding, but Will’s hands still trembled slightly as he held it. “This isn’t like last time, right? It’s not sex pudding?”

          “It’s sanguinaccio dolce, an Italian pudding made from pig’s blood and sweetened with chocolate, pine nuts, and sugar.” Hannibal sat his on the table, not touching it. “Traditionally it’s served before Lent in Naples.”

          “One last indulgence before the fast?”

          Hannibal nodded, his eyes were bright as he watched Will. “I usually don’t advocate for skipping dinner for dessert, but in this case, it’s for the best.”

          Will offered Hannibal a little half smile, plunging the spoon into the ceramic container. He held a scoop aloft in a mock toast, Hannibal did the same. “To honesty.”

          The blood hit his palate first, metallic and savory. Will felt his mouth water as he swallowed around the spoon.

          Blood.

          “It’s…the blood. I…”

          “You once called my food violent, do you remember?”

          It was like an explosion of flavors. An arterial spray, chaotic and overwhelming, but with a beauty and a pattern if you know how to read it.

          Will dipped the spoon into the container again, it was all Hannibal, the arrogance, the curiosity, the keen concern…and the blood.

          “Do you still taste the violence, Will?”

          Will nodded. He could hear a scream in his head, a plaintive wail as someone drew a knife through an artery. Bleeding the pig, clean, impersonal, and yet viscerally triumphant. Will thought of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, of the nearly animal sense of victory that roared when he shot the man.

          “It’s in everything,” Will murmured. “Every bite. Wha-”

          He thought of Hannibal’s hands, the blade slipping beneath the trout’s skin, and how easy the removal had been. A former surgeon, an arrogant one. A man smart enough to never get bogged down in a pathology, a discernible pattern. A charming loner who could easily lull victims into a false sense of security, and powerful enough to subdue the ones who fought.

          He looked at Hannibal, his eyes sparkling and dark in the waning light. “I already knew you, didn’t I?”

          “In a sense.”

          “In your office, the night you offered me the sandwich.” Will rubbed his mouth. “When did you decide not to kill me?”

          “The moment you told me that the violence brightened the flavors for you.” Hannibal leaned forward. “And have you decided, Will?”

          “What are my choices?”

          “I’m afraid both choices end in blood being spilled, Will. Whose and how frequently are up for debate.”

          “And if I don’t choose?”

          “That is a choice in itself.”

          “So The Chesapeake Ripper is my boyfriend or my murderer?”

          Hannibal’s lip twitched. He stood. Will flinched. “You trusted me with your gift, in return, I can only offer you mine. But you still refuse to see it.”

          “I see you,” Will snarled. Will did. He could feel the cold disdain, the deprivation, so like his own. He could feel the love in the blood, not for the victims, but for their usefulness. Will felt the same way when he landed a fish. It was satisfaction in proving one's abilities, sweet and filling. That blood, that metallic zing that flowed through everything Hannibal touched, didn’t just inform the palate, it was the palate. There was no beauty in Hannibal, no feeling, and no art without blood. It seemed to invigorate every other taste, drive them together in a harmonious blend Will had never dreamed he’d experience. The pancakes of his youth were simple, sweet — love as a child understood it. But Hannibal was a symphony of flavor — arrogance, violence, curiosity, lust, and yes, even love — swirling so that each emotion informed and enhanced the other. This wasn’t the simple love of a child, this was the complex, overwhelming love of an adult.

          And it scared the absolute shit out of Will. Could he really go from merely existing to ravenously devouring it? Should he? Bland and alone, Will Graham saved lives. If he chose this, if he let himself choose this, he’d be consuming them with gusto.

          Will sneered, hands trembling. “I see the murder. I see the ugliness.”

          Hannibal’s eyes closed for a breath. He turned. “Thank you for dinner, Will.”

          The Chesapeake Ripper started to walk out the door. Will should let him. He should call the FBI the second Hannibal cleared the porch.

          “What?” Will stood, chair screeching across the floor with the force of the movement. Hannibal didn’t turn, which only made the fear in Will’s chest burn brighter. He crossed the living room in five strides, catching Hannibal’s shoulders and shoving him into the wall by the door. Flipping the doctor to face him, Will grappled with Hannibal, fingers biting into the fine weave of his sweater so he could shake the man before him. “You can’t leave, I…you’re The Ripper.”

          “Am I being detained?”

          “YES! I can’t let you just…” Will faltered. How do you tell a monster he’s the only thing that makes you feel human? Maybe it was best to just embrace his fate and allow Hannibal to move on. “I’m calling the FBI.”

          He let his grip loosen, waiting for Hannibal to strike. When Will finally looked up at those bloody eyes, Hannibal shifted, his gaze traveling to the dogs, who were watching the new game playing out before them with interest. “The FBI will surely be able to find me at home, or at least trace my license plate.”  

          “They will kill you. Jack will try, at least.” Will shook him. “Or you’ll go to jail for the rest of your life. Rotting in prison with lesser minds studying you.”

          “You’re not going to provoke me.” Hannibal glanced at Will’s hands. “Your choices are embrace my gift as I’ve embraced yours or reject it and allow us both to get back to rotting slowly without each other’s company.”

          “They’re not gifts, they’re curses,” Will hissed. “You’re sick and I can’t stand to be near anyone-”

          “Can’t you?” Hannibal’s eyes were back on Will’s, sharp and nearly black in the low light. “Have you ever noticed how close you get to me, Will? How your hand just happens to brush mine. How the only vantage point you ever want when I’m near is peering over my shoulder? Tell me, Will, how near did you want to be?”

          “No, you’re a monster.” Will pressed his fingers into Hannibal’s chest. “We’re both monsters.”

          “Monsters, typically, are lonely creatures who seek connection from a society that rejects them.” Hannibal’s hands wrapped around Will’s. “I’m not being thrown out, though, am I, Will? I’m being held in place.”

          “S-so I can call…” Will swallowed, running his tongue over his teeth, searching for any last morsel of Hannibal.

          “The FBI, yes, I know.” Will could feel Hannibal’s words breeze across his face. “Is that what you did with Garrett Jacob Hobbs? Did you call for help? What about Mr. Stammets? Did you hold him still until the authorities came?”

          “I did what I had to.”

          “You did what you wanted.” Hannibal’s fingers moved to Will’s wrists, softly stroking the rabbiting pulse beneath Will’s skin. “You’re doing what you want to right now, aren’t you?”

          “I don’t-” Will shook his head. “You’re trying to confuse me.”

          “I’m being honest with you. You’re trying to confuse yourself.” Hannibal sniffed. “Better to die a miserable man than a happy monster?”

          “No. I’m not capable of…you’re not capable of-” A sound rattled in Will’s mind: A beeping noise. Will’s heart monitor, the way Hannibal had guided him and his medical team through his treatment. Will’s eyes shot open, mouth sneering. “You knew I was sick.”

          “Yes.” Such a detached tone. Hannibal seemed genuinely curious. “I told you my suspicions.”

          “No…no. Before. You knew before you told me.”

          “I was monitoring you.” Hannibal sniffed as if it was rude to mention such trivial matters to a serial killer.

          “What changed your mind?”

          “You did,” Hannibal snarled, causing Will to tighten his grip. “Your extraordinary gift. Your ability to see. I…was curious what you would see in me if you could see me when your mind was unclouded.”

          “And what? I’m supposed to give you credit for that?” Will said acidly. “Oh poor Hannibal, he decided to stop my brain from melting when there was something in it for him, what a fucking hero.”

          “I have never wanted to be a hero. I’ve only ever wanted to be as I am. I was content in my solitude until I realized there was a chance…” Hannibal turned away, a trench forming between his brows as they furrowed. “You’re the one tilting at windmills.”

          “I’m not.”

          “Your delusion that destroying your body and mind while working for Jack Crawford will bring you peace — a windmill.”

          “Shut up.”

          “Flirting with Alana Bloom will absolve you of every impulse you have and allow you to lead what you deem a normal life,” Hannibal’s lip curled, showing sharp teeth. “A windmill.”

          “Stop.”

          “Protecting Abigail Hobbs from implication in her father’s crimes-”

          “SHUT UP!”

          “Even though you know as well as I do, she wasn’t a passive party in his hunts.” Hannibal raised his chin, but his voice softened. “At what point will you admit that you’re chasing dreams? Are they even the dreams you want? The ones you hope for when you’re alone with only the dogs to judge you?”

          There had been a time when Hannibal was right. Will had dreamed of a nice family, a wife like Alana, maybe even an adopted girl he could shield from the world. He’d dreamed of pancake breakfasts filled with love and smiles. But even as he’d let them flit across his mind they seemed far away. They’d faded quickly, too, disappearing with every meal and long conversation he and Hannibal shared. Will had only one dream left, the one that had quickly turned into a nightmare with one bite of chocolate and blood.

          “I don’t want this,” Will hissed. “I’d rather taste nothing, feel nothing for the rest of my life than taste-”

          Will froze, eyes wild as Hannibal watched him.

          “What did you taste, Will?”

          Will bared his teeth as he shook Hannibal again. “Gore, filth, murder. I could barely swallow it-”

          “But you did.” Hannibal let himself be pressed into the wall. “What else did you taste?”

          “Your arrogance,” spat Will. “Your disgusting disregard for humanity, your depravity.”

          “Is that why there are tears in your eyes?” Will jumped when one of Hannibal’s hands traced along his cheek, catching the first tear to fall. “What is it you tasted that has you so upset?”

          Will shook his head. Hannibal brought Will’s tear to his lips. Will closed his eyes. He could see it now: Hannibal’s strong hands guiding a blade into a terrified victim. The calm detachment as he carved flesh from bone and made his art. But there were other parts, parts he really didn’t want to dwell on right now. The stubble that scuffed his chin as they waited for a hospital room. The hint of a smile that coiled in the corner of that lush mouth and danced in his maroon eyes when Will said something impertinent. The way Hannibal’s whole world seemed to narrow to Will whenever the empath was telling a story or pontificating on a book.

          “What is it, Will? What do you taste?” Hannibal prompted, eyes glittering.

          “Love,” Will whispered. “Yours and mine.”

          “A rare taste indeed,” Hannibal murmured. He looked at Will, eyes shining. “Then the question becomes...Are you hungry?”

          Will took a breath. He looked at Hannibal’s panting mouth, at the blood and violence in his maroon eyes. It didn’t turn his stomach, but then again, the violent flavors in Hannibal’s cooking had never put him off, if anything they made the rest of the dish more vivid on his palate. But the worst part, the part that wrested a few more tears from his eyes, was that he’d want this if Hannibal never went in a kitchen again. He thought about the conversations, the smiles, the way he’d chuckle to himself as he wrote Hannibalisms in that stupid notebook.

          Was it so wrong to take this, to allow himself this? A man had to eat after all.  

          “Starving.” Will dragged Hannibal into a kiss. The doctor tasted like blood and chocolate.

          It was beautiful.

Chapter Text

          Will managed to kick off his shoes as he steered Hannibal toward the bed — no mean feat as he tried to devour the man whole and dodge the dogs laid out across the floor. They landed with a thud, the flimsy springs on the old box frame squealing in protest.

          He ranged over Hannibal, kissing and nipping at that infuriating mouth. It was hard to make out properly with a man who insisted on grinning from ear to ear, but Will would be damned if he didn’t do his best. Hannibal, for his part, seemed content to be kissed as his hands swept over every inch of Will he could touch. Strong fingers raked through his curls, tickled down his back, and finally sank into the swell of his jeans-clad ass, making Will groan in the back of his throat.

          Will pressed the man down onto the mattress, yanking at Hannibal’s sweater so he could finally touch the broad chest that had featured so prominently in his dreams. He bent his head to bite a kiss on the soft flesh of Hannibal’s stomach, smiling when the doctor jerked.

          “Ticklish?” Will bit again, and Hannibal continued to jerk. Will frowned when the jerking didn’t cease even though he was no longer touching the doctor.

          When he looked up, he saw Hannibal glaring murderously at Buster, who had invited himself on the bed. The little terrier had evidently appointed himself Will’s helper, his teeth clenched on the sleeve of Hannibal’s sweater, yanking with all his might. Will watched, smile stretching his mouth as Hannibal and Buster had a battle of wills and teeth over the knit cloth.

          “Do you two want to be alone?”

          Hannibal’s eyes slowly tracked to Will.

          “I…he…it’s cashmere,” Hannibal said miserably.

          Buster shook his head, making Hannibal’s hand wave limply as the cuff lurched.

          “OK, uh, why don’t I take the dogs out and you can see if that’s salvageable?” Will shoved himself up only to be caught by a strong hand at his neck.

          “Is there any chance you have a bed in a bedroom?”

          “Mostly boxes and old case files.” Will grimaced. “Look, I’m sorry, this…we could call it and I could come to your place to-”

          “Take the dogs outside for ten minutes,” Hannibal sat up, righting his sweater with as much dignity as a man with one soggy sleeve could muster. “I’ll think of something that doesn’t involve me going home.”

          Will smiled. “And doesn’t involve murdering any of my dogs.”

          “Twenty minutes, then.”

          Will huffed, whistling as his pack followed him to the door.

          Hannibal had walked out with Will onto the porch. While Will sent the dogs off to run the tall grass and root out critters in the wood, Hannibal trekked to the Bentley, popped the trunk, and retrieved a bag.

          “What are you-”

          Hannibal held up his free hand. “Nineteen minutes.”

          Will raised an eyebrow but turned back to the dogs. He walked them to the far edge of the wood, encouraging them to run out some of their energy. He thought he heard a crash at the house, but Buster took off after a fox and Will had to chase him down before the other killer in the family needed a bath.

          By the time Will wrangled Buster and the rest of the dogs into the house, 22 minutes had passed and Hannibal was nowhere to be found.

          Neither was his mattress.

          Will blinked at the empty box spring and frame. “Hannibal?”

          “Upstairs! Give me one…more…Yes, OK, I think we’re ready.” Hannibal’s breathing sounded labored. “Just, leave the dogs downstairs.”

          Will put everyone in a sit before kicking off his boots and bounding up the stairs, two at a time. The first bedroom, the smallest one with the highest tours of boxes, was still dark and closed, but the master bedroom had a warm glow outlining the ajar door. Will could feel his heart in his throat. He wasn’t afraid of the Chesapeake Ripper, but Hannibal terrified him. What if this didn’t work out? What if Hannibal’s interest didn’t mirror his own?

          Shaking his head, Will pushed open the door. “Hey, did you move my mattress up h-”

          Hannibal stood barefoot in the middle of the most demented bedroom Will had ever seen. His mattress, outfitted in clean flannel sheets, lay in the middle of the room. The boxes, some filled with gruesome murder photos some filled with spelling bee certificates and old dog collars, had been pushed to the perimeter of the room. They were obscured by light blue plastic sheeting that had been draped and gathered so carefully that it looked like a curtain at first glance.

          Will squinted. Each individual pleat was held together by a fishhook. Where the hell had Hannibal found plastic sheeting in the house? The answer hit him hard: He hadn’t. Hannibal had gone to his car for a kill bag and had used it to make a little love nest for them.

          It was oddly touching. There was a collection of wildflowers, dotted with Will’s lures, around the head of the bed, obscuring the plainness of the white candles Will had bought at Walmart 3 years ago when a hurricane threatened the power. Scalpels and one large hunting knife glinted in the candlelight, strung together by fishing line, and hung tastefully in the corner like the world’s deadliest chandelier.

          Will felt an unexpected surge of warmth from his head to his toes. This man was a fucking lunatic, and he absolutely loved Will. No one had ever bothered making the bed for him, let alone fashioning an intimate space from the remnants of kill room supplies.

          “Jesus.” Will walked toward Hannibal, noticing for the first time that there were flower petals strewn in an artfully rustic path toward the mattress. He thought about the elaborate kills of The Ripper. He’d always wondered how the killer could lay out such detailed tableaus, but it seemed the answer was that Hannibal Lecter really was a magician and muffins weren’t the only thing he could conjure from thin air. “What could you do in thirty minutes?”

          Will couldn’t keep the awe from his voice.

          “I had hoped to find something a bit more suitable for curtains, but…you don’t seem to own anything.” Hannibal’s mouth twisted in thought. “Actually, if you’ll give me a moment, I think there was a Ficus by the window that would warm up the dead space over-”

          Will kissed him before Hannibal could convince him to paint the hallway and buy a window sconce. Hannibal made a soft, pleased noise of surprise, hands twisting fistfuls of green flannel as he latched onto Will. With a slight shift to their bodies, Hannibal seemed to fit himself even closer, licking into Will’s mouth as he drew the empath closer still.

          Will groaned softly, hands tracing along the slopes of Hannibal’s cheeks to sink into the silky hair just over his ears. Will bit at that top lip, the one that had haunted his dreams for weeks, he felt the need to consume. He smiled when Hannibal hissed softly, hands falling to grab at Will’s ass and grind them together.

          Moaning into Hannibal’s panting mouth Will let himself be pressed against the door. The knob hit his hip every time Hannibal ground forward, but damned if his doctor wasn’t worth a dislocated pelvis. He focused on getting his hands past Hannibal’s belt as the doctor set nimble fingers to work unbuttoning Will’s shirt.

          They shared a fragile grin, both understanding the importance of the moment and desperately craving more. The room was quiet, just the sounds of their panting…

          …and an incessant scratching sound.

          Hannibal frowned, clearly trying to pinpoint the noise, but Will just winced. He knew exactly what made that noise.

          “BUSTER! KNOCK IT OFF!” Will pounded his fist against the door, hoping to hear the skittering of little paws, instead the scratching intensified. At Hannibal’s raised eyebrow, Will shrugged, shimmying out of his open shirt. “Ignore him, he’ll get bored eventually.”

          Hannibal gladly welcomed Will into his embrace, but his kisses were distracted as he peppered them across Will’s shoulder. Finally, with a huff, Hannibal disengaged, ripping his sweater over his head and wrenching open the door.

          “HERE, YOU LITTLE CUR!”

          The sweater hit Buster square on his hard head. Instead of barking or running off chastened, Buster snatched the red cashmere in his maw and pranced off with his prize. The other dogs peered around the corner, and Will gently pushed Hannibal out of the way and shut the door before any of the others got ideas about interrupting them.

          “I shouldn’t have yelled,” Hannibal’s hair was sticking up straight like a rooster’s coxcomb. His broad, furred chest was still heaving. Will’s eyes followed the movement, down his strong chest, over his soft stomach, and into the generous V at his opened pants.

          Will grabbed the belt and reeled Hannibal in. “What you shouldn’t have done is reward that behavior. Now you’re out a sweater and Buster’ll be back here in an hour hoping for your pants.”

          “Oh dear,” Hannibal smiled as Will tugged him closer. “What should I do?”

          “Give them to me for safekeeping,” Will whispered, pulling the fine wool cloth down well-muscled legs. He bit at the join of Hannibal’s shoulder as the pants pooled at his feet. Will admired his cannibal as he stepped out of his pants, leaving him clad in obscenely tiny, silky boxer briefs. “You know, you should really think about just being naked all the time.”

          Hannibal’s hands landed on the button of Will’s jeans. “If you agree to the same terms, I’ll happily comply.”

          “I’m already agreeing to tolerate cannibalism, don’t push me.”

          Hannibal tilted his head as he opened Will’s jeans. “Tolerate?”

          “Yeah,” Will wiggled his hips a little as Hannibal pushed his jeans down. “What were you hoping for?”

          “Delight.”

          “Right now, I’m seeing logistics.” Will stepped out of his jeans, kicking them aside. “Forensic issues, the fact that we should move, the idea of sharing a closet with you…moral compunctions about killing and eating people.”

          “I notice moral compunctions was last on that list.” Hannibal drew Will closer, snapping the band of his boxers.

          Will hummed. “For now, I don’t mind chicken for dinner, I just don’t want to be the one cutting off its head or plucking it.”

          “For now?”

          “Hannibal, I would have told you yesterday that I’d never date a serial killer, can I have this for at least a few weeks?”

          “So…it’s not a hard boundary?”

          Will sighed. “I’m sure I’ll be using some asshole’s small intestine as tinsel by Christmas, but for now can we fucking drop it and get on the bed?”

          Hannibal smiled. “Of course. I trained as a couple’s therapist extensively and it’s an excellent strategy to focus on activities both parties enjoy when facing a relationship roadblock.”

          “So we use fucking to build up to serial murder and cannibalism?”

          “Essentially.”

          “OK, great, as long as there’s a plan.” Will hooked his ankle around Hannibal’s and pulled, sending the man careening toward his flower-petal-strewn mattress. He followed easily, flopping down next to his cannibal and rolling into his arms.

          It was strange. Logically, Will understood that this was a very bad idea. He’d seen the crime scenes. Hell, he’d written up the profile and taught the meager pathology that Hannibal had left him to study. The man currently nuzzling little kisses into his neck could easily kill him with his bare hands, dismember the body, and braise him into a delicious appetizer that Jack Crawford would swallow with a smile.

          But then again, when was the last time anyone ever looked at the malnourished boy from Louisiana without expecting something? Alana wanted credit for sympathetically frowning at him for years. Jack happily ignored every sign of mental decay as long as Will was closing cases. The last non-work related call he had that wasn’t from Hannibal was the vet informing him that Max needed a lepto booster in a few weeks.

          Hannibal, however, was obsessed with giving Will whatever he needed. Will felt nourished, not just from the meals, but from the conversations, from the little strings he’d pull to Hannibal’s personality that would reveal odd and wondrous new things for him to explore. It was true Hannibal was consciously fostering codependency, Will hadn’t gotten a master's degree in forensics without a psychology background, but Will wondered if the cannibal realized that he’d fostered codependency in himself as well. The Will of a few months ago would have pulled his gun the second he knew how dangerous Hannibal was. But the Hannibal Lecter of a few months ago wouldn’t have taken pains to show Will who he was, nor looked so fragile at the possibility of rejection. Now, they were merged together fully, changed and changing as they evolved into one.

          Will bit Hannibal’s earlobe, grinning when it brought Hannibal’s furrowed brow before him.

          “Is this a complaint about my technique or are you warming to the concept of cannibalism more rapidly than anticipated?”

          Will snorted, before lifting his head to bite at Hannibal’s chin. “There is something about you that’s very biteable.”

          “I just read a paper by Dr. Aragón about cute aggression, when people feel the need to bite or squeeze that which they find adorable. It frequently manifests be-” Hannibal frowned when he was bitten again.

          “Read any papers on shut-the-fuck-up aggression?” Hannibal opened his mouth, but Will pressed him back onto the soft sheets. “Hannibal, there’s no one on earth I’d rather talk to than you…later.”

          “Oh?” Hannibal settled onto his back, a small smile quirking the corner of his mouth as he watched Will shimmy lower on the mattress.

          “Yeah, darlin’, normally I’d love to discuss anything and everything with you,” Will sucked a kiss into Hannibal’s stomach. “But now isn’t the time for chatting.”

          “I did have one final question,” Hannibal watched him with those bloody eyes, somehow looking adorable with rumpled hair and a hickey swelling on the side of his neck. “How far does your palate extend?”

          Will shook his head, trying to process the words. “Huh?”

          “Does your remarkable insight extend…” Hannibal gestured to his tented boxer briefs. “beyond food?”

          Will blinked at him. “You’re asking if I can read your come?”

          “I was merely curious…”

          Will raised an eyebrow. “I don’t give blowjobs to men who are merely curious.”

          Hannibal’s lips twisted into a wry grin. “My interest in you is far more encompassing than curiosity.”

          “What is it, then?” Will tilted his head as Hannibal’s strong hands latched onto Will’s arms, dragging the empath back up his body. He nipped at the delicate flesh behind Will’s ear.

          “Obsession, devotion,” Hannibal whispered. “I want to consume you, to have you inside me all the time. I’ve thought of eating your heart raw, of sawing open your head to peer into that astounding mind.”

          Will gasped. He should be terrified. He should jam his fist into Hannibal’s kidney and fight his way out. But he drew the man closer, biting at Hannibal’s cupid’s bow. “Why haven’t you?”

          “What good is a heart without the man who follows it? Your brain would taste like ash on my tongue without your mouth giving voice to your thoughts. The parts of Will Graham do not equal the whole. Even if you choose to leave, or to end this in blood,” Hannibal drew back. “The world is more interesting with you in it.”

          “That was the most romantic request for a blowjob I’ve ever heard.” Hannibal’s expression snapped from a soft smile to a glare. Will laughed, raising a hand to tangle in Hannibal’s wild hair. “I wouldn’t be me without my empathy and my taste. Just like you wouldn’t be you without the Ripper. I love you, bones and all.”

          “Bones and all,” Hannibal agreed, bringing their mouths together.

          It turned out that every inch of Hannibal Lecter tasted as good as his cooking. It would have been annoying if Will wasn’t directly benefiting from it. Hannibal had finally been kissed enough to allow for exploring, offering Will a crusted tube of lube that Will recognized from his own nightstand.

          Will began traveling south immediately, reveling in the feel of Hannibal’s chest hair against his cheek, how his beard caught in the bramble, entangling them further. He grinned as Hannibal’s stomach shuddered under each soft kiss. The stoic doctor was positively eager for him, already lifting his hips and gently pushing Will lower.

          Peeling down Hannibal’s boxers, Will dipped down to blow softly along the shaft of Hannibal’s weeping cock.

          “Will,” Hannibal hissed, bicycling his legs to free himself from their silky confines.

          When Hannibal was finally fully bare before him, Will settled between his thighs, dotting little kisses along the soft flesh.

          “Shhhh,” he soothed. “I’ve got you darlin’.”

          His first proper taste of Hannibal’s cock offered him nothing he didn’t know before. The love was there, sweet and filling, so was the sharp metallic violence. Will found that the marriage of the sharp and the sweet addicting. It was so peculiarly Hannibal, and it fed something equally sharp and sweet beating beneath Will’s chest.

          He sank down, letting Hannibal fill his mouth. The doctor groaned, hips rolling just slightly as Will worked his tongue. Pulling off with a pop, Will flicked his tongue along the ruddy crown, making a show of tasting. Hannibal’s teeth were bared, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe through Will’s teasing, but those bloody eyes never left Will’s face. Will met his gaze, finding he didn’t mind scrutiny when it came from his cannibal.

          He blinked slowly before dipping down to draw his tongue from root to tip. He sucked at the frenulum until Hannibal made a weak little noise. He swirled his tongue over the head of Hannibal’s cock a few times, greedily lapping at the pearls of precome. Fine tremors broke out along Hannibal’s thighs as Will took him fully. Hannibal was holding back, ever the gentleman cannibal when it came to Will.

          Gently, Will shifted his grip, moving his hands from Hannibal’s hips to beneath the doctor, fingers digging into the firm flesh of his ass. He rolled Hannibal’s hips once, allowing the doctor to breach his throat. Hannibal grunted, and Will could see his lip curling as he took the hint and began to fuck Will’s mouth in earnest. Will swallowed around each thrust, guiding Hannibal deeper with every roll of his body.

          Hannibal’s hands shot out, grappling for Will, for the feel of him. When his right hand landed in Will’s curls, the empath groaned, undulating his tongue to encourage those strong fingers. Hannibal began to tug, finally using Will’s body for his own pleasure, losing that iron control to his delirious need. Will hummed, letting his teeth catch just a bit on Hannibal’s shaft. The doctor shivered, thrusts growing more erratic.

          Will pulled back, locking eyes with Hannibal as he leaned forward and tugged gently at Hannibal’s foreskin with his teeth. “Let go, Hannibal. Let me have you.”

          Hannibal panted, his grip on Will’s hair twisting. Will let Hannibal guide him back to his cock, the weight of it on his tongue oddly soothing. It didn’t take much longer, Hannibal came with a hoarse shout, lip curled and hands twisting Will’s curls.

          Will swallowed him down, that same sweet and sharp flavor making him ravenous. He lapped at Hannibal, determined not to waste a drop. When he’d thoroughly cleaned Hannibal’s cock, he glanced up with a smile. “Why darlin’, you’re about the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

          Hannibal seemed to break at that moment, a keening noise leaving his throat as he clawed at Will’s shoulders. Will obliged, moving up Hannibal’s body to offer the doctor soft kisses and sharp nips. Hannibal seemed to be trying to meld them, arms locking around Will’s middle and legs entwining with the empath’s. He rolled against Will, the friction against Will’s neglected cock was enough to finally snap Will from the spell.

          He didn’t want to come on Hannibal’s thigh. Hannibal wanted them to be one, and Will would be damned if he didn’t make that come true.

          Laying his palm on Hannibal’s chest, Will began pushing him flat to the mattress. When Hannibal reached for him again, Will shook his head. “Lay still for me darlin’.”

          Hannibal relented, his fingers no longer grasping, but whisper light as they traced over Will’s arms and chest. Will felt for the lube, opening it and coating his fingers. He reached down, bypassing Hannibal’s cock to feel beneath it, fingers seeking the tight furl of muscle just below the doctor’s balls. Will rubbed, watching as Hannibal shuddered softly.

          Will kept his movements soft, coaxing. He knew how hard it was for wild things to trust. Hannibal sighed at the sensation, his eyes locked on Will’s as he opened his thighs more, inviting Will in. Pressing softly and so, so slowly, Will breached Hannibal, hissing quietly at the heat that enveloped his index finger. He slithered his free hand beneath Hannibal’s shoulder blades, so he could nestle into the crook of Hannibal’s neck, lips feathering against the doctor’s ear.

          “Look at you, sweetheart,” He whispered, smiling as Hannibal shivered around him. “So hot and tight, pulling me in with every thrust…I’m dying to be inside you. Haven’t been able to think of anything but that since our last dinner. I shouldn’t have left, should have come out of that bathroom and bent you over the table.”

          Hannibal groaned and Will added another finger. “You like that? Like the idea of me fucking you on your fancy china? Next time we eat at your place I’m going to strip you naked and lick each course off you. If you’re a good boy and let me eat, I’ll pull you onto my chair and fuck you till you weep…sound good?”

          Will twisted his fingers, smiling when Hannibal’s voice cracked as he whispered, “Yes”.

          Will began to scissor his fingers, preening as Hannibal’s mouth fell open in an inelegant maw. He wondered how often Hannibal felt pleasure like this, how often he allowed it for himself. He was sure most of Hannibal’s sexual encounters were a form of manipulation. It fit the profile. The Chesapeake Ripper was as successful as he was because he kept an iron control over himself and those around him. “When’s the last time you let someone have you, Hannibal?”

          Hannibal’s face scrunched as if he was trying his hardest to parse words while Will persisted in teasing his prostate. “I- I’ve-”

          He swallowed, hips rolling, trying to drive Will deeper. “I’ve been penetrated be-befor-”

          “No.” Will drove his fingers in hard, pummeling Hannibal’s prostate as he drove deeper. “I don’t give a shit who had their dick in you. I want to know who’s seen you like this.”

          Will bit Hannibal’s ear, tugging softly. “Face red, mouth open, cock twitching as you roll your hips begging for more.”

          Hannibal shook his head frantically, his hands flailing before clawing into Will’s shoulder. Will kept whispering. “Who’s seen you this messy and desperate Hannibal? Who’ve you begged for before me?”

          “No- no one,” Hannibal gasped.

          Will hummed, watching as his beautiful doctor fell to pieces in his hands. “Good. When you’re here, when you’re with me, this is who I get. I want the monster, I want the messy, desperate thing that loves me, understood?”

          “Will, please.”

          Will shifted, nose brushing Hannibal’s. The doctor’s eyes were nearly black in the candlelight, but Will could pick out the flecks of red. “Swear to me. The monster is mine.”

          Hannibal swallowed, rubbing his nose slightly against Will’s. “I promise.”

          “And you always keep your promises, don’t you?”

          “Yessss,” Hannibal strained, pulling the last vestiges of his composure together. “And in return?”

          “I’ll see you and never turn away no matter what you show me.” Will sealed their vows with a soft kiss, Hannibal’s clawing softening to caresses as he sucked on Will’s tongue.

          Time seemed to stretch, their kiss lasting eons and seconds at the same time. Will pulled away to press his smile into Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal moved in his arms, gently tugging Will’s hand from his body before grabbing the lube and smearing some onto his palm. Will hissed when strong, slick fingers wrapped around his cock, coating it as Hannibal stroked.

          “I believe traditionally wedding nights must be consummated to be viewed as binding.”

          Will grinned as he settled between Hannibal’s legs. “And we’re very traditional.”

          Hannibal smiled softly, letting Will guide his leg to hook over the empath’s hips. “We were friends first, and romance bloomed over a series of dinner dates.”

          Will shook his head. “That’s the story you’re going with?”

          “It’s the one we’ll tell the dogs and our social circle.”

          Will could feel the smile stretching his mouth, Hannibal’s answering expression made Will’s chest burn with affection. Ducking his head, he stole one more kiss before pushing into Hannibal.

          They both gasped, Will’s hand digging desperately into the meat of Hannibal’s thigh. The heat, the consuming radiating heat of Hannibal sent a wave of static to Will’s brain. There was no more thought, just blinding, tingling pleasure. His entire world narrowed to Hannibal’s wet lips. He panted into Hannibal’s mouth, too awash in sensation to offer much in the way of kissing. But Hannibal seemed to understand, he looked a little lost himself.

          The doctor rolled his hips, locking his legs around Will’s back to pull him deeper. His moans were surprisingly soft, sweet little noises that Will drew out of him with every thrust. Those strong hands were scrabbling at Will’s shoulders, tracing sinew as they searched for purchase. He was hard again, his cock rubbing against Will’s stomach with every undulation of their bodies.

          Will planted an arm by Hannibal’s head, gripping the pillow for dear life. With his free hand, he gripped Hannibal’s cock, stroking desperately as he felt tension build in his body.

          Hannibal’s soft noises got louder, lip snarling as he seemingly fought for control. Will kissed his curled lip, his own pleasure nearly unbearable. “Let me see, darlin’. I want to see.”

          Hannibal groaned, head falling back as he twisted inelegantly in Will’s arms. It was like trying to subdue a wild thing in his embrace. Will snarled back, baring his teeth and biting at Hannibal’s neck.

          “There’s my monster,” Will snapped his hips, smiling at the growl it drew from Hannibal. “Fucked the gentleman right out of you, didn’t I?”

          Hannibal came with a loud groan, hands clawing at Will’s back as his legs trembled.

          Will fucked him through his release, pressure building in his back and balls as he felt himself nearing the precipice. He came with Hannibal between his teeth, thrusting erratically as the static pleasure of the moment buzzed through his veins.

          Collapsing on top of Hannibal wasn’t the most gentlemanly thing he could have done, but Will seemed to have lost all ability to control his body. Hannibal welcomed his weight, cradling Will with warm arms and tender kisses until the empath could pull himself back together.

          “Hi,” Will muttered, suddenly bashful and ducking his head below Hannibal’s gaze.

          “Look at me.” Will obliged, raising his eyes to the glittering ones staring back at him. “Will, do y-”

          “Don’t.” Will kissed him. “Don’t ask if I’m ok. If I regret it. The only thing I regret is leaving your home the night you cooked for me. I just…it’s overwhelming sometimes…you’re overwhelming sometimes.”

          Hannibal smiled. “My shy boy.”

          “God, do you ever shut up?” Will wrapped his arms around Hannibal, squeezing him close. “I bet you talk in your sleep.”

          Hannibal hummed, stretching and wiggling until Will was braced along his side. “You may find out in a few minutes.”

          “Sounds good,” Will nuzzled into Hannibal’s chest. “We should grab a nap before round two.”

          He was asleep before he heard Hannibal’s answer.

          Will woke with a moan, arms reaching for Hannibal and dragging him close. He paused when his fingers sank into fur. Hannibal had a hairy chest but —

          Slitting an eye open, Will found Winston panting happily by his side. He sat up, absently ruffling Winston’s fur, six dogs surrounded Will, all fitting themselves into whatever open space they found on the bed. Max had flopped over Will’s feet and Harley had managed to compress himself onto the pillow where Hannibal’s head should be. Ellie and Jack had created a sort of yin-yang to fit by his knee. Heidi had her paws in the air by his calf, chasing bunnies as she dreamed.

          Will felt a slimy sensation in his stomach. Hannibal wouldn’t have left him, would he?

          A small skittering noise downstairs made him smile. No, Hannibal was downstairs, with a tiny terrier escort. He ran a hand through his hair as he heard the duo on the steps. Buster entered the room first, excitedly spinning in circles as he waited for Hannibal. The doctor stepped over the terrier, balancing a tray with one hand. He was wearing his discarded trousers and Will’s old George Washington University sweatshirt. He offered Will a bemused expression. “You’re staring.”

          “You look good in my sweatshirt.”

          “Good, as Buster has turned my sweater into confetti, I believe I’ll be wearing it home.” He stood next to the bed and raised an eyebrow. “I see I’ve been replaced.”

          “It’s dangerous to leave doors open in this house, bed space is at a premium.”

          “Noted.” Hannibal tutted at the dogs. “But as I come bearing food, perhaps I can earn my place in the pack?”

          “Alright, guys, OFF.” The dogs moved en masse, claws softly clicking as they investigated the rest of the room now that the bed was off-limits. Hannibal lowered himself to the mattress in one graceful sweep. Will decided not to mention the cracking of the doctor’s knees and Hannibal seemed content to ignore it as well. Hannibal laid the tray between them with a flourish, using his free hand to catch Buster by the scruff just before he landed atop the tray and redirect him toward the rest of the pack. “So…what do we have?”

          “A charcuterie of sorts…we have the fish chips we made earlier, the remnants of the sanguinaccio dolce, some stuffed dates, ritz crackers, and something called baby bell cheese.” Hannibal frowned. “I should have brought a brie to bake, some ramps and a sour cream dip would have been-”

          “This is perfect,” Will swept his hands over the spread. “Thank god for the baby bells.”

          Will reached for a red wax-covered ball only to have his hand slapped. Hannibal instead offered him a stuffed date. Will accepted, making sure to nip at Hannibal’s fingers as he took the date. “The dates are stuffed with walnuts, cardamom, pistachios, and dried rose petals from my garden.”

          Will tasted the care, sweet and filling, the slight spice of lust, but oddly, the sharp metallic taste of violence didn’t come through.

          “Delicious,” Will caught Hannibal’s hand, licking his fingers clean. “And if I’m not mistaken…vegan?”

          “Yes.” Hannibal offered another date. “Unless you count the bonemeal fertilizer that I use on my roses.”

          “Is there any chance that the bones come from cows?”

          Hannibal smiled slightly. “They come from an animal I eat frequently.”

          “Fuck.” Will fell back into bed. So, murder once removed didn’t affect his palate, interesting. “You’re going to give me an ulcer.”

          “It can’t be a surprise to you that I-”

          “Now I have to add raze the garden to my to-do list.”

          Hannibal bit into one of the fish skin chips, considering. “To-do list?”

          Will sighed, running a hand through his wild curls. “Raze the garden, check the drains in your house for blood evidence, find a nice place to live without US extradition, move my dogs, fake my death, fake your death…”

          Will trailed off, stopping to squint at Hannibal. “Is there any chance you don’t have a kill room in your house?”

          Hannibal made a face. “It’s more a series of rooms, a kill pied-a-terre if you will.”

          Hannibal offered him another date, Will shook his head. “That fucking ulcer is back.”

          Hannibal sat the date back on the tray, wiping his hands primly on a napkin. “Perhaps a reading will help you with your digestion?”

          “A reading?”

          “I found a fascinating tome in your nightstand-” Hannibal produced a notebook and Will’s ears started ringing. “Perhaps you could explain this passage to me: I’ve found that my appetite for art rivals only my appetite for food — the hell does he mean? Is this his weird stately European way of hitting on me? Is he trying to encourage me to be more cultured? Look into Lithuanian foods and artists…you can bring at least one up at the next dinner.”

          “Stop.” Will edged away, already beet red. But he found himself tangled in the sheets, with no way to flee — there really was no escaping the Ripper.

          “Not to your liking?” Hannibal flipped the pages. “How about this? He’s referenced Artemisia Gentileschi three times in the last week. What is it about her that’s so compelling? I get the reference to Abigail, but there’s something more. Does it dovetail with the Caravaggio sketch he was working on? Is he drawn to violence or people who have experienced violence? It would explain the lighting in his house, at least…”

          Will was buried beneath the covers, clutching them to his face. “JESUS. Can’t you just kill me?”

          “Will.” Long fingers were prying at the flannel sheets. With a huff, they tugged a little more firmly. “I cannot feed you any more dates if you don’t move the sheets.”

          “That’s fine, they weren’t that good.”

          The fingers were gone, immediately reappearing to poke at his sides until he was laughing. “I abhor liars, Will Graham.”

          “Fine. FINE!” Will gasped, dropping his death grip on the sheet so he could slap at Hannibal’s hands. “OK, THE DATES ARE DELICIOUS!”

          Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “And the notebook?”

          “Is embarrassing.”

          “Would it be less so if I told you I had something similar?”

          “Psychiatric notes aren’t the same thing.”

          “How about sketches of you in various forms?”

          “…forms?”

          “Studies of your ears, your eyes, your face, a few tasteful nudes, one of you as a satyr, one of-”

          “Tasteful nudes?” Will sat up, grinning as he accepted another date from Hannibal’s fingers. “How close did you get to the real thing?”

          “Astonishingly close, thanks to your time in hospital gowns. I can’t be faulted for not knowing about the birthmark on your left glute, but other than that, the resemblance is striking.” Will chewed, leaning into Hannibal’s hand as it stroked along his chin. “I could never quite capture the expression in your eyes — the wildness, the determination, the sparkling intelligence.”  

          “I guess I’ll just have to pose for you until you get it right.”

          “It could take years.”

          “I’ve got time.”

          Hannibal smiled. “I find myself free as well.”

          He leaned into Will, frowning slightly when his progress was stopped with a firm hand on his chest. “Not yet. You have work to do.”

          “I do?”

          “First, you have to feed me another date.” Hannibal grinned as he pressed the date to Will’s lips. Will pushed the date to the side of his mouth with his tongue, chewing as he took the notebook from Hannibal’s lap. Pulling out the pen, he opened a new page. “I’m guessing you’re a monster who demands credit for your work.”

          Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

          Will sighed. “Great. That means we both have to die.”

          “Right now? I have tickets to the opera on Tuesday and I was hoping-”

          “Yeah, fine, love to,” Will waved a dismissive hand at Hannibal. “But for two bodies, we’re going to need more than I was thinking of. You’re going to need to start collecting my blood. How much can you take before I pass out? I weigh about 180 now, thanks to all your damn food. So…what would that be… 1.2 liters?”

          “I could draw 1.5 at best, but you’d likely develop hypovolemic shock.” Hannibal’s fingers were tracing over Will’s arm, mapping a vein that ran through his right elbow. “You’d lose consciousness, and likely wake confused, weak, sweaty, anxious, and breathing rapidly.”

          Will laughed. “So…Encephalitis part 2.”

          “I would stay with you and monitor you.” Hannibal tilted his head. “From a forensic perspective, is 1.5 liters enough?”

          “More would be better,” Will snagged a fish chip, chewing thoughtfully. He could feel himself, no longer a bitter loathing taste, but bright and sweet, mingled with Hannibal’s own metallic and spicy flavors. He licked his lips. “We find three, maybe even four, Price could testify that no one would survive that type of loss.”

          Hannibal hummed, absently wiping a flake of salt from Will’s lip. “We’d need at least four weeks between draws that large. I can refrigerate the first batch for four to six weeks to maintain its integrity, perhaps freeze it, but a good forensic scientist might be able to tell the blood was older.”

          “What if we mix it, then clean it up with bleach?”

          “It won’t disrupt the DNA evidence. But why would someone be looking for that much blood?”

          Will was scribbling furiously in his notebook. “Once I go to the opera with you, I might call Alana, ask her about your surgical history. I’ll be cagey, but just obvious enough to get her wondering. Then I’ll go to Jack, who won’t believe me, of course. I’ll tell Alana to stay away from you, get her back up. She’ll go to see you, you’ll loom over her and say something vaguely creepy. She’ll come to see me, worried. I explain that I’m dating you because I think there might be evidence in your house.”

          “My house?”

          “Isn’t that where your kill suite is?”

          “One of them.”

          “Jesus.” Will sighed. “Well, that one will have to do. Alana will bend Jack’s ear about me taking risks. And then I’ll disappear. Jack will come check for me, he’ll smell bleach, see that the floors and counters have been cleaned. But there'll be one smudge, just a drop, somewhere Jack will think to check but might easily have been overlooked.”

          “The dogs?”

          “Gone, but traces of poison will be in their dishes.”

          Hannibal frowned. “I wouldn’t kill your dogs.”

          “If the dogs are here, they’ll be taken, processed as evidence, and then probably sent to a shelter, so suck it up.” Jack will smell the bleach, find the blood, and call Price. It’ll be a day, maybe two before the results come back. Another day before Jack gets a warrant on a circumstantial plea…He’ll kick down your door, find you gone, and search.”

          Will looked up. “You get your credit; I get my death.”

          “Won’t that trigger a manhunt for me?”

          Will shook his head. “You’re going to have an accident. Boat explosion. Small aircraft crash. Fall off a cliff. I don’t care, but it needs to be something public and it needs to plausibly destroy your body.”

          “Are you telling me to kill someone?”

          “I’m telling you to do what you do best…cause chaos.”

          “Won’t it be a little convenient? Surely Jack-”

          “Jack will want this closed as quickly as possible. So will the rest of the FBI. You think they want the media to draw out the fact that the most notorious serial killer in decades was consulting for them?” Will put the notebook aside. “Freddie Lounds might write some gossipy little fiction about you being alive, but on paper, and to law enforcement around the world, you’ll be dead.”

          “Will, for a man who’s simply tolerating serial killing, you’re excellent at plotting murders and cover-ups.” Hannibal loomed over Will, pinning him to the bed. “One might think you’re developing a taste for it.”

          “Well, I’ve been working on expanding my palate recently.”

          Hannibal smiled. “I know you said I’ve got work to do, but is there a chance we have about an hour before we begin to toil?”

          Will wrapped his hands around Hannibal’s neck, squeezing softly before guiding the doctor in for a kiss. “Forty-five minutes.”

Chapter Text

          Will woke with a groan, Hannibal’s hair falling across his neck as he nibbled along Will’s shoulder.

          “Good morning, you’re dead,” Hannibal whispered into Will’s throat.

          “Am I?” Will glanced down, his cock filling rapidly as Hannibal’s hands pinched his nipples and scratched down his stomach. “Odd, my blood flow is still working.”

          Hannibal’s hands remained on his stomach, pinching at the slight roundness that a year of rich food had created. It seemed a point of pride for Hannibal, that Will had filled out so well. It was a point of pride for Will too, the skinny wharf rat from Louisiana had finally found himself cared for and allowed to flourish.

          “The FBI declared you dead this morning.”

          “Oh no. When’s the funeral? I’d love to attend.”

          Hannibal flipped Will onto his stomach, nails raking down Will’s spine and making him shiver. “You’re busy. Though I’ll be happy to send flowers.”

          “You were declared dead two weeks ago.” Will lifted his hips in invitation, rubbing his face into the pillow as Hannibal spread him open. “The whole point of this was to not arouse suspicion and get home free, remember?”

          Hannibal hummed. “I suppose I’ll have to arouse something else.”

          The first swipe of Hannibal’s tongue had Will groaning into the pillow. He arched, shoving his ass up in offering as Hannibal lazily drew his tongue from Will’s perineum to the small of his back. Each wet stroke left Will strung tighter ready to snap.

          On mornings like these, Hannibal never seemed to feel a sense of urgency, content to tease Will to the brink of madness. Will clawed at his pillow, soft little ah noises leaving him every time Hannibal’s clever tongue caught on his rim.

          He knew what Hannibal wanted. The doctor seemed to live to hear Will begging. And while an obstinate part of Will wanted to hold out, to keep his dignity, he knew from experience that Hannibal Lecter could stretch a meal for hours. If Will wanted to leave the bed or have an orgasm this morning, it was better to let his cannibal have his victory.

          It didn’t really matter, not when Will knew he could have Hannibal screaming for him later.

          “Han- baby, please,” He hissed, that awful, wonderful tongue catching on his rim and pulling just enough to make Will’s whole body light up. He arched deeper, smiling to himself when that forced Hannibal to tighten his grip. “Darlin’ I’m already open, please.”

          Hannibal blew softly on Will’s wet flesh, making the empath shiver. “You’re quite tight my darling, I’m starting to think I didn’t open you up properly last night. I won’t make that mistake again.”

          That wonderful, evil tongue was back, rolling over Will’s opening as the empath choked out another moan. When it finally pushed inside, Will howled fingers scrabbling for purchase on the mattress.

          Hannibal, apparently, was in a mood, and Will was going to have a long morning ahead of him. When Hannibal got like this, he was unrelenting, the best Will could do would be to sob through the blinding pleasure until Hannibal granted him mercy.

          Will fell into a stupor, head rolling against the pillow as Hannibal devoured him whole. A tongue and two fingers were now Will’s whole world, and Will didn’t understand how he had ever lived without them. He was babbling, a mix of begging, endearments, and animal groans. This would have mortified Will with any other partner, but somehow, he never found it in himself to be embarrassed with Hannibal. His cannibal could see him like this, base and vulnerable, because he, in turn, was granted the gift of seeing Hannibal in the same state.

          Didn’t mean he didn’t want to come sometime soon, though.

          “Hannibal!” Will struggled to lift his head, turning to glare. “Enough.”

          Hannibal twisted his fingers one last time, withdrawing them and biting Will’s left cheek hard. “Demanding boy.”

          He reached for the lube, still on the nightstand from last night. Coating himself quickly, Hannibal paused. “I really should at least use a little lubricant to-”

          “If you don’t fuck me right now I promise I’ll let Buster in the closet later.”

          Hannibal smiled. “You do know how to instill fear.”

          Carefully, Hannibal lined up his cock and pushed home. It was slow, and it did burn like hell for a minute, but Will’s groan was pure pleasure. He was never happier than when he and Hannibal were one, their physical bodies mimicking their minds. He shuddered as Hannibal’s hand ran up his spine, sinking deep into his curls before yanking them back, arching Will’s spine.

          Hannibal pulled out slowly, Will whining in complaint when he was left empty.

          “Patience, darling, patience,” The words were unbearably fond, and when Hannibal pushed back in, Will felt the cool slide of more lube. Nothing burned now, it was pure, bone-melting pleasure. Hannibal shifted, grip still tight in Will’s hair as he began to thrust slowly. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”

          Will tried to nod, managing to mumble out a soft uh uh uh as Hannibal set the pace. The hand in his hair tightened, and Will somehow arched even deeper, hands flying to the headboard to brace. The angle was perfect, each long, slow thrust nudging his prostate. Will wondered if he was drooling, so mindless to the torturous, slow build of pressure in his stomach.

          His back warmed, Hannibal leaning in to kiss and nip at his shoulders as he drove Will insane. “You sound beautiful darling. And so very close.”

          A lubed hand wrapped around Will’s weeping cock, pumping a few times. “You’re leaking onto our pillows, Will. Tell me, when you press your face to them at night, will the scent of your desperation make you reach for me?”

          “Y-yes.” Will’s nails were carving little crescents into the antique headboard.

          “And what will you do to me?” Hannibal’s breathing was growing labored, his body trembling finely as he tried to keep them both from tumbling over the edge.

          Will smiled, pulling the last of his cognitive abilities together. “I’ll press your face into it while I fuck you. The only air you get will be scented with my come.”

          That seemed to break Hannibal’s resolve. The doctor roared, yanking Will flush with his body as he drove into him with abandon. “Scream for me, Will.”

          Will obliged, calling Hannibal’s name hoarsely as the doctor battered his prostate. The hand entwined in his curls released, as Hannibal moved to cup his stomach, kneading at the soft flesh. Will tensed as he came, pressing into those strong fingers as Hannibal milked him dry. Hannibal followed soon after, snarling Will’s name as his last thrusts stuttered.

          They collapsed to the side, sweaty, sticky, and completely unwilling to be parted. Hannibal banded his arms around Will’s middle drawing him even closer until there wasn’t an inch of Will Graham without his touch. “Not bad for a dead man.”

          “I could say the same,” Will yawned, pushing into Hannibal’s touch as the doctor nuzzled his neck.

          “We should shower.”

          “Dead men don’t shower.”

          “We should change the sheets.”

          “Dead men don’t do that either.”

          “Will, we haven’t-”

          “Hannibal?”

          “Hmmm?”

          “Dead men don’t talk, either.”

          Will grinned when Hannibal nipped his shoulder in response.

          Will woke feeling oddly energetic for a dead man. He stretched, still sore, and frowned only mildly when he found the bed empty. It was hard for Hannibal to idle too long, and Will had long given up on keeping the doctor in bed all day. It was enough that Will could draw him back to bed whenever the mood struck him.

          He glanced at the clock by his pillow. Hannibal had probably showered, fed the dogs, and taken them for a run by now. That gave Will time for a shower. He walked to the bathroom on stiff legs, looking forward to the massaging jet shower he pretended to hate.  

          The house in Umbria was considerably smaller than anything he’d ever imagined Hannibal in, but it turned out the doctor was perfectly happy with a “quaint” three-bedroom villa on six acres of property. He still insisted the dogs had a good run after breakfast, however, to ensure that they wouldn’t feel cramped when inside.

          The dogs had taken to Italy and to Hannibal surprisingly well. Even Winston would follow the doctor around the kitchen, politely waiting for scraps. While Buster remained Hannibal’s particular favorite, he insisted he treated them all equally. Will pretended not to notice when Hannibal snuck Buster extra pieces of meat or drew him onto his lap for ear scratches.

          As Will toweled off his hair, he heard the music, Dolly Parton singing about a party two doors down. He smiled, already knowing Hannibal was in the kitchen.

          Hannibal was adding something to a bowl when Will arrived in the kitchen, the dogs lying on bedding in the far corner, panting. He didn’t turn when Will entered the room, but he still announced the empath’s arrival. “Now that your father has decided to wake up, perhaps he could fold the egg whites into this batter for me while I monitor the jam.”

          Will kissed Hannibal’s shoulder, taking the offered spatula. For a moment, he thought he heard his father’s voice. “Pancakes today, huh?”

          “Æbleskivers.”

          “Who now?” Will watched the batter turn from clumps to a lacy consistency.

          “A traditional Danish dish. The name literally means apple slices and was derived from the Middle Ages, when it was difficult to store apples for winter. The left-over apples were used in grog, or fried in a light batter. With the evolution of cast iron pans, the Danes began to form the batter into balls, stuffing them with fresh fruits, jams, and other fillings. They’re served with a dusting of powdered sugar and typically a fruit jam.” Hannibal indicated the pan he was stirring. “Today we will have them with apricot jam.”

          “So…Danish pancakes.” Hannibal offered Will a mild glare. Will grinned. “I’m kidding, I know a beignet when I see one.”  

          Hannibal sighed pointing at a pan on the stove. “Please place two tablespoons of batter into each divot of the pan. When the edges seem set, put a teaspoon of my chocolate spread into each one, please.”

          Will did as he was told, smiling as Hannibal set aside his apricot jam. The doctor returned with two chopsticks, turning each of the pancakes 90 degrees.

          “These are most popular at Christmas, but I felt in a festive mood today.”

          “Me too,” Will wrapped his arms around Hannibal, propping his chin on the other man’s shoulder.

          Hannibal added a half teaspoon of batter to each of the pancakes before turning them again, forming perfect little brown balls. When they were done, Hannibal used the chopsticks to pluck them from the pan, settling them on a paper towel-covered plate. He began the process again.

          “Please dust those with powdered sugar.”

          Without leaving his perch, Will blindly reached for the sifter already laden with sugar and shook it over the treats. “Looks good enough to eat.”

          “Try one.”

          Will picked up the pastry and paused. It had been at least a decade since he’d attempted to eat pancakes. Even though he lived every day nourished by Hannibal’s food, there was a slight fission of nerves that went through his stomach at the prospect of trying them again.

          He glanced at Hannibal, that intense gaze boring into him. He smiled, popping the Æbleskiver into his mouth.

          As always, the love was the first thing he tasted. He’d become so used to it now that he rarely ate anything Hannibal didn’t cook. Gelato from a stand or fries from McDonalds, it didn’t matter, it felt like eating air. More often than not, it made him ravenous, opening a chasm in his stomach that only Hannibal’s cooking could fill. The sharp metallic flavor was there too, and Will briefly wondered how Hannibal had managed to put people in pancakes. He was about to ask when a new flavor hit him, one that made his brows furrow as he chewed carefully.

          He met Hannibal’s gaze as he swallowed, frowning. “What’s up?”

          Something flickered in that bloody gaze. “What do you mean?”

          “You’re…nervous.” Will ran his tongue over his teeth, closing his eyes to focus on the last bits of flavor. “No…not nervous…excited…it’s almost like…”

          Will’s eyes opened. Hannibal had gone still. That eerie stillness of a predator watching its prey. “Anticipation. What are you anticipating?”

          “What indeed?”

          Will squinted, not breaking his eye contact as he groped for another Æbleskiver and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly this time, allowing the flavors to meld over his tongue as his mind worked to supply him with an answer. He could feel the love, the obsessive violent devotion that was always present at every bite. But there was a tickling sensation as if Hannibal himself was vibrating, waiting. Will’s mind wandered, he thought of their perfect house, their perfect life — what more could Hannibal want? An image hit him, Hannibal, on one knee, telling Will a symbolic wedding was no longer enough. When Will swallowed, he smiled. “Did you want to ask me something?”

          Hannibal held up a small box. His grin was blinding.