Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

6 p.m. Hannibal Lecter's Office

Dr. Hannibal Lecter sat in his study, his presence so commanding that it filled the voids of the office space like smoke.

The ticking of a distant vintage clock on the mantel keeps the time like a slow, deliberate heartbeat. The room was warm, but not oppressively so—just enough to encourage a guarded soul to soften, to feel held.

Music swelled softly from hidden speakers: a selection of Goldberg Variations played, delicate and meticulous, much like the Doctor himself.

He sipped from a small glass of Château d'Yquem, letting the honeyed liquid linger on his tongue, assessing its complexity with practice. It paired well with the faint aroma of aged paper, polished wood, and the more recent trace of magnolia from his last patient of the day.

She had worn it to disguise something—a base note of despair, perhaps—but Hannibal had noticed.

He always noticed.

On the desk before him lay his notes in crisp, exact order. Written in a hand so neat it bordered on obsessive. He had already thumbed through the file of his “next patient”, if he can be called that.

A young man, emotionally volatile and vulgar at times. He would arrive soon, quiet and skittish, like a wild animal—always ready to bolt.

Hannibal had no disdain for the boy. As a matter of fact, it was quite the opposite.

He was very fond of the man, a twitchy thing that has managed to get under his skin in the most interesting ways.

He glanced at the chair across from his own, oxblood leather. Shaped like an embrace—built for confession.

Outside, he heard footsteps in the hallway.

Light, uncertain. Then a pause. The boy was hesitating at the door, rehearsing something. Hannibal could almost hear the words forming in his mind—brittle with nervous intention.

Hannibal smiled.

Not kindly. Not cruelly. Simply—with the quiet satisfaction of a man who knows that soon, very soon, someone will sit before him, exposed.

That someone is Will Graham.

And he would listen.

Of course, he would.

Will stood in the hallway, hand hovering just shy of the doorknob, the polished brass cold against the warm tremble of his fingers.

He could hear the music—Bach, of course. Hannibal didn’t just choose music. He curated it. Every note, like every glance, meant something. Will knew that by now. He'd spent enough hours in this room, sitting across from that man, trying to understand monsters while suspecting— fearing —that he might be one himself. 

But today wasn’t about monsters. Not the ones outside, anyway.

He wasn’t here to consult. He wasn’t here for a case. There was no copycat killer to catch. No behavioral analysis to perform.

He just couldn’t continue to lie to himself about his feelings towards the doctor. He couldn’t lie and say he didn’t know why he was here.

No, he knew why he came; he always knew.

He was here for answers.

Because it was Hannibal, and though Will would never admit it, despite the teasing, the mind games, the constant flirting—he enjoys his time with Hannibal.

The arrogant, posh asshole had wormed his way into Will’s life, and worse? Will can’t tell the boundaries of their relationship. Hannibal was so damn confusing.

He needs to know, needs answers, no more mind games.

He’s afraid of having these types of feelings again, not after—

He took a breath and opened the door.

The study remained unchanged as it had always been. Controlled. Lavish. It smelled faintly of cedar wood, wine, leather—something new, something that reminded Will of home… his mother’s Magnolia tree…

He was ripped from his memory slip when he smelled something distinctly smoky—the scent of something ancient and civilized hiding its teeth

—Hannibal.

And there he was.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter looked up from his notes, his expression indistinct but wholly attentive.

“Will,” he said with a smile so subtle it could have been a trick of the lamplight. “How unexpected. Please, come in.”

Will stepped inside slowly, closing the door behind him. His jacket felt too warm. His skin, too tight.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” Will said.

"Yet here you are."

“Here I am,” Will replied. Matching cadence.

Hannibal rose in one fluid movement, crossing the room with the elegant assurance of a dancer. His suit was impeccably tailored, the jacket lay open to reveal a lavish waistcoat, silk, in a deep, arterial red. His shoes clicked with authority across the floorboards.

He moved almost silently, circling Will as if circling prey—

—Assessing his mood; how much of a fight will he put up today?

His gaze traced over Will—taking in the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw, the subtle signs of discomfort that most would miss.

Then his eyes found Will's.

Amber eyes that seemed to shine in the light meet grey-skied orbs, locking on. Here we are.

Something in Hannibal’s eyes reared its head… and smiled—all teeth.

"Sit. Please." He gestured towards the leather chair, his eyes studying Will closely.

Will stood by the door for a moment. Cataloging the room and the man before him, like he always did, as if danger lurked. It always felt like it did around Hannibal. 

Then, slowly, he removes his jacket and crosses the room, taking a seat in his usual chair.

"You said it was unexpected of me to be here, why?" 

Will asked as he relaxed back into the leather, folding his jacket in his arms and laying it across his lap.

Hannibal returned to his desk chair, settling diagonally from Will with practiced grace and learned lessons. Will didn't like proximity, and today Hannibal was feeling merciful. He leaned back, regarding Will with an odd mixture of curiosity and affection—though the former held the edge, always with Will.

"Because the last time we spoke," he began, "you were quite clear about needing to distance yourself from... certain discussions that took place in this office."

“You keep flirting with me, Hannibal.” Will shot back.

Hannibal paused deliberately, his gaze never leaving Will's face. "And yet here you are. "

"Here I am." Will repeated. 

Will missed the smile Hannibal flashed as he looked down at his fingers, feeling damage on the chair, knife punctures... he frowned.

"Who did this?" 

Hannibal's eyes followed Will's gaze to the damage on the chair. A hint of irritation flashed through them, masked nearly as soon as it appeared. 

"A... disturbed individual," he said, his tone light, almost indifferent. "He had some difficulty articulating certain…emotions." Hannibal smiled softly.

He was already noticing an old tactic being used by Will to try to distract from the topic at hand. 

No, no deflecting today.

Hannibal’s fingers traced the carved edge of his desk, moving slowly and deliberately, letting the silence between them thicken until it was almost unbearable. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, pitched low enough that Will had to lean in to catch it.

"You didn't come here to talk about furniture, Will."

Will glanced around the room before his eyes met Hannibal’s.

"No... I came here to talk to you about something personal." Will breathed out through his nose, and his leg started to bounce at a faster tempo—dispelling nervous energy.

Hannibal’s posture shifted, almost imperceptibly; his head tilted, his body sharpening into focus.

His gaze never wavered.

"Personal," he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue almost lazily. He didn't break eye contact, studying Will, with that same intense, calculated focus Will hates. “How intriguing. Do, go on.”

Will scoffed, mouth quirked in a humorless smile. “Where do I start? My mother?”

Hannibal, in response, reached for a pen and pad, as if they were about to begin a formal session, the movement theatrical, purposeful.

“Your mother, then.” He finally replied, swinging one leg over the other.

Will didn’t think this through. He started to feel sweat prickle his neck at the thought of talking about her. He needed to think of something to say, something to end this conversation. But his mouth worked faster than his brain. Slow, indifferent, cold.

“She’s… gone.”

Hannibal’s features bleed into surprise before softening; Will is openly talking about his mother, finally—a gift of trust.

“How so?” Hannibal asks, his tone unfaltering.

“Cancer.”

A beat.

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

Hannibal set down his pen and folded his hands in his lap.

“I’m sorry you had to endure that, Will. It must have been a heavy loss.” Hannibal spoke softly with something dangerously close to genuine sympathy.

Will shrugged too quickly, dismissive, eyes darting down. “It was a long time ago.”

Despite being a little closed off, Hannibal was pleasantly surprised that Will had easily fallen into their routine for once. But Hannibal wasn’t fooled. He rarely was. He watched him—watched the boy shrink in the chair before him, shoulders tight, eyes evasive. So soft. So hesitant.

Like an innocent lamb.

“What about your father? Is he in your life?”

Will nodded.

So soft and sweet.

“Yeah, he’s old, and kinda an ass. Kinda like you.” He said with a sudden smirk.

–Ah, still an impudent brat…

A quiet huff escaped Hannibal, more amused than offended—the audacity of this boy.

“And, just how old do you think I am, Will?” Hannibal asked, amused, resting his chin on his palm.

Will looked at Hannibal, past his amused smile, scanning his face, taking in the signs of age: wrinkles, sun-worn skin, and greying hair.

“Like… late thirties? Getting into your forties? Uh, old enough to be my dad?” He quipped.

“Forty-nine,” Hannibal corrected, smiling wider with smug satisfaction.

Will was only twenty-nine, just turned. His father was about to be forty-six years old…

Will swallowed, then nervously laughed, and his mouth worked far too fast for his brain to keep up. He spoke his next thought out loud.

“Jesus, you’re older than my dad…” The words slipped out too quickly, too unguarded. Something about that thought made heat rise to his face.

Hannibal took note of the pink hue spreading across Will’s features, the way the boy’s eyes darted down. Hannibal’s eyes went wide with interest at first before lowering to something more delighted. 

“My, my…” His voice was low, intimate, every word dripping with suggestion. “That thought excites you, doesn’t it?”

Will’s mouth hung open, but no words came.  His brain misfired, his tongue tripped over words.

“No—no. It doesn’t.” The younger man finally managed to say.

Hannibal huffed a laugh as he sat up, crossing his arms over his desk and staring at Will now with an intensity that Will only saw when Hannibal had him backed into a corner, when he starts burrowing under Will’s skin, when he starts making Will feel hotter than the August heat back home.

“You’re a terrible liar, Will.” He called his bluff. “Tell me—what is it that stirs you? My age? My experience? Or perhaps…” His eyes dipped, lingered, then lifted again with a knowing gaze. “…something else entirely?”

Will shrugged off the growing heat rising to his face and chose to deflect. 

“I was just caught off guard. Didn’t realize you were nearly geriatric. No wonder you’re so damn mean.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed sharply. He straightened, his voice dropped to a more stern tone. Playful, yet commanding.

“Careful, boy. Call me old again, and I’ll show you exactly how mean I can be.”

Upon hearing “boy,” Will stiffened. The blush creeping along his face spread to his ears. Heat started in his gut like a match hitting kindling doused in gasoline.

“Interesting…” Hannibal's lips curled into a smile.

Will’s eyes darted to the side, avoiding that piercing stare, the warmth in his cheeks now a humiliating flush. “You’re reading too much into it,” he said rather quickly, his voice rougher than he intended. “It wasn’t anything, I wasn’t—”

“Thinking?” Hannibal interrupted smoothly. He tilted his head, studying the flush creeping across Will’s neck. “On the contrary, I think you were thinking quite a lot. Too much, perhaps. About me. About the implications of my age, my authority… and what that means when paired with you.”

Will shifted in his chair again, legs folding and unfolding. His hand rubbed at his thigh, as though grounding himself. He shook his head quickly, almost frantically. “I’m not… I’m not into that.”

“Not into what?” Hannibal pressed, voice deceptively soft, the edge of a blade disguised in velvet. “Not into men of authority? Not into the age difference?” His smile turned dangerous, all teeth. “Or is it specifically the notion of calling someone Daddy that rattles you so deliciously?”

Will’s jaw clenched, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow. He hated how damn translucent he was to Hannibal. “You’re—God—you’re relentless.”

“Relentless only when I know there is something worth pursuing.” Hannibal’s gaze sharpened, hungry. “And you, Will Graham, are worth every leg of the journey.”

Will exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath too long. He needed out—an escape. Anything. He cleared his throat, forcing words to come before Hannibal could corner him further.

"What's your relationship like with Alana?" Will asked, far too bluntly. Too sharp, like suddenly veering off the road. It caused Hannibal’s brain to stutter momentarily, caught off guard by the question. However, he did his best not to show it.

Hannibal blinked slowly before answering.

" Alana ? Very well then, she and I are colleagues." He says smoothly. "Friends, if one insists on labels. Nothing more." His head tilts just a fraction. "Why do you ask?"

There is no accusation in his tone, only mild curiosity. But beneath that veneer of polite interest, something darker hums—the quiet thrill of being studied by Will Graham, and his sudden interest in his relationships.

"Friends? Oh, Bullshit. "

Will snapped back.

Had it been anyone else, they would be missing their tongue by now.

"I saw both of you at the dinner party last week. She kissed you, Hannibal. Friends don't just kiss. "

A hint of surprise flutters behind Hannibal's dark eyes, a crack in his composure so brief it could easily be mistaken as a trick of the light. His expression doesn't change. But he does notice how the topic seems to upset Will— more than it should.

"That's a rather... intimate observation," he says quietly. "You seem almost invested. Especially over a kiss on the cheek, Will." 

Ah, that was it. Will’s face flared slightly. Eyes wide, face stunned.

"Don't try to make this about me," Will hisses, the words a poor cover for the panic coiling in his chest. "This is about you and Alana. Your... whatever-ship." 

Hannibal doesn't seem fazed by the outburst. In fact, he looks almost pleased. Will's sudden distress is amusing. He smiles, ball in his court. 

“Why does the idea of Alana and me, together, bother you so?" he presses, his voice low and oddly soothing. "It can't be simple jealousy. You're well past that, one would hope."

"I'm not jealous, I was just curious, for Alana’s sake. You keep flirting with me. I would think, Dr. Lecter, that would feel bad for her." Will deflected. Leaning back.

Hannibal knowingly inclines his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He was enjoying Will's evasiveness.

"Curious?” he echoed, his tone tinged with just a touch of playful mockery. "You could have gone to Alana, yet here you are, asking me about my relationship status. That's not just curiosity."

He reached for his glass and took a slow sip of wine, his gaze never leaving Will's.

"It's not… simple jealousy," Will admits through gritted teeth. "It's..." He stops, unable to find the right word. Because, honestly, how the hell is he supposed to explain this strange, complex knot of emotions churning in his chest?

"...complicated," he finally manages, looking anywhere but at Hannibal. God, anywhere else.

Hannibal's lips curve into a slow smile. He leans forward ever so slightly, just enough to cause the desk to creak, reminding Will he was still there.

"Everything with us is complicated, isn't it?" he murmurs, voice like poured honey, sweet and so damn thick. "But you felt something when you saw her kiss me."  

A pause. A deliberate provocation.  

"Did you imagine it was you in her place?"

Will's cheeks flush with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Damnit, why does this bastard have to see right through him so easily?

"I-I don't know…” He groaned and rubbed his face. This conversation was like taking a cliff dive into ice-cold water.

And Hannibal… being Hannibal, couldn’t resist pushing him over..

"Oh Will, " He says his name like it's something to be savored, "What would Alana say if she heard any of this?"

There was the ice-cold plunge.

Payback for earlier.

The mention of Alana snaps Will back to reality, the cold weight of guilt and shame creeping in. 

"Don't... don't bring her into this," he mutters, his cheeks aflame. "This is about us right now, not her—"

Hannibal tuts softly, the sound condescending and sharp, like the disapproving click of a tongue.  

"Is it? Yet you're the one who wishes to talk about her. " His fingers tap the desk. "You were upset about Alana. The way she looked at me. The way she hung off of me that night. The way she... kissed me."

“You want what she has,” Hannibal said in a tone that was both dangerous and menacing.

Will's jaw clenches again.  

"That's different," he grinds out, but his voice lacks any absolute conviction. His eyes flicker up, meeting Hannibal's gaze. There's a challenge there now—a stubborn determination not to be the first to break. 

He gestures between them,  "It's not the same as... as this ."

A sly smile tugs at the corner of Hannibal's mouth. He likes Will's defiant side, the way he bristles like a cornered animal. It makes the hunt all the more entertaining.

"You're right, Will," he murmurs, leaning against his hands. "It's not the same."  

His gaze flicks down, taking in the flustered flush on Will's face, watching as it spreads to his neck before flicking back up to meet his gaze with a calm intensity.

"Because what Alana and I share...?" He pauses, his voice dropping an octave. "It is far more convenient.”

Will swallowed dryly, the sound an audible click in the silence that followed.

“Then… what do we have?” What the fuck am I?

Hannibal smiled, deeply, satisfied. “That depends entirely on you.” He finished off his glass of wine, his voice sharper now that it was wet.  “-–and your willingness to be open with me.”

Hannibal watched as the gears turned in Will’s head. Fight, flight, or acceptance, it was up to Will Graham now. 

Will stared at Hannibal, stunned into silence. That depends entirely on you. The words echoed in his mind like a dare, like a trap disguised as an invitation. His lips parted, but no sound came. He wasn’t ready to admit anything—especially not to Hannibal..

The silence thickened.

Hannibal tilted his head again, still smiling that same unreadable, maddening smile. “Are you afraid of what you might say, or of what I might say back?”

Will flinched like he’d been struck. “I’m not afraid.”

Hannibal didn’t move, but something in his expression shifted. He didn’t need to call Will a liar; the silence said enough. He let the weight of it stretch, thick and oppressive, until Will squirmed in his chair.

“No?” Hannibal’s tone was measured, “Not even of yourself? Not of what you feel when you’re here with me, when I press you like this?” He gestured lazily between them, an elegant hand slicing through the charged air. “Your pulse is loud, Will. Your face burns. Your body betrays you.”

“I—That’s not…” He faltered, his words collapsing under Hannibal’s gaze.

"You've been trying to ignore it, haven't you?" Hannibal muses, his voice soft but cutting. "All these years. Pushing those feelings down, hoping they'd just... go away ."  

He pauses, observing Will's expression. "They won't, you know. Those desires don't just... vanish. "

"Stop it," Will whispers, his voice choked and raw, but Hannibal just shakes his head.  

"No, I don't think I will, Will," he says softly. He can see the cracks forming in Will's façade, the walls slowly crumbling. He wants to see Will fall apart—beautiful, brilliant, breakable Will.   

"You've lived with this... ache inside you for ages now, haven't you?” He murmured, “Wondering what it would be like to touch... to taste..."

Will shakes his head, desperately trying to cling to the remnants of denial, slipping through his fingers like dust.

" Stop, Hannibal—" he grinds out.  

Hannibal smiles, savoring the sound of his name on Will's tongue.

“I didn’t come here for this,” Will said sternly..

“Of course not,” Hannibal said easily. “You never just come around here. You circle back like a dog, unsure if it wants to be fed or kicked.”

Will’s eyes snapped to him, hurt flashing behind the anger. “You think I like being kicked?”

“I think it’s accurate.”

Will stood abruptly, the legs of the chair scraping harshly against the floor. “You like doing this,” he said, voice rising. “You like watching me squirm. You call it openness, but it’s manipulation. You poke, and then you sit there with your fucking wine and your smug little smile, and you watch. ”

Hannibal’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes darkened. Something primal that he hasn't been able to indulge in for a long time.

“If I wanted to manipulate you, Will, you wouldn’t be standing right now. You’d be on the floor, on your knees.” Hannibal said, his voice lacking any emotion.

Will's heart thudded violently against his ribs.

There it was— too far.

The room went very still.

Will’s face was drained of color. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a soft, incredulous laugh—sharp and joyless—started to back away.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “You really think this is a game.”

“I think,” Hannibal said calmly, “that you need to learn the meaning of honesty more than anyone I’ve ever met. And I think you confuse intimacy for cruelty because you’ve never learned the difference.”

“I came here because I needed to know if I was being foolish,” he said quietly. “Thanks for opening my eyes. ”

Hannibal, for once, was silent without purpose.

“Our time is up,” Will said bitterly and headed for the door.

Hannibal’s fingers steepled under his chin as he watched Will start to walk towards the door. There was something delicious in the way discomfort rolled off him—tangible, thick in the air between them. Yet, there was a growing, gnawing feeling clawing under Hannibal’s ribs as he watched Will walk away. He was so perplexed by this young man. 

He didn’t move to stop him, but his voice cut through the silence before Will could reach the door:  

"You always run when things get interesting." A pause—slow, deliberate. "Why is that?"

Will stopped at the door. He paused, feeling his heart tense.

"Because I don't want to get hurt." 

"Of course you don’t," Hannibal murmured. Will had always seen him as Public Enemy Number One.

But for now, Hannibal let silence stretch between them.

A moment more passed before he finally spoke again:  

"You may go." 

Will felt his heart sink at that. He turned to leave.

“I look forward to our next ‘session’, Will.” Hannibal’s voice called out as Will passed the doorframe.

“Don’t fucking count on it…” Will muttered under his breath as he walked down the hall. 

Hannibal watched from his office window as Will entered his Volvo and drove off. He knew when Will needed space, needed time to collect himself. 

But Will walked out

Something shifted within Hannibal’s mind.

After Will’s car disappeared around the corner, Hannibal let a scowl pull his lips as he crossed the room towards the liquor cabinet. Tonight, he would drink whiskey, something to remind him of how bitter Will Graham was—wanting to feel the bite.

The whiskey had long since stopped tasting like anything. Hannibal had moved past his usual restraint, past the polite pours. The crystal glass sat forgotten now, tipped sideways on the edge of the desk—he was drinking directly from the bottle.

His usual meticulous appearance had eroded around the edges—shirt half-unbuttoned, collar slightly askew, tie discarded. One cuff was still fastened; the other hung loose. He stared at it.

And he was angry.

Not a fury that exploded outward. No, this was something cold. Controlled. An anger that simmered. That curled in his chest like a pot boiling over, looking for a crack to escape.

Will had walked out.

Not stormed out in a righteous fury—not that Hannibal would have accepted that—but worse: 

Will had left quietly. Like someone closing a door on him abruptly. 

He hadn't expected that. He never liked being denied.

He stared across the room, eyes unfocused, seeing the space where Will had been hours ago—arms crossed, cheeks flushed, lips trembling around words he couldn’t—wouldn’t—say.

You’d be on your knees.

Yes. He had pushed too far. But Hannibal had wanted a reaction. A confession. A slip. Instead, he got... rejection.

His jaw tightened. Will didn’t deserve to control the board and refuse to play.

With sudden—totally not drunken—clarity, he reached for his phone.

Fingers unsteady—not just from alcohol, but from something much more volatile—he scrolled until he found her name.

Alana Bloom.  

He hit call.

It rang.

Thrice.

Then: “ Hannibal? ” Her voice was soft, slightly wary. “…It’s late.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Voice slightly slurred, “Forgive me, Alana. I didn’t realize the hour.” A lie, of course.

She was quiet for a moment, like she was assessing the subtle slur in his voice. “Are you drunk? Is something wrong?”

Hannibal let out a low, breathy chuckle. “Not wrong, no. Just… curious.”

“About?”

“Will.”

A pause. “What about him?”

“He came to see me today,” Hannibal murmured, swirling what little amber liquid remained in the bottom of the bottle. “He wanted to talk about you.”

“Me?”

“Mmh. More specifically… You and me.”

Alana said nothing.

“He was quite fixated on the idea of us being together,” Hannibal continued. “Pressed for details, even. It unsettled him.”

Alana exhaled, slowly. Measured. “Did you provoke him?”

“I didn’t have to.” Hannibal leaned back, head lolling against the chair. “He was already jealous.” He paused to take another swig, “I just thought you should know,”

“Hannibal. Will has been through a lot. You of all people should know that.”

“And yet,” Hannibal said, voice sharper, “it’s never stopped you from letting him orbit you like some pathetic, devoted moon.”

Alana’s voice hardened. “What exactly are you trying to accomplish with this call?”

He smiled to himself. Then the smile faded. What… was he trying to accomplish?

“He was jealous of us, Alana.”

He could hear her sigh, “Hannibal—”

“—There is no us. Remember?”

The silence stretched on. Then:

“You’re drunk, Hannibal. Go to bed.”

He chuckled, bitter, still holding the phone to his ear. “A clinical diagnosis? I suppose I should thank you.”

The call ended. She’d hung up.

He stared at the phone, then slowly lowered it.

…

His face scrunched up in displeasure.

Good.

Let her think. Let her wonder. Let her call Will.

Let him squirm.

Then he spotted it—the ridiculous, old, torn jacket of his. He must have left it when he ran off. Hannibal eased himself up, stumbled over to the chair Will had sat in, and fetched the jacket. He made his way back over to his chair.

It was worn, covered in dog hair… it smelled like Will. 

Hannibal sat down again, alone with the jacket and the echo of his own bitterness.

He would never admit how deeply Will’s departure had unsettled him.

But it had.

And someone had to pay for that.

The road home blurred beyond the windows of the Volvo. Will gripped the wheel tighter than he needed to, knuckles white, jaw clenched. The silence inside the car was heavy, suffocating, save for the low hum of the engine.

Oh, but his mind was loud, though. Loud with thoughts of him.

With Hannibal’s voice. His smile. That damn look in his eyes.

"If I wanted to manipulate you, Will, you wouldn’t be standing right now. You’d be on your knees."

Will let out a sharp, bitter breath through his nose and shake his head, trying to dislodge the words. His stomach turned. Not with disgust. Not entirely. That was the problem. He didn’t know what the hell he felt. He only knew it was too much.

The asphalt gave way to dirt and gravel as he pulled into his driveway. His house, small and isolated, sat in darkness. Just the way he liked it. He turned off the engine and let the silence settle.

Then, from inside, a chorus of eager barks erupted.

Will cracked a tired, genuine smile.

The dogs didn’t ask complicated questions. They didn’t look at him as if he were a puzzle to solve or a wound to press on. They just loved him. Simple. Pure.

He unlocked the door, and they greeted him with the same usual chaotic joy—tails wagging, paws scrambling, tongues lolling.

Winston pushed past the others to press his head into Will’s thigh.

“I missed you, too, buddy,” Will murmured, crouching down, fingers threading through fur. “Y’all are the only sane thing in my life, you know that?” He let his accent smooth back in, another thing Will Graham kept hidden.

He let them out, and while they roamed the yard, he stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching them under the wash of moonlight.

His phone buzzed on the counter behind him.

Will hesitated before picking it up. The screen glared up at him.

Hannibal Lecter: You left your jacket.

Will stared at the message.

Not “ Are you alright?” or “ Did you make it home safe?” just a cold, “You left your shit at my place.”

He locked the screen and tossed the phone back onto the counter like it had burned him.

But it buzzed again. He rolled his eyes and grabbed it, ready to tell him off…

But it wasn’t Hannibal.

It was Alana.

Alana Bloom: Why did you talk to Hannibal about me?

Will blinked at the message, as if reading it in a language he no longer understood.

His chest tightened.

He stepped back, slowly. The nausea was immediate. The walls felt too close. Like everything, he hated was closing in again—his shame, his weakness, the terrible, stupid part of himself that still wanted to be seen by Hannibal, understood by him.

Will’s grip on his phone tightened, fists clenched.

He stormed through the doorway and out into the dark, to the shed at the edge of the property. He yanked the door open, the dogs following behind him. Inside, the musty air reeked of old wood, motor oil, and the sharp scent of rusting tools.

Will looked down at the phone again, and two more messages popped up; he didn’t read them.

He told her. Of course he did.

With a snarl, Will lifted the phone and threw it against the wall. Once. Twice. The third time, it cracked in half like a bone snapping. He glared at it, panting, hands shaking. Shards of screen sparkled on the floor like broken ice. His dogs whined their concerns.

He stood there, breathing hard, teeth gritting.

Then… silence.

Will looked around the shed. The old cooler. The fishing rods. The camping gear. His eyes landed on his father’s duffel bag, tucked under the workbench. He hadn’t used it in years.

Thirty minutes was all he needed.

The duffel thumped onto the passenger seat. The dogs were already loaded in the back of the van, tails thumping, sensing the shift. Will threw in a box of dog food, two jugs of water, and a rolled-up sleeping bag.

He didn’t even check the house before locking the front door. Whatever he left behind, it didn’t matter.

He needed out.

He needed distance. Air. Silence. He needed to drive until the thoughts slowed down and the ache in his chest stopped feeling like a noose.

Home.

He hadn’t been back in years. But it was far. Remote. Forgotten.

That’s what he needed now—to be forgotten.

As he pulled out of the driveway, Will didn’t look back.

Not at the house.

Not at Baltimore

Not at Hannibal Lecter.

Chapter Text

The Following Week

When Jack Crawford first called asking if Hannibal had seen Will recently, Hannibal had expressed only a measured amount of concern—just enough to be polite.

“I saw him during our regular appointment last week,” Hannibal had said smoothly, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. “I assumed he needed space. He tends to brood when emotions run high.”

On the other end of the line, Jack exhaled, heavy and irritable. The sigh of a man who’d run out of leash for a wayward hound.  “He’s not answering his phone.”

Hannibal raised a brow. “That’s hardly unusual.”

“He’s not answering anyone’s phone calls.”

That gave him pause—briefly, deliciously. He let the silence stretch, just enough to imply thoughtfulness, then dismissed it with a flick of tone.

“I imagine he’s somewhere remote then, perhaps with the dogs. He finds solitude restorative. Camping, perhaps.” His voice remained calm. Reasonable. Dismissive.

Jack made a sound of agreement, but Hannibal could hear the edge in it—tight, restrained concern.

“Let me know if he reaches out,” Jack said.

“I will,” Hannibal promised, already moving on.

The Following day

By six-thirty, Hannibal had begun to feel irritated.

Will was late to their scheduled appointment.

At seven, Hannibal finally reached for his phone and dialed, expecting to hear that quiet, reluctant voice mumble something about car trouble or oversleeping.

Camping indeed.

But the phone rang nine times before Will’s voicemail answered:

"Hello, you’ve reached Will Graham. I’m either at the office or fishing. Drop a message."

A beat. Then the soft beep.

“Will,” Hannibal said, voice low and unbothered. “You’ve missed your appointment. I trust there’s a reason more pressing than your usual self-loathing. Call me.”

He hung up.

And told himself he was not waiting.

Two Days Later

There were now four voicemails.

No responses.

Hannibal does not like to be ignored. Not by patients. Not by friends. And certainly not by Will.

Still, he told himself, He needs time. He’s brooding. He’s punishing me.

That last part was almost charming.

The Fifth Day

He received a message from Alana.

Alana Bloom: Have you heard from Will yet? Jack called me twice today.

He didn’t respond immediately.

He spent a moment simply staring at the screen. Then, finally:

Not since last week.

Alana Bloom: He’s not home. The dogs are gone. It looks like he packed.

Something cold began to settle in his chest.

He called her.

“Did he speak to you at all? After our conversation last week?” he asked.

Alana sighed on the other end. “No. I thought he might confront me, but nothing happened. Not a word. Hannibal, if he were just taking a trip, he would have said something. It doesn’t feel like space. It feels like an escape.”

Hannibal’s expression darkened. “And what would he be escaping from?”

There was silence.

Then: “You, Hannibal. He’s probably escaping you.”

That Evening

Another call from Jack.

“Still no contact,” Jack said, voice sharp. “His house looks abandoned. Cell service goes straight to voicemail. Doesn’t matter because we found his phone smashed. He hasn’t used his credit card since he filled up his tank last week in Virginia. If he’s out there, Hannibal, he doesn’t want to be found.”

“I see,” Hannibal murmured. His reflection in the darkened window watched him with quiet disdain. A smashed phone-–Don’t call me, don’t come looking for me

“You’re sure he didn’t say anything to you?” Jack pressed.

“Will is often emotionally reactive,” Hannibal said smoothly. “He likely needs time. I wouldn’t recommend assuming the worst just yet.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Jack replied grimly. The line went dead.

Later

Hannibal stood in the center of his study, one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, the other holding a glass of wine he hadn’t touched in half an hour.

The last voicemail he’d left Will still rang in his ears.

“I miss our conversations.”

Pathetic.

He closed his eyes.

It was different this time. The space Will had carved out between them was more expansive. Colder. Less performative and more final.

Will hadn’t flinched and lingered like he usually did.

He had left.

Not just emotionally. Not metaphorically.

Physically. Deliberately. Gone.

And he hadn’t told anyone.

Not Jack. Not Alana.

Not even him.

Hannibal’s fingers tightened around the rim of the glass until it cracked softly beneath the pressure.

The sharp edge bit into his skin. A bead of blood welled up.

He didn’t notice.

He was staring at the shadows cast on the floor, the stillness pressing in around him like water rising slowly in a locked room.

Will Graham had vanished.

And for the first time in a very long time, Hannibal Lecter felt something dangerously close to being left behind. 

Again.

Two weeks later.

Will was not back.

No one had seen hide nor hair of Will Graham.

And Hannibal Lecter, ever the refined predator, was now hunting.

Jack Crawford had filed the missing persons report—reluctantly. Not because he didn’t care, but because he suspected as much; Will didn’t want to be found. If a man does not wish to have someone follow, Jack knew the odds were slim to none.

Jack knew the rhythms of a man running from himself, knew that sometimes vanishing was less crime than cure. If Will wanted silence, then silence was what he would get; he had the leave time. The Bureau would keep an eye out, but no more.

But Hannibal disagreed.

Will Graham was not the sort of man who disappeared without leaving a thread. Not to him.

Hannibal had cultivated an intimacy with Will’s mind; he knew its turns, its evasions, the way it sought hiding places. And he knew that Will had to have left something behind. He always did.

He hasn’t returned to the lecture hall in weeks. His office door was still locked. No notes left for his students. No email updates. Nothing but a dry-erase board with the word “empathy” still faintly visible through a smudge of half-erased chalk dust.

He wasn’t at the agency, either. Price had smugly told Zeller, in Hannibal’s presence, that he’d put $20 down on “Will being chopped up in a river somewhere.”

Hannibal’s gaze darkened.

Zeller, slightly uncomfortable, offered a half-hearted, “...Or maybe he’s just finally taking a vacation.”

The jokes didn’t amuse Hannibal. Not anymore.

That Jacket… that damn ridiculous jacket.

He found it in the back seat, which had fallen to the floor and nearly blended in with the upholstery while setting down a parcel of groceries. A careless thing, forgotten in the rush of departure. He lifted it to his nose and gently inhaled.

It struck him harder than he expected.

The scent lingered faintly: wet dog, lake water, the ghost of soap. The cuffs were worn soft from Will’s nervous fingers. Hannibal traced them with surgical precision, examining them like a relic.

An object lesson. Will was here. Will is not now.

For a long moment, he considered carrying it into the house, draping it over a chair and letting it haunt him properly.

He did not.

He folded it carefully, laid it back on the seat, and shut the door.

But the memory of it stayed beneath his ribs like a shard of bone.

The Fourth Day - Two Weeks since Will’s disappearance.

The clock on the wall ticked with irritating precision. Hannibal sat poised in his chair, immaculate as ever, legs crossed neatly at the knee. Across from him, Franklyn leaned forward, his voice already spilling into the room with that familiar blend of eager and insecure blabber..

“…and I’ve been trying this meditation thing, you know? I read that mindfulness helps with intrusive thoughts, but all it really did was make me more aware of the intrusive thoughts. It’s like trying not to think about the lion, but suddenly it’s in the room. Do you ever get that, Dr. Lecter?”

Franklyn’s hands flapped in emphasis, his nervous energy diffusing into the air like static. It vaguely reminded Hannibal of Will… he always talked with his hands, always dramatic in how he gestures and speaks.

Hannibal tried not to think about how much he missed seeing those hands.

Hannibal’s gaze, however, had slipped past Franklyn—past the animated gesturing and the nervous chuckles.

Will’s jacket. Folded on the arm of the chair in his study. The faint scent of him still clings. That stubborn ache of absence gnawed in Hannibal’s chest again, as insistent as hunger. He wondered where Will was at this exact moment—if he was eating, sleeping… thinking of him at all.

“…but I’m not sure if it’s working. My friends say I’m more… intense? Like I’ve been calling them too much. Tobias actually said I was smothering… That’s not good, right?”

Hannibal’s gaze refocused with effort. He dipped his head in acknowledgment, his voice smooth but distant. “What do you think it means when someone describes you as smothering, Franklyn?”

Franklyn blinked, startled at being redirected so neatly. “Uh… maybe I just care too much? I mean, I want to be… present, you know? For people. I don’t want to be left behind.”

The words snagged onto Hannibal. He felt the faintest twitch in his jaw before it stilled again. Left behind. The phrase echoed far too closely.

Will had left him. Quietly. Deliberately. Without even the courtesy of goodbye.

Franklyn was still talking, a nervous laugh bubbling up. “It’s like, if I don’t reach out, what if nobody ever reaches back? What if I just… disappear, you know? That’s, like, my biggest fear.”

Hannibal’s gaze sharpened at last, not on Franklyn, but through him. “Disappearance,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Yes. It is… a kind of death, is it not? To be gone from the lives of others. To be erased without a trace.”

Franklyn blinked, wide-eyed. “Uh… yeah? I guess it is.”

The session dragged on. Hannibal’s mind was elsewhere, back home, back in his study, with the jacket.

Later That Night

The fire had burned low, leaving the study cloaked in amber shadow.

Hannibal sat in his chair with Will’s jacket draped across his lap, fingers curled into the fabric as though it might stir beneath his touch. It smelled faintly of Will’s dogs and of soap that barely masked the musk of long hours spent outdoors.

More than anything, it smelled of the absence of a man who had been here once before and was now, infuriatingly, nowhere.

Hannibal’s head tipped back against the leather chair. His glass of wine sat untouched on the side table, its surface still and dark.

He had not intended to keep the jacket near him, let alone bring it inside, but it had followed him like a stray, refusing to be left behind, neglected in the car where he had first found it.

Folding it neatly had offered no relief. Lying it across the back of a chair only sharpened the hollow ache in his chest. Finally, when he gave in and gathered it close, the quiet resistance of the fabric against his palm calmed something feral gnawing at him.

The hours bled together, the fire sinking into a bed of embers. Hannibal’s eyelids grew heavy, his sharpness dulled by the stillness of the house. He drew the jacket closer to his chest, like a blanket draped against him, and allowed his breathing to steady.

Sleep came for him in increments, pulling him under like tidewater. His grip never loosened. Even in dreams, the jacket was there, weight across his chest, the ghost of Will Graham’s shape pressed faintly against him. He drifted and dreamed..

Footsteps outside the door, dogs shifting against the floorboards, a quiet, reluctant voice murmuring his name as though it belonged only to him.

He kept trying to walk towards that voice, a monster wading through tall grass and water, hunting, chasing… following.

Those soft hands on his face, not afraid. Holding him as if he were born for it.

A slow, steady heartbeat, fluttering in his hands.

When dawn slinked in through the curtains, Hannibal woke with the jacket twisted in his arms, his cheek pressed against the worn collar. For a long moment, he lay still, and the ridiculous scent of Will still lingered on his skin.
As if the man had not left at all.

And then, with the first bitter taste of morning in his mouth, Hannibal realized it was not comfort he had found in sleep, but hunger sharpened by longing.

2:27 P.M. Same Day - Wolf Trap

The fourth visit to Will’s home was different. Hannibal didn’t linger in his car as before. He stepped out, deliberate, as though the house had summoned him. He told himself he was just here to return Will’s jacket. Nothing more.

The Volvo was still missing from the driveway,

The azaleas were wilting now, neglected in the August heat. The red garden gnome stood watch beside them, grinning idiotically up at Hannibal. Who’s the bigger fool?

Hannibal glared down at it.

The one still guarding the spare key.

Hannibal crouched, retrieved it, and unlocked the front door with a soft click.

He stepped into a quiet that felt abandoned, not simply uninhabited. The air inside was stale, faintly scented with the odors of dog fur, old coffee, and the earthy aroma of wet wood.

Hannibal placed the jacket down on the couch and turned to leave, before curiosity got him. He moved room by room, his steps deliberate.

A mug sat long, cold, and gathering mold, still on the kitchen counter.

A dusty, forgotten dog bowl, the other six missing.

A shirt draped over the back of a chair, sleeves crumpled as if Will had peeled it off in a moment of haste. Hannibal was trying to piece together Will’s last moments spent here.

In the bathroom, the faint trace of Will’s aftershave lingered—sandalwood cut with something sharper. Hannibal breathed it in, eyes closed, resisting the animal tug of panic rising beneath his ribs. He disciplined himself into stillness, yet the concern gnawed.

Don't panic. No.

He did not panic.

At the dining table, something glinting in the light caught his eye: an overturned ashtray—cigarette stubs, crushed and bitter. Will had said he smoked only when the world pressed too hard against him. Hannibal straightened the ashtray with precision, then noticed the corner of paper beneath it.

He drew it out carefully, holding it between gloved fingers. A scrap torn from a notepad, pencil marks hurried and uneven.

It was blank save for some indentations from an angry pencil dragging across the paper above. Hannibal picked up the ashtray and sprinkled ash onto the paper, dusted it, and soon enough, he could see what the pencil scratches wrote out.

Boudrot & Sons Fishing Supply – Port Sulphur, Louisiana.

The words were meaningless to most. But not to Hannibal. His mind, always cataloguing, summoned old notes—meticulous files he had kept on Will.

He retrieved the leather folio from his coat pocket and paged through his entries. Observations made over months: fragments of memory, stray remarks Will had dropped during late-night conversations.

He skimmed his notes, past sketches of Will and his dogs. Found the note about his father, summer nights, marshlands, lakes, the Bayou…

“People in Sulphur thought I was odd; they were right.”

Sulphur. He meant Port Sulphur. Louisiana.

The pieces aligned.

That was where Will was from.

He went back home.

Hannibal folded the scrap of paper with care and tucked it into his breast pocket. He let the conclusion settle. Will had fled home to the place that shaped him, to the soil that raised him.

He stood in the kitchen, letting the revelation sink into him. This was no mere sabbatical. Will had severed ties, taken his loyal pack and his house,  abandoned; his phone was smashed.

It was a retreat, yes, but more—an erasure.

Hannibal rested a hand on the back of a dining chair. He had not intended to follow, had told himself he would grant Will distance, let him stew in his own absence until the silence became unbearable. He had expected Will to crawl back in his own time.

But now?

Now it was personal.

It was no longer about control or pride. This was about Will—about the gnawing pull in Hannibal’s chest that had grown into something far more dangerous than fascination.

He moved to the front door with purpose, mind already calculating drive time, accommodations, and what would be required for a journey South. His reflection in the glass caught the faint curl of his lips—an amusement he did not bother to suppress.

His boy had run.

And Hannibal Lecter—gentleman, doctor, hunter—would bring him home.

Current Day – 7:43 p.m.

Graham homestead—Somewhere on the outskirts of Port Sulphur, Louisiana.

The mud clinging to Will’s boots was the satisfying kind—earned, not accidental. He trudged up to his childhood home, swiping a smear of grease from his cheek with the back of his wrist. The dogs surged forward to greet him, barking and nipping at his boots, tongues lolling.

He laughed, low and genuine, tossing an old tennis ball into the overgrown yard. They scattered like buckshot.

On the porch, an older man sat in an aged rocking chair, worn from years of use. He was nursing a beer and a tobacco pipe, the smoke curling up toward the cypress trees like a fading prayer.

“Ya get the damn thing to work?” The man asked gruffly, without looking up.

“Yup,” Will said, stretching his back with a wince. “Crabs beware. Beau’s boat lives again.”

Beau Graham grunted something that might’ve been approval, and reached into the cooler beside him, offering Will a bottle without ceremony. Will took it and dropped into the rocking chair next to him with a deep sigh, legs already sore.

It was one of those rare, soft Southern evenings: the air warm and dense, fireflies flickering lazily in the blue-green lazy dusk, the insects already starting their nightly chorus. The Bayou was settling in. And so was Will.

He took a long drink of beer and sighed deeply, letting his bones sink into the rhythm of home. No lectures. No murder cases. No Baltimore.

Just peace.

Until the buzz in his pocket shattered it.

Will frowned. He hadn’t given this number to anyone except Beau.

He flipped it open.

One message.

Unknown Number.

“Enjoying Louisiana, Will?”

Will’s heart plummeted to his stomach. He knew immediately who it was.

He stood up slowly, the beer suddenly forgotten, and muttered, “Gotta check the dogs,” before walking off the porch. He didn’t want his father to ask questions. Thankfully, Beau was busy with his pipe. Only Buster followed after him; the rest of his pack was lazing in the setting sun.

Will kicked off his boots and made his way to the back deck, past the shed, and settled into the hammock that hung between two oaks, just by the marshwater—not close enough to get snatched by whatever lurked beneath.

The ropes creaked as the hammock swayed gently with him.

He stared at the message. Then typed back, fingers stiff.

“How the fuck did you get this number?”

The reply was fast. Too fast.

“You left crumbs. I followed them.”

Will’s jaw tensed. He felt the sting behind his eyes—the mixture of fury and something far worse: longing.

“Lose this number.”

“Now, why would I do that?”

Of course.

That smug, arrogant cruelty, the one that lived behind every word Hannibal ever said.

Will nearly blocked him right then and there. Until another message came.

“Will, wait, please.”

Will watched as the little bubble dotted along.

“I am very ashamed of what I did. I was incredibly drunk, and while that is no excuse, I acted with poor judgment and I pushed too hard.”

Another buzz.

“I am so very sorry, Will.”

Will stared at the words, his thumb hovering over the screen. Hannibal Lecter doesn't apologize.

Not really.

But this… this was the closest he’d ever seen.

The hurt—still raw, still burning from Baltimore—swelled in his chest again.

The betrayal of that night. The mockery. The humiliation.

Still, Will’s thumb moved again—stopped short when one final message appeared.

“May I call?”

He didn’t answer.

Not with words.

Instead, he hit the call button.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then: click.

Nothing but silence, but Will could tell he was on speaker in the Bentley.

No breath. No hello. No manipulation.

Just stillness.

Then Will broke it.

“…Hi.”

A long exhale sounded from the receiver… relief?

“ Good afternoon, Will, ” Hannibal said, his voice quieter than Will remembered. Tired.

Will swallowed.

“Why did you want to call?”

He watched the marsh before him—egrets flapping off toward the treeline. The first bats are dipping and diving in the humid dusk, now turning amber.

“To hear your voice,” Hannibal murmured, “—and to inform you that I have missed you dearly.”

Will closed his eyes.

Of all the things Hannibal could have said, that hurt the most because part of him wanted to hear it. Needed to listen to it.

“…I miss you too,” he said before he could stop himself.

A long silence followed.

Then he added, more quietly:

“You told Alana…”

He didn’t finish.

Didn’t have to.

There was another silence—one that told him Hannibal understood precisely what he meant.

“I want to apologize in person,” came the eventual reply. Hannibal's voice was rougher now, no longer gliding effortlessly.

“I…” Will hesitated. His fingers dug into the hammock’s rope. He felt the prick of tears well up, damnit.

“I wish you could….” 

He didn’t realize how soft he sounded. How broken.

Hannibal must have heard it. There was a pause. Will could hear him roll over a bump in the road.

“I would be more than happy to,” Hannibal replied.

Another beat.

“You left for your Father's home, correct? It's a beautiful piece of property."

Will’s brow furrowed.

That was a strange thing to say.

Too precise.

“…How do you—”

Then the silence shifted again.

And Hannibal said, in a perfectly calm voice, perfectly measured:

“I’ll be there shortly.”

The call ended.

Just like that.

Will sat there, motionless, phone still pressed to his ear.

The dogs were barking faintly in the distance, but the sound felt miles away.

He slowly lowered the phone into his lap.

And whispered, to no one in particular:

“Well, shit.”

Chapter Text

Will froze with the realization that Hannibal Lecter was heading Southbound.

He had at least a few hours—a whole plane trip — to think of what to say when he arrived.

"I'm sorry?"
 "I overreacted?"
  "I needed space?"

He groaned quietly and dragged his hands down his face, feeling the soft tug of sunburn and grime on his skin. His blush crept up in full force—equal parts embarrassment and panic. Dr. Lecter was going to travel all the way out here just to apologize.

Why was everything so damn complicated with Hannibal Le—

The low purr of a high-end engine cut across the quiet hum of the cicadas.

Will's stomach twisted.

Speak of the devil.

Will watched in horror as a long, sleek, jet black Bentley turned off the gravel road and rolled into the dirt driveway lazily before parking on the grass between the Volvo and Beau’s trucks—like it fucking belonged there.

Will’s stomach turned over.

Panic rose in his throat like bile.

No. No, no, not now. Not like this.

He sank deeper into the hammock, tugging the loose netting a little more over his face like that could hide him. Maybe if he kept still, Hannibal would think he wasn’t home. Perhaps he’d just leave.

Or better yet—

Maybe Dad would handle it.

Beau Graham hated strangers—especially fancy ones.

Will held his breath.

Go, Beau Graham. Sic him!

Beau Graham noticed the gleam of polished metal long before the car came to a complete stop beside his old Chevy truck. His brows immediately furrowed, though he did not immediately get up, maybe a lost salesman trying to turn around.

The machine purred, too fine for his dirt drive, too careful as it rolled to a halt, like it was afraid of dust. Beau leaned forward in his chair on the porch, pipe stem caught between his teeth, and squinted through the haze of late-afternoon sun.

Then Bentley’s engine hummed to a stop.

Beau rose to his feet, joints stiff but sure, and finished the last of his beer in one swig. The bottle hit the porch rail with a loud clink, enough to finally stir the dogs as he stepped down, boots thudding hard against the wood. His eyes never left the vehicle.

He watched as Will’s pack did its job for him, bolting after the car; he smirked, then it faded.

They weren’t barking at all.

They were whining..

A tall man emerged, the kind that didn’t belong in this part of Louisiana. Linen shirt and canvas shorts, clean and white as bone, not a drop of sweat on him despite the heat. Sunglasses perched neatly on his head, shoes that had never seen mud.

The dogs rushed him, greeting him, and the man smiled down at them as if he knew them.

He watched as the man tried to step past the chaos of yipping, tail-wagging, sniffing fun the dogs were having, seeing one of their favorite people again, especially since it was the one who brought those same homemade sausages with him those tratorous hounds were gnawing on.

Beau’s lip curled around the pipe. Who the hell pulls up to a man’s property, parks like he owns the damn place, and starts feedin’ the dogs treats? He’d seen plenty of city men come through, selling this or preaching that, and none of them had reason to pull up uninvited at his house, sure as shit not to feed the damn dogs.

No, something about this man reads stranger than the word.

The stranger straightened, unhurried, smoothing the crease of his shirt front. He looked over the house, over the porch, over Beau himself—not with the sneer Beau expected, but with something softer, like a man admiring a painting.

That put Beau more on edge.

“Evenin’,” Beau said, voice low, shoulders squared. “You lost, mister?”

The man smiled as if he’d been expected, and stepped closer, like he’d been here a hundred times.

“Not at all.” His voice carried a kind of ease that grated against Beau’s rightful apprehension.. “Dr. Hannibal Lecter.” He said, extending a hand.

Beau didn’t take the hand right away when it was offered. He let the silence stretch, chewing on the pipe stem, eyes locked on the stranger’s face. Finally, he clasped it—rough, strong, and deliberate. The doctor’s handshake was firm, measured, and practiced. Too practiced.

“Beau Graham,” he said flatly. “And this is my land. You mind explainin’ what business you got, showin’ up here?” Beau may be shorter than Hannibal—taller than Will by far—but he was brawny. Squared up and wasn’t afraid of running off some posh doctor.

“I apologize for the unexpected intrusion, but I was hoping to have a word with your son, William.” Lecter’s lips curved politely as he spoke. Not even fazed in the slightest.

“That so?” He eyed the Bentley parked on his grass, then looked back at Lecter. “He in trouble or somethin’? Cause I sure as hell don’t recall him knowing any doctor.”

Hannibal’s lips curled ever so slightly. “Not at all, Mr. Graham.”

“Funny thing,” Beau said, squinting. “Stranger shows up in a fancy car, no phone call, dressin’ like a catalogue model, askin’ after my boy, usin’ his whole name. Sounds a little funny, doncha’ think, Doc? And you think, what? I’m just gonna point you in his direction?”

Lecter didn’t flinch.

He tilted his head, gaze flicking past Beau to the clapboard siding, the porch swing, the heavy oaks that arched overhead. “I must say, you have a beautiful home. You’ve kept it well. It has character. Few places still do.”

Beau narrowed his eyes. Fancy pants is a smooth talker as well, even worse. Compliments from strangers were cheap, and this one was buttering him thick.

“Damn sure didn’t ask you for an appraisal.” He folded his arms, “How do you know my son? You work with the Bureau?”

Hannibal met his stare without a blink. But he was amused; Will must have inherited his temperament from his father. “I work closely with the agency, yes.” Smooth. Noncommittal.

“Mn-hm. Yet boys from the Bureau don’t dress like you, nor even smell like you. So let’s cut the shit. Why are you really here?”

For the first time, Hannibal’s smile faltered—softer at the edges, less amused now. Even his tone dropped slightly. “I assure you, Mr. Graham. I am simply a friend of Will’s.”

Beau was about to snort when Winston whined again and jumped up towards Hannibal.

Hannibal gently caught Winston and led him back down, crouching to his level and petting his head and genuinely smiling at him. “Ah, ah. Rules. No jumping. Your ridiculous owner may allow it, but not I.”

Beau watched with surprise. The dogs seemed to know him, seemed to like him well enough, but he also gave them damn sausages when he got out of the car, so that proves nothing.

“What’s that dog’s name?” Beau asked, voice flat.

“Winston. And that’s Jack and Max. That’s Zoe and Harley chasing each other, Ellie is by the tree, and… where’s Buster?” Hannibal looked around but couldn’t see the little terror anywhere.

Beau stared at him for a long while, the adrenaline subsiding. He knew the dogs, the dogs knew him… maybe he was a friend of Will’s? He exhaled smoke out of his nose in a sigh.

He’d probably catch hell if Will found out he chased off one of his friends.

“Probably out back with my boy.” He muttered. Hannibal looked up at him,

“Well, get on.” Beau gestured towards the backyard.”You do anything to my boy, and I'll run yer ass off my property, don’t matter who you are.” Beau grunted as he walked back up to the porch.

Hannibal blinked, and as puzzled as he was, he stood and began to make his way to the backyard.

Beau watched him slink off like a wolf. 

Hannibal approached the backyard, the pack of dogs in tow, lolling tongues and panting. He started scanning it for signs of life.

He spotted a boat by an old but sturdy-looking dock, and a brown shed that had statues and various projects of metalwork. Beau must be some kind of welder on the side. And has an eye for detail; there was a statue of a fish splashing out of water using hex bolt heads for the scales.

The home was more than just charming; it was truly exceptional. Hannibal is always honest, if only stretching the truth. When he said the home was beautiful and well-kept, he meant it. The house was built with love and care in mind—it was expertly designed. There was a full-screened porch surrounding the wooden home; it was two-storied and built upon a solid foundation made to weather any storm. It was a charming cabin escape.

He followed the pack as they sniffed around the backyard, searching for their owner.

As Hannibal neared the dock, he caught the whiff of that absurd but familiar aftershave and smiled. He looked over to find Buster lying down under a distended hammock.

Be still, his beating heart.

There’s the fugitive.

Will heard the approaching footsteps through the grass, soft and deliberate. Like a hunter finally closing in on his quarry. 

The dogs—his traitorous, loving, protective mutts—didn’t bark.

They whined and excitedly yipped.

They knew who it was, and it was as if they were saying, Look who it is!

He didn’t need to look. Every nerve in his body had already recognized the weight of that presence, the cadence of those steps. But still, against better judgment, he turned his head.

Hannibal Lecter emerged into view, looming over the hammock to stare down at Will, framed by the swaying moss and dappled light of the trees beyond. He stood tall and immaculate—a stark contrast to Will’s greasy shirt and face.

Maroon eyes meet grey.

For a suspended beat, Will felt the old pull—revulsion tangled up with something else, something treacherous and magnetic. He swallowed, embarrassment flooding him and heat rising.

"Hello, Will."

The voice curled like smoke around his name. Too soft to be casual. Too intimate.

The dogs began to crowd them, but Hannibal barely spared them a glance. His attention was fixed solely on the man entangled in his little getaway plan.

"You left without saying goodbye,” He let the words hang there for a moment before adding, “That was incredibly rude."

Will breathed out. He felt the tension building.

"And you stalked me..."

He wetted his dry lips. 

"Equally rude."

Hannibal's lips curled into a half-smile. "Touché," he murmured. "Though I prefer... investigating. It's far less sinister-sounding."  

Hannibal crouched beside the hammock now, actually knelt in the grass.

His elbows rested gently along its frame, looking at Will as if he were a piece of art he’d studied before—but never fully understood.

“How’d you get the address?” Will asked, eyes fixated on Hannibal’s, he did look tired.

"I ran into the store your father goes to for fishing supplies and may have stolen a glance at a ledger..." Hannibal admitted dryly.

Will balked, "So you did stalk me!"

"You haven’t been sleeping," Hannibal murmured, brushing past the accusation. Not a question. A truth.

Will blinked.

He hadn’t expected that kind of tenderness. Not now. Not after everything.

He wanted to say, 'Neither have you.'

“You drove here?” Will asked.

“Mnhm.” Hannibal hummed lazily as he settled in, as if it wasn’t ridiculous and wild.

“Why didn’t you take a plane?”

“I needed time to think.” He paused. “And because that’s what you did, I wanted to pretend to be Will Graham on the run.”

Will huffed at that.

“Have you found more nightmares here, Will?” Hannibal continued, voice sounding dangerously close to concern.

“No,” Will quietly deflected. He had been having more than a few restless nights. But mostly, “I’ve found peace here.”

Hannibal glanced around. The Bayou was not his ideal vacation destination. Despite the bugs, alligators, snakes, and humidity, it had its charm. He can imagine Will’s childhood spent here. Can see him braving these wilds like a second home. 

After some time spent in the cooling, quiet afternoon light, Hannibal spoke;

“You need to come home,” Hannibal stated, not firmly, but not requesting a debate either. 

Will shook his head. Bitterness swelling up in him. 

“Don’t wanna… Nothing there for me. Here I have family and work that I can do that doesn't give me nightmares.” Will spoke plainly as he stared out at the Bayou. He was mainly lying, talking to hurt. He was still upset. He'd go back, but on his terms.

Nothing there… Those words hurt.

When Hannibal spoke again, his voice sounded a bit broken, as if he were fighting between anger and stoicism. 

“And I suppose your students, your colleagues, your friends were nothing?” His voice was a bit too sharp when he added, “That I was nothing?”

Hannibal’s eyes fixed on him, dark and unflinching. His fingers flexed against the hammock’s rope, not quite touching.

“To me, it was not ‘nothing’. It has never been ‘nothing’.” He spoke softer now, his voice faltering, “Will, I am sorry I pushed you away, but I have never thought of our relationship as ‘nothing’. To me, it was everything… did you not feel the same?”

The air felt thick, weighted with Hannibal’s words, and for a moment all Will could do was stare up at him—God, he looked tired.

“Of course I felt it.”

His eyes darted away immediately, betraying the confession as soon as it left his mouth. He rubbed a hand over his face, as though he could scrub away the heat crawling up his neck.

“I wouldn’t… be sittin’ here, talking to you, if I didn’t.”

Will’s hand dropped, his expression tightening as he looked back at Hannibal. There was frustration there.

“But you—” He exhaled sharply and locked eyes with Hannibal. “You come on so damn strong. You play these games, you twist words until I don’t even know if I’m answering you honestly or playing a mind game.” His voice cracked slightly, a rare fracture in his guarded tone. “You make it so hard to trust what’s real. Hard to trust you.”

He stared at Hannibal for a moment, watching him absorb his words. He softened when he realized Hannibal had given him the floor completely; it was Will’s turn to talk.

“I left you because I couldn’t breathe around you. Because every time you looked at me like that, I—” He faltered, swallowed, forced himself to keep going. “I felt too much. And I didn’t know if any of it was mine, or just… something you put there. Something you wanted me to feel.”

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the faint rustle of leaves and cicadas singing. Will’s voice, when it finally returned, was quieter, barely above a whisper.

“You’re right, it wasn’t ‘nothing’. It was everything.”

All there was was heat and silence, the kind that hummed just under your skin—made you aware of every inch of your body.

Will shifted in the hammock. He rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable, his eyes turning back to the water.

“Baltimore… the Bureau… every time I set foot there, I’m swallowed whole. It takes pieces out of me that I don’t get back. But here? Here, I can breathe.”

Hannibal remained kneeling beside him, hands lightly folded on the hammock’s edge. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but Will could sense something tighter underneath, a coil of tension hidden beneath the calm. Hannibal’s eyes—always patient, always watchful—stayed fixed on him, and that weight made the words harder to speak.

“I felt like…” Will’s voice broke low, almost lost in the hum of cicadas. “…the only one who cared anymore was my father.”

The words slipped out, softer than he intended, and Hannibal blinked.

“You went to your father?” he asked, tone almost clinical.

“Well, I couldn’t go to my therapist!” Will shot back.

Hannibal’s brow creased. He huffed a humorless laugh.

“You’re father?” He repeated, “Does your father know you sleep with a knife under your pillow? Or that you double-check the door latches before going to bed? That you’re still afraid of storms and use a weighted blanket to help decompress?” Hannibal paused, tone softening but no less harsh.

“Or, like everyone else in your life, does he only see what you allow him to see?” That came out bitter.

Will’s throat worked. He swallowed hard, but his eyes didn’t leave the dark water beyond the trees. Out there, alligators slid under the algae in silent, predatory arcs. 

Safer to look at them than Hannibal.

“He doesn’t need to know those things,” Will muttered, voice steady but tight, as if pulled taut like a wire. “No one does.”

Something shifted in Hannibal’s expression. For the first time in longer than Will could remember, the mask slipped off Hannibal Lecter’s face.

Habbibal’s face scrunched as he seized the hammock suddenly, giving it a jerk, not enough to throw Will out, but enough to jar him so Will had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“And yet I do,” Hannibal said, the words cutting deep, raw in their honesty. A beat. Then softer, quieter: “I care about knowing these things, Will.”

Will’s eyes flicked up, startled. For a heartbeat, he could not find a reply.

Hannibal filled the silence instead. His voice trembled on its edge, mask slipping further, and he let it fall. “I came looking. I was—” He exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. “I was scared. You vanished without a trace. I didn’t know if I would find you here, or not at all.”

Will searched his face for deception, but there was none. What he found instead softened his own features.

“I didn’t realize you would be scared,” Will murmured, almost guilty.

Hannibal closed his eyes, sighed, then opened them again to damn near glare at him with something like disbelief. “You, beautifully dense boy. You have no idea.”

A pause, longer this time, his features softened. Hannibal leaned in. “I came to apologize.”

The words fell between them, stretching the silence until the croaks of distant frogs began to fill the void.

“You drove seventeen hours to apologize…”

“More like fifteen, I may have rushed.”

Will barked a laugh, “You broke traffic laws?”

All Hannibal did in response was smile. Will was in disbelief. But… he was still mad, upset about what Hannibal did. The silence came back, lighter now.

“You made me feel small,” Will said at last. “Like a joke. And you told Alana—”

“I was drunk,” Hannibal interrupted gently, his tone quieter than Will expected. “And angry. A rare and dangerous combination, even for me. It was… unforgivable.”

“You just said you came to apologize.”

“I did,” Hannibal admitted. “I never said you had to forgive me.”

Will studied him now with intent. Hannibal was still sharp, still beautiful in that strange, terrifying way—but he was not the immaculately controlled man Will knew. His clothes looked rumpled, he looked drained, and now a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, whether from the Louisiana heat or the restless drive, Will couldn’t say. But for once, Hannibal Lecter looked almost human.

And Will realized—he was capable of feeling guilt. Shame. Regret. Rare companions for a man like him.

Will’s voice softened. “It was wrong of you. What you did… it cut deep. I was upset, and you made it worse. You aimed to hurt us both.”

Hannibal’s jaw tightened. “I was jealous.”

Will blinked at him. “ You were jealous? Why?”

Hannibal’s eyes lingered on him, weighing truth against silence, before he chose honesty.

“Because she was once so easily the object of your desires,” he said. “And I… cannot make my moves without risking driving you away. I fail, again and again, to read you properly. I misstep.” 

He relaxed his hold on the hammock.

“And the way I express what I feel may be… intense.” His voice faltered briefly.

Will huffed a short laugh. “You think?”

Hannibal’s lips tugged into a faint smile. “I was under the impression you enjoyed our sparring. I miscalculated.”

Will tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, caught between amusement and something softer.

“I didn’t hate it,” he admitted with a shrug, voice low, as if pulling the words from a place he hadn’t meant to share. “It just… it was too much. Too fast. You come at me like a storm, Hannibal. Half the time, I couldn’t tell if you were serious or if I was just another one of your mind games.”

Hannibal’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t interrupt. He let Will’s words settle like sediment, listening.

Will exhaled sharply, betraying the nerves he tried to mask. “I wasn’t put off. Not really. I just… I didn’t know where the line was. Between us. If there even was one. And when you blurred it, I panicked! I didn’t know what you wanted me to be to you… I still don’t.”

Something unreadable flickered across Hannibal’s face, then softened. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter than Will had expected.

“I have not courted anyone in earnest for a very long time. At least, not for reasons as… personal as these. My interactions and affections are typically calculated and transactional. But with you, Will…” He trailed off, searching for precision. “I stumble like a newborn fawn. I am… out of practice. And yet, I do not regret the clumsiness.”

Will’s brow furrowed as he studied him, as if testing the weight of that confession. “Out of practice? That’s one way to put it. You’ve been… relentless.”

A smile ghosted across Hannibal’s lips, wry and almost self-mocking. “Yes. Relentless. Overzealous, even. But I'm hardly disinterested.” His eyes locked with Will’s, heavy, unblinking. “You never left me indifferent.”

Will felt a smile tug on his lips, and he exhaled through his nose again. Sharper, that might have been a laugh if not for the tension still clinging to it. He looked away, shaking his head, then forced himself to meet Hannibal’s gaze again. His voice lost its edge and was softer.

“I liked it. The way you… flirted. Teased and pushed me. Even when it pissed me off, I—” He cut himself off, running a hand over his jaw. “I liked the attention. I liked knowing you wanted me. Not her. Not anyone else. Me.”

The admission hung between them like humidity in the air, impossible to ignore. Will swallowed hard, then added, quieter, “I just didn’t know if I was allowed to want it back.”

Hannibal’s expression shifted, softened, something close to tenderness threading through the hunger in his eyes. He leaned closer, the hammock creaking in protest under his weight.

“You were always allowed,” he murmured. “You simply needed to claim it.”

The sun dipped lower, bleeding gold and red across the river.

Will leaned back, rubbed a hand over his face to hide his blush, and muttered, “You seriously didn’t have to come all the way out here just to apologize. Fifteen fucking hours…”

“I thought the situation deserved a personal apology, and also because I wanted to see you,” Hannibal replied, that same smile gracing his dumb face. 

Will groaned, dragging both hands over his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Yet here I am.”

That, despite himself, pulled a smile from Will. “Here you are.”

Hannibal’s hand rose slowly, deliberately, until he cupped Will’s jaw. His boy didn’t flinch; he shivered. Hannibal felt exhilarated.

His thumb brushed just beneath Will’s lips—not to silence—never to silence Will—but to angle his face toward the dimming light sifting through the cypress trees.

“Tch,” Hannibal murmured, studying him with actual tenderness. “Look how thin you’ve gotten.” His thumb lingered, brushing once under Will’s lower lip, clinical in gesture but too tender to be detached.

Will rolled his eyes, “Ass.”

Hannibal ignored the remark; his gaze fell to the shadows beneath Will’s eyes. “Tell me. What dream woke you last night?”

He asked it knowingly. A faint smirk graced him.

Will shivered again despite the thick Louisiana heat. Because Hannibal smelled of smoke and wood in a place where men ought to smell of sweat and brine, he was close, too close, and unbearably gentle. Because he missed him, missed this.

For a long moment, Will said nothing. Then, voice dry, he admitted, “I dreamt of you.”

Hannibal exhaled, something dangerously like satisfaction slipping through, though his fingers at Will’s jaw trembled faintly.

“Ahh,” he breathed, almost fond. “So we are sharing dreams now. How intimate .”

Back inside, Beau Graham dropped an iron skillet loudly onto the stovetop while whistling off-key melodies.

Neither man flinched.

The distant clang of the skillet faded into the hum of the frogs and crickets. Hannibal's hand remained cool against Will's feverish skin, a paradox in the still warm bayou air. He lowered it to the nape of his neck, and his thumb began tracing lazy absent circles near Will’s pulse point—doctor’s habit, counting beats? 

Will swallowed dryly. “Dreaming about you isn’t intimacy, Doctor.”

“Isn’t it? ” Hannibal tilted his head just so; afternoon light caught the red in his maroon eyes—dried-blood elegant against ivory whites (always pristine no matter how deep into mud he waded). “Some believe shared dreams are threads between souls... Or do you feel haunted?”  

Hannibal smiled while watching synapses misfire behind Will’s sweat-damp temples. 

Did he taste like salt? Or something metallic?

"Tell me, when I appear in these dreams... am I an object of desire? Or infatuation?" 

The question lay heavy in the air, much like the humidity.

"Neither." Will's response was firm despite the slight catch in his breath. Liar Liar. He tried to focus on anything but the gentle, insistent pressure of Hannibal's thumb on his pulse. "You're a figment of my troubled mind. A manifestation of stress and trauma." He huffed humid air, “You made it clear how you felt.” 

Hannibal gave a noncommittal hum, still studying him closely. His gaze scanned Will’s face, cataloging his twitchy reactions. 

"You seem rather defensive. Over a simple figment.”

“Yeah, speaking of, what about Alana?” He snapped, eyes darting back at Hannibal as he felt him pull away; he expected him to be upset. Hannibal genuinely looked hurt for a brief moment.

“There was nothing between Alana and me.” He spoke softly, sounding really disheartened.

He continued, “-—and I do not want previous ‘relationships’ to get in the way of this.” He gestured between them.

Why should Will trust that? If it was true, then—then…

Then why did the sound of Hannibal’s voice sound like yearning?  

"I…" The words died on his tongue, lost between humid air and buzzing insects.

He tried to form a reply, but his words tangled themselves on his tongue. He was painfully aware of how this must look: the two of them, in the suffocating heat, so close. His mouth was dry, his stomach twisted into knots... and all the while Hannibal watched him with an expression Will had never seen grace his face, and he couldn’t name it.

"I can't..." Will finally managed to force out, his voice rougher than he wanted. He didn't know if he was saying, 'I can't think when you touch me like that,' or 'I can't deny that I want you,' or 'I can't do this right now.' All of it was true anyway.

The right words struck sharper than anything. I can’t trust you. Not yet.

Hannibal was quiet, but his heart was pounding. He nodded his head softly, a small gesture of acknowledgment rather than argument. He did not move, he did not press.

Will looked him up and down, waiting for a reply. He looked ridiculous wearing such pristine clothes and now kneeling in the grass fully, getting stains… yet he didn’t move.

The dying light was fading now, a relentless witness to their silence.

“I know,” Hannibal said at last, his voice tempered, stripped of its usual layers of performance. “And that is the fault of my own arrogance.”

Will blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. No elaborate metaphor, no clever deflection. Just—plain truth, or at least something close to it..

“I wanted you to see me,” Hannibal continued, his gaze steady, unflinching. “And in my vanity, I thought to do so by drawing out your jealousy. Hoping it would provoke you into my arms, I grew frustrated when I should have realized I was pushing too far.” His voice was softer. “It was childish. Cruel. And you were right to leave for it.”

Will’s throat felt tight. Anger sparked hot in his chest, but it was muddied with something else—something softer, heavier. Because part of him had been jealous. And part of him hated that Hannibal knew it.

“You don’t get to play games with me, and then act wounded.” He muttered, “And… I didn’t leave just because of you, so don’t flatter yourself.”.

The hammock rocked gently as Will shifted restlessly, his eyes skimmed over the river’s shifting waters.

Trust. Forgiveness. Big words for someone who wielded them like instruments.

And yet… Hannibal’s tone carried no coy or smug tones. Just a low patience, like he was willing to sit through the heat, the insects, the silence, kneeling in the grass and dirt, for as long as Will needed.

You simply needed to claim it.

So he did.

“Talk is cheap,” Will said finally, his voice rough.

“Then allow me to prove myself through actions.” Hannibal folded his hands in his lap, a scholar awaiting a verdict. “I can only offer promises, and I always keep my promises.” He paused, “ As you said, though, talk is cheap.”

There was a pause.

“But I do want to prove to you that I am willing and able to better myself. I want to learn how to read you better. One thing is for certain: here or back in Baltimore, you will find me as I am now—waiting. But if you wish me gone, I will go. If you wish me to be close, I will stay, as long as you’ll have me.”

Will looked at him then, really taking in the sight. The fading light cut Hannibal’s features into sharp planes, but there was no triumph in them, no mask of satisfaction. Only a quiet readiness. Determination.

It unsettled Will more than any sly smile ever had.

He mulled it over; he could send Hannibal home, he knew he would go. Leave Will to enjoy the rest of his time here…

However, it is a long drive back home.

“Don’t think one evening on the hammock fixes this,” Will finally muttered.

Hannibal smiled, not his usual sly smile, but rather one that seemed like genuine enthusiasm. “I would never insult you with such a thought,” Hannibal replied. His voice carried something almost like warmth.

Will turned back toward the dark water, but the heat blooming in his chest betrayed him.

“Supper’s on!” Beau’s voice cut through the silence. Will perked up; he was feeling hungry all of a sudden.

Will looked up at Hannibal, “You don’t have to get back to Baltimore?” Will asked; Please say no.

“No, I have opened my schedule and may spend my time how I please.”

“And… that’s here?”

“If that is where you are, then yes.”

Will rolled his eyes at how utterly sappy that sounded, but he couldn't help smiling nonetheless.

“When are you coming back to Quantico?” Hannibal asked, offering a hand to Will, helping him rise out of the hammock.

“One more week,” Will said, plain and straightforward as he took the offered hand, stepping out of the hammock easier than he had ever done alone.

“A week then. I’ll stay as long as you have me. I can book a hotel nearby.”

Will stared up at Hannibal. This man was going to be the death of him. He listened to the sounds of crickets and gators humming, silent for a few moments. “We have a guest room.” He offered gingerly. “You… can stay here, if you want.”

Hannibal’s smile deepened, noticing their hands were still clasped together. “I would be delighted to.”

They stood facing each other, the air crackling like a live wire. Will took back his hand and ran it through his sweat-damp curls, trying to ground himself.

“And if you’re stayin’, you better behave,” Will said with a bit of a playful bite, whistling for his dogs. 

Hannibal felt satisfaction surge through him. “I wouldn’t dream of misbehaving.” Following the younger man across the yard and into the golden glow of Will's childhood home.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled of fried catfish and okra, heavy with spice and oil. A ceiling fan churned the humid air around the room in sluggish circles, its whir drowned out by the crackle from the cast-iron skillet Beau had just pulled off the stove.

“Bout time y’all came in,” Beau said, side-eyeing Will as he set the skillet on a trivet. His gaze flicked toward Hannibal. His eyes narrowed.

“Dad,” Will said while sitting down. He cleared his throat. “Would it be okay if Hannibal stays… for the rest of the week, until I go home?”

Beau sighed and shook his head. He had a damn feeling that was going to be the question of the night. He looked over at Hannibal, the man had a blank expression, unreadable, creepy lookin’. But then his eyes fell upon Will, and he saw those damn puppy eyes beggin’, lip wobbling, and—damnit, boy.

Beau grunted, wiping his hands on a rag before finally saying. “Any friend of my son is a guest of mine.” He flashed Hannibal a look that said, But I’ll be watching you. Hannibal simply smiled in return.

Will shifted in his chair, uneasy. The kitchen table was worn smooth from years of meals, but tonight it felt like a stage. Hannibal took the seat across from Will, posture regal even in the simple wooden chair, as if the lacquered oak beneath him were explicitly carved for him..

Beau served the plates himself—catfish, cornbread, stewed okra—and set them down with a solid clatter. He poured iced tea into mismatched glasses; some were older than Will.

“So,” Beau began, settling into his chair, “you’re a doctor?” His tone lingered somewhere between polite interest and a hint of interrogation.

“Yes,” Hannibal replied, smooth as syrup. “A psychiatrist. Though I was a surgeon for some time.”

Beau raised an eyebrow. “We don’t get many of those down here. People usually keep their business to themselves.” Then he shrugged, “Or in church.”

Hannibal smiled faintly, unoffended. “There are many forms of confession, Mr. Graham. I’ve always believed the confessor says as much about the soul and honesty behind the confession itself.”

Will shoots him a look—Don’t start. Hannibal only tilted his head, serene, and with a shrug, he sampled the catfish. It was tolerable.

Beau chewed slowly and thoughtfully, then glanced at Will. “And what exactly brings him here, son?”

Will froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. Heat rose in his cheeks, and not from the cayenne. He could feel Hannibal’s eyes on him, waiting for whatever answer Will was going to give.

“He… wanted to see how I was doing,” Will said finally, careful with each word. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. He bit into a piece of catfish to avoid any more questions.

Beau raised a brow at that. He jabbed a fork in Hannibal’s direction as the man ate his catfish. “So let me get this straight. You drove all the way from Virginia just to check on my boy?”

“Maryland,” Hannibal corrected with a polite dip of his head. “Though I did pass through Virginia.” As if small details mattered.

Beau’s brows shot up, the correction irritating him more than clarifying. “Even farther than. That’s a mighty long trip to make. Not for work, not for business—just for Will.” His tone sharpened, accusation hanging off the words. “Why?”

Will shifted in his chair, already bracing himself. “Dad—”

“I’m talkin’ to him, son.” Eyes locked on Hannibal. “Man doesn’t just up and drive a thousand miles without a damn good reason. So what is it, Doc ?”

Hannibal didn’t blink. “I came because Will matters to me. Deeply. I consider his well-being a personal priority.”

The answer was so steady, so unflinching, it startled Beau more than if the man had stammered. His pipe clattered against the table as he set it down, jaw tightening. “Priority,” he repeated, voice low and dangerous. “You say that like he’s yours.”

Will groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Dad, please —”

Beau leaned forward now, elbows on the table, shoulders squared like a man defending his ground. “Listen here, Doc. I’ve spent my whole life protectin’ this boy. He’s all I’ve got, and he’s had more than his share of people takin’ advantage of that big heart of his. So forgive me if I ain’t exactly thrilled at some stranger drivin’ down from Maryland to stake a claim.”

For a moment, the air was taut, the dogs stirring under the table at Beau’s rising voice. Hannibal, however, remained unshaken.

He lowered his gaze briefly, then looked back at Beau with the faintest curve of a smile. “You are right to be protective. A father’s duty is to guard his son.” He looks over at Will briefly before returning his gaze to Beau. “But I assure you, my intentions are not to harm, nor to use him. Quite the opposite.”

The calmness in his voice, the deliberate respect with which he spoke, was disarming. Beau frowned, suspicion fighting with a reluctant acknowledgment.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Beau asked, though softer now.

“It means,” Hannibal said smoothly, “that Will has allowed me into this part of his life. I am grateful for that. I do not take it lightly.”

Beau’s eyes narrowed, and he looked Lecter up and down. Man looked exhausted; he wasn’t fooling Beau. He looked like he was going to pass out the moment he hit the rack. Damn fool’s probably been driving all day.

“As I said, any ‘friend’ of my son is a guest of mine.” Beau jabbed his fork through a piece of okra, chewed it with vigor, and then grunted to his son, “Can’t believe you bring home a damn city boy, Will. Come on. I raised you better.”

Will rolled his eyes and finished his meal. He watched as Hannibal ate some of the cornbread, and he thought about how many times Hannibal had refused food if he didn’t make the meal himself, yet here he was, eating his father’s food just fine.

He wouldn’t even eat Will’s trout unless he cooked it.

What are you up to, Doctor Lecter?

Will glared across the table—only to catch a sly smile.

Dessert was Will’s favorite, Peach Cobbler.

The peach cobbler came out bubbling at the edges, and the crust was crisp and golden. Beau portioned it out in big steaming spoonfuls, sliding the bowls across the table.

“Don’t let it get cold,” he muttered, before reaching for his pipe. The screen door creaked, then shut behind him, leaving only the faint rasp of crickets pressing in through the windows.

Despite it being his favorite, Will prodded at his cobbler with the edge of his fork, pretending the syrupy peaches were worth more of his attention than the man across from him.

Hannibal, of course, didn’t immediately eat—he sat with his hands folded, studying Will with a patience that prickled more than silence itself.

Finally, Will broke. “You didn’t have to charm him, you know.” His voice was low, almost sulky.

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, one brow arching with subtle amusement. “Charm him?” He thought, “Was I charming?” He asked, knowing the answer.

Will jabbed his fork into the crust. “Whatever it was you were doing. Being… polite. Clever, you know.” He stuffed a bite into his mouth too fast, hissed as the heat scorched his tongue, and muttered something under his breath.

Hannibal’s eyes flicked to his lips, lingering there before rising back to meet his gaze. His voice was velvet-soft, tinged with humor. “Careful. Sweet things have a way of burning if you rush them.”

Will set his fork down with a clatter. “You always have to twist it into something else, don’t you?”

“Not twist,” Hannibal corrected, tone calm, almost indulgent. “I prefer to think of it as… illuminating.” He finally lifted his own fork, cutting into the cobbler and tasting it with a hum of approval. “Mn, very pleasant.”

Will huffed, shaking his head, but a reluctant smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. “It’s just cobbler.”

“And yet,” Hannibal said, tilting his fork toward Will, “I find myself enjoying it more simply because you’re across the table.”

Will’s breath caught before he could smother the reaction. He looked down quickly, pushing peach halves through their syrup, avoiding those maroon eyes; now softened into something that makes Will’s gut flutter.

Outside, Beau’s pipe smoke drifted faintly through the open window along with the chorus of crickets. Will swallowed, the sweetness heavy on his tongue, and muttered—half warning, half admission—

“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble, talking like that.”

Hannibal’s smile curved, slow and deliberate. “Mn, I do hope so.”

The cobbler was too sweet, too hot, but Will kept shoveling forkfuls anyway, if only to keep his mouth occupied. Across the table, Hannibal lingered over each bite, savoring it slowly and enthusiastically.

“You’re staring,” Will muttered finally, eyes glaring up at Hannibal through dark lashes.

“I’m appreciating,” Hannibal corrected smoothly. “Though I admit, the cobbler is only half responsible.”

Will’s ears burned. He pushed at the crust until it crumbled into the syrup, “I thought you said you’d behave.”

“I did, and I will.” He leaned in, legs crossed, elegant and smiling like Will was something precious to behold, “I never said anything about courtship.”

Before Will could form a retort, the screen door creaked again. Beau stepped back inside, pipe smoke trailing in behind him. He eased into his chair, the wood creaking, and for a moment his eyes darted between the two men like he’d caught them mid-conversation—though nothing about Will’s tense shoulders or Hannibal’s calm posture would have confirmed it.

“Good cobbler,” Hannibal said then, almost casually, as though the silence had only been about dessert. “The crust, especially. Perfect balance of butter and crumble.”

Beau snorted. “Ain’t nothin’ perfect about it. Half the peaches were bruised when I picked ’em.”

“All the better,” Hannibal countered gently. Then his gaze shifted towards Will. “Flawed fruit often carries the sweetest flavor.”

Will’s face was delightful. Flustered and pink. As if he couldn’t tell whether he was more embarrassed or amused by Hannibal’s choice of words.

Beau paused, pipe still between his fingers. His eyes narrowed—not in suspicion this time, but in thought. Will expected him to scoff, but instead, Beau’s mouth twitched, almost a smile.

“Well,” he said, leaning back, “least you ain’t afraid to eat with us. Thought maybe you’d turn your nose up at country food.”

“On the contrary,” Hannibal said, dipping his head slightly. “Food prepared with care, shared at a family table—it is a luxury.” He smiled brightly, and it reached his eyes. “I am grateful to be here.”

Will felt heat creep up his neck. God, he was laying it on thick.

Beau grunted, and for a moment, Will thought his father might just roll his eyes—but then Beau’s gaze sharpened, flicking between them. “You know something, Doctor?” His tone was warm and smooth at first. “If you keep this up—” He leaned forward, pipe balanced precariously between his fingers, pointing out back. His voice now low and stern, “—you’ll be sleeping outside with the dogs.”

Ah, so he does get his temperament from his father…

Hannibal’s smile didn’t falter. In fact, it grew a shade warmer. “I would consider it a privilege,” he said softly, almost reverently.

Will froze and side-eyed his father. Preparing for all hell to break loose.

Beau was silent for a moment before he barked a laugh, “Alright, he’s some nuts to say that. But I’m serious, three strikes and yer out there, fancy pants.”

Will smiled. His father’s words were firm, yes, but there was a protective, almost affectionate edge to them, the kind that made him feel… safe, in a ridiculous, chaotic sort of way.

Hannibal, ever composed, nodded his head slightly. “Understood,” voice soft and courteous. Beau may be defensive, but he had to admit that Hannibal found him to be more charming than anything.

Beau leaned back again, satisfied, muttering to himself. “Goodnight, my boy’s got him wrapped around his finger already…” He shook his head and returned to his own dessert.

Hannibal inclined his head again, but his gaze lingered on Will, maroon eyes gleaming in the lamplight. His voice was warm, low. “Better to be wrapped around his finger than a thousand miles away.”

Will fixed Hannibal with a nasty glare. Hannibal looked absolutely pleased with himself. A beat. “Finish your cobbler, Will.”

Will swallowed hard, the peach on his tongue suddenly too sweet. Beau didn’t miss the look that passed between them.

“That’s strike one, Doc,” Beau muttered over a bite of cobbler.

The house had settled in for the night.

Beau’s snores drifted from the upstairs bedroom, the old grandfather clock steady as a metronome. Jack stretched across the hallway, paws twitching in a dream. The porch light was off, leaving only the faint glow of the moon and a single lamp in the living room, which cast a golden pool of light across the wooden floor.

Will stood by the door, holding the last of Hannibal’s bags. “You travel light for someone so dramatic,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice low.

Hannibal, a few steps ahead, paused mid-step. Turning just enough to glance over his shoulder. “Dramatic ?”

Will gave him a look as he handed the older man the bag. “You show up in a fancy car in a somewhat rural area of Louisiana. Then you manage to somehow both piss off and make my dad happy? Plus, you flirted with the guy’s son in front of him. That’s theater.”

Hannibal accepted the bag with ease. “Practical theater,” he murmured. “The kind that leaves an impression.” He adjusted the strap on his shoulder. “May I ask where I’ll be sleeping?”

Will nodded toward the far room down a dimly lit hallway.  “Guest bedroom. Across from mine. Towels and bedding are already in there.”

He turned away, expecting that to be the end of it—but he felt Hannibal’s hand brush his arm before he could step off.

It was nothing more than fingertips, featherlight, but it paused Will mid-step. He glanced down at the touch, then up into that maddening, unreadable gaze.

“Are you tired yet?” Hannibal asked, voice hushed but certain.

He exhaled through his nose, not answering. He wasn’t. That was the problem.

Instead, he opened the guest room door for Hannibal, stepping aside. Hannibal brushed past, close enough that Will felt the warmth of him in the narrow hallway. He switched on the light.

The guest room was simple, clean, but lived-in. A small dresser, a queen-sized bed with faded cotton sheets, and a thin comforter for the summer heat. An old ceiling fan was spinning lazily above after the light came on. Will moved to set one of the bags down by the dresser, but Hannibal’s hand reached out again—this time catching his wrist, just for a moment.

“You don’t have to stay,” Hannibal said softly. “But I'd like you to.”

Will froze for a beat. His pulse ticked beneath Hannibal’s thumb.

“I shouldn’t,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

“I know.”

They were close now—closer than they’d been on the hammock. Closer than any dream Will has had. Hannibal’s fingers moved, tracing the inside of Will’s wrist slowly, thoughtfully. There was no demand in the touch. Just want. Just wonder.

Will’s breath caught. “You really are laying it on thick.”

“Would you rather I slow down more?” Hannibal murmured, leaning in just slightly with a coy smile.

Will huffed a soft, exasperated laugh—but he didn’t pull away. “No, this is… this is okay..”

“I’m glad…” Hannibal whispered, but his fingers twitched. After a moment of feeling his heart start to ramp up, he asked, “Would this be okay?”

His hand moved to Will’s hip, resting there lightly, with his fingers pressing through the soft fabric of Will's shirt. His other hand hovered just beside Will’s cheek, waiting, always waiting like he wouldn’t move unless invited.

The restraint in it was maddening. Intimate.

Will could feel the heat of him—could smell his cologne now, faint, mixing with the scent of bayou air and summer sweat. He leaned into the touch.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” he admitted, voice low and raw. “Letting someone close without it blowing up in my face.”

Hannibal leaned forward just enough to bring their foreheads together, an anchor in the hush of the house.

“Then we’ll continue to take it slow,” he said. “I will be here if—and when—you’re ready. We move at your pace.”

Will closed his eyes. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just breathed, and let Hannibal hold him—barely, softly, like something precious and skittish.

Then, after a long, warm silence, Will stepped back. Not far. Just enough.

“You’re still sleeping in here,” he said, nodding toward the bed. “Door closed.”

“Understood,” Hannibal said, a touch of amusement in his voice.

Will started to turn—then hesitated. His eyes flicked up to meet Hannibal’s again, sharp and clear in the low light. “But if I don’t close mine …”

A pause. The words hung.

Hannibal’s smile was slow and quiet. “Then I’ll take that as an invitation… to talk.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Just talk?”

“For now.”

Will let out a quiet breath—half-relieved, half-electrified. “Good night, Hannibal.”

“Good night, Will.”

The house was still, wrapped in that peculiar silence of early morning—the kind that carries the weight of dew on grass and mist clinging to the edges of the bayou.

Hannibal rose before dawn, as he always did, but when he stepped softly into the kitchen, he was surprised to find Will already there.

Will stood at the counter, hair tousled from sleep, a faded T-shirt hanging off his frame that hardly covered his boxers. He poured steaming coffee into mismatched mugs, the rich aroma filling the air.

Winston lay curled by the back door, tail thumping a few times when Hannibal entered before sinking back into drowsy contentment.

“You’re awake early,” Hannibal said quietly, his voice warm but faintly surprised.

Will glanced at him, one brow twitching upward. “So are you.” He handed over a mug, the chipped rim catching in Hannibal’s refined fingers.

“Habit,” Hannibal admitted. He took in the kitchen—plain, weathered wood, a scattering of tools, and various odds and ends left by a man who lived more in the world outside than within these walls. It was a space of function, not form. Alien to him.

Will leaned against the counter, sipping. “I don’t usually make coffee this early. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

“Restlessness often follows displacement,” Hannibal murmured, studying him. Then smirked, “Or perhaps anticipation.”

Will rolled his eyes faintly. “Don’t start, especially don’t start analyzing me. Not before sunrise.”

Hannibal’s mouth curved in the faintest smile. “Then I’ll simply drink.” He lifted the mug in a small salute before taking a sip. The brew was strong, unadorned, slightly bitter. “Rustic,” he said, which made Will snort.

Will glanced up at Hannibal and took in his appearance. His hair was bed mussed, and he looked somehow more imposing and relaxed at the same time in a sweater and sweatpants… he didn’t even know Hannibal wore sweatpants.

“You didn’t have to come here, you know,” Will said softly after some silence.

“I did,” Hannibal said simply. “Because you did.”

Will swallowed, eyes dropping to the dark surface of his drink. “You make it sound like I’m worth chasing.”

“You are.”

The words were soft, not pressed, but heavy with conviction. Hannibal let them settle in the air between them.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The house creaked softly around them as the old bones of the house settled with the morning heat.

Finally, Will exhaled, half a laugh, half a sigh. “You’re crazy.”

“Yet here I am,” Hannibal replied, echoing words that have become a sort of routine for them now.. His smile was subtle, fond, but there was an edge of coyness in it, too.

“Here you are,” Will replied softly with a warm smile. Damnit, he had to admit he was enjoying spending time with Hannibal more than he’d like to admit. The flirting was surprisingly mild compared to how absolutely absurd he can be.

How about some fun? Get out of the house, live a little!

Will set his mug down with a soft clink. “Fine. Since you’re here, you might as well see something real. Not all of this—” he gestured vaguely at the house, “—but the part that actually makes being here so worth it, especially during the summer.”

Hannibal tilted his head, curiously. “And what would that be?”

“The lake!” Will said. “It’s quiet, cool, remote, it's a place I'd go when everything got too loud.” He shifted, uneasy at his own vulnerability, but pressed on. “Thought we could go today. Swim. Maybe go laze out for the day. Go exploring.”

Hannibal’s eyes warmed, a spark of satisfaction flickering there. “I would very much like that.”

Will smiled, already moving toward the back hallway. “Then we’ll need to pack some things. Towels. Food. Water.” He didn’t turn back, but his voice was steady, almost daring: “You think you can handle that, city boy?”

Hannibal allowed himself a small chuckle, finishing the last sip of his coffee before setting the mug aside. “You might be surprised at what I can handle, Will.”

Chapter Text

The lake was still when they arrived. Mist curled on a thin sheet of blue-green glass, reflecting the rising sun. Will had cut the engine of the old Chevy pickup, jumping out on bare feet and stretching his back as he walked around the truck to the bed.

“This is it,” he said, his grin contagious, before peeling his shirt over his head and tossing it into the truck bed.

Hannibal’s gaze lingered longer than usual, catching on something unexpected—something he, of all people, hadn’t noticed; thin silvery scars on Will’s chest.

His brow lifted. “Are those—?”

“Top sugary scars?” Will interrupted, his chest rising with pride. Hannibal nodded, and Will hesitated only a moment, then glanced over with a little shrug. “Yup, yeah. I’m trans. Thought you knew? Didn’t the agency send you my records?” He began for the dock without waiting for a reply. 

“Yes,” Hannibal replied, answering the question, falling into step behind him, “but I’ve only ever seen the parts of Will Graham he allows me to see.”

“Well,” Will said, stopping to lift his arms and spin lightly on the worn planks, “now you’ve seen all of me.” His grin was boyish, teasing.

Hannibal’s lips curved as he ducked his head to speak into Will’s ear. His voice dipped into that velvety register. “Oh no, not all of you.”

Before Hannibal could say more, Will, looking flustered, took off and dove into the water. Hannibal chuckled as he neared the edge of the dock.

The surface shattered with a splash. A moment later, Will broke the surface, hair plastered to his face, shivering. “Jesus—it’s fucking f-freezing!” he called out, his teeth already beginning to chatter, his breath short and stuttering.

From the dock, Hannibal raised a brow and laughed, genuinely laughed. “That’s what you get for diving headfirst into the unknown.” His smile sharpened, “And this is your idea of fun?”

“Come on,” Will beckoned, water lapping at his chest. “What—is the great D-doctor Lecter scared?” He called out. “Ch-chicken!” Despite the cold, Will was making a ridiculous clucking noise; he was even flapping his arms…

Hannibal hesitated, then exhaled through his nose. Slowly, deliberately, he shed his hoodie, shoes, and shirt, folding them neatly onto the dock. Without hesitation, he stepped to the edge and dove. The cold closed around him instantly, biting through muscle and bone. When he surfaced, his breath left him sharp and unpolished.

Will laughed, delighted. “Not s-so civilized now, huh?”

Hannibal slicked his hair back, eyes narrowing—but there was something alive in his expression, a glint of exhilaration. “On the contrary,” he said, voice low but threaded with thrill, “this is the most honest experience I’ve had in years. I used to swim in much colder waters in Lithuania.”

Will splashed him, yelping as Hannibal retaliated. Soon, the lake echoed with laughter and the sound of water breaking against skin.

They swam until their bodies adjusted, Will leading the way toward a crooked oak that leaned over a cliff edge. He pulled himself up onto one of its low branches with practiced ease, bare feet gripping onto wet bark. Looking down, he grinned. “Used to jump from here as a kid.”

Hannibal followed, slower, less sure-footed, but managed to balance beside him. He looked down at the water. It looked rather far. “Risky.”

“That’s the point,” Will smirked and leapt backwards of all things, smiling at Hannibal as gravity took him, cutting cleanly into the lake.

When he resurfaced, Hannibal was still on the branch, considering. Their eyes met, and then—without a word—Hannibal leapt, landing with a surprising splash that sent water spraying over Will.

Hannibal emerged, his hair plastering his face, but he was smiling.

Will sputtered, laughing. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“You underestimate me, Will!”

They jumped again and again; eventually, Will managed to get Hannibal to holler on the way down. Hannibal had found that to be a very freeing experience; he couldn't remember the last time he just had fun outdoors.

After seeing who could jump the farthest, who was faster at getting back up, who could do the most pull-ups (Hannibal), and who was brave enough to do a flip (Will), they climbed back up the tree to sit and look out at the lake. They perched together high on the branch, legs astride, looking out at the glimmering expanse. Will leaned back suddenly, his damp curls pressing against Hannibal’s chest. His smile was softer now, almost boyish, almost vulnerable. Hannibal wanted to reach out, to touch. But he kept himself still..

“What is it?” Hannibal asked softly with a tilt of his head.

“Just, like looking at you.”

Hannibal felt his heart flutter.

Will guided Hannibal to a cave behind a waterfall, at the far end of the lake, tucked between mossy rocks and hidden away from view of the docks. The water poured down in a white curtain, cool mist spraying their faces as Will smiled at Hannibal, tilting his head for him to follow. Will waded forward, climbed the rocks, and ducked under the cold waterfall with a whoop of exhilaration that echoed in the cave. Hannibal followed, slowly, but when the water crashed over him, he paused, tipping his head back and closing his eyes and surrendering to its force.

Will froze for a moment, watching him, his chest tight. The spray caught in Hannibal’s hair, beading down the lines of his throat, and something in Will twisted. He stepped closer, placing a hand on Hannibal’s stomach, immediately gaining the older man’s attention.

Maroon met shimmering blue in a moment of stillness.

As Will’s hand traveled up, he leaned in closer.

Hannibal’s heart was pounding, Chest rising and falling more shallow. They were so close at that moment. Hannibal could feel the warmth radiating off Will, foreheads nearly touching.

But Will stilled.

“I’m… sorry, I can’t yet,” Will said, pulling back. Faltering. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Will, it’s alright,” Hannibal said, pressing their foreheads together and smiling softly. “We go at your pace.”

When they finally pulled themselves onto the dock, dripping and breathless, Will grabbed the worn cooler he’d packed that morning.

They sprawled on the dock, towels spread out to dry their skin as the noon sun burned away the morning mist. The cooler sat between them, its lid propped open, releasing the faint scent of ham sandwiches, apples, and a couple of bottles of Coke.

Hannibal regarded the contents as though Will had presented him with a piece of macaroni art during an exhibit. “Practical,” he said, reaching for an apple.

“Don’t expect foie gras out here,” Will replied, unwrapping a sandwich. He took a big bite, chewing with a satisfaction that was more about hunger than taste. “This is lake food. Simple.”

Hannibal bit into the apple. The crunch echoed across the water. He chewed slowly, contemplative, eyes drifting toward the horizon.

For a while, they ate in silence, broken only by the buzzing of cicadas and the sudden splash of a fish breaking the surface. The stillness wasn’t uncomfortable—if anything, it wrapped around them like the heat, heavy but steady.

Will leaned back on his elbows, squinting at Hannibal. “You know everything about me. My dad, my dogs, my life out here. Feels unfair, I don’t know anything real about you.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “What would you like to know?”

“Where you grew up,” Will said after a moment. “What your childhood was like. Back in, uhh… Luth-Litha-what was it again?”

The question lingered in the air. Hannibal didn’t answer right away. Instead, he finished his apple, setting the core neatly on a napkin, as though gathering the right words.

“Lithuania.” He corrected gently.

“It was… cold,” He continued. His voice was softer than usual, stripped of its usual polish. “The winters there were long and merciless. There would be snowdrifts that swallowed entire barns. The forest was beautiful, but harsh—always testing whether you belonged in it.”

Will watched him closely, sandwich forgotten in his hands, enthralled by his words.

“I was very young when I learned to make fire, to hunt,” Hannibal went on, eyes going distant. “Not as a sport. As a necessity. There were days when the silence was so deep, all I could hear was my own heartbeat.” He fell quiet, lost for a moment in memory.

“Sounds lonely,” Will said quietly. Sounds heavy…

A flicker of something—pain, or perhaps nostalgia—crossed Hannibal’s face. “It was. But it was also… formative. In that stillness, I learned patience. I learned to listen. But I built walls,” He turned his gaze back to Will, the intensity in his eyes tempered by an odd vulnerability. “Much like you.”

Will shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of it. “Guess we’ve both had our share of silence.”

“Yes,” Hannibal agreed. “And perhaps that is why we understand each other.”

Will busied himself with the cooler, pulling out the last sandwich for Hannibal. “You make it sound like fate.”

Hannibal’s lips curved, but there was no mockery this time. “Perhaps it is.” 

The cicadas sang louder in the heat, the lake shimmering under the midday sun. For the first time in days—maybe weeks—Will let himself relax, lying back on the dock, eyes closed, the warmth of the boards beneath him and Hannibal’s quiet presence beside him.

For now, there was no tension, no sharp edges. Just the lake, the sun, and the stillness shared.

By the time they’d finished lunch, the sound of a second truck rattling down the dirt path gained their attention. Will propped himself up on his elbows as the familiar figure of Beau Graham climbed out, a tackle box in one hand and rods balanced over his shoulder.

“Well,” Beau drawled, eyeing the two men on the dock, “figured I’d find you boys down here. Thought I would cast a line or two. Wanna join?”

The invitation wasn’t really a question. Minutes later, the three of them sat along the edge of the dock, lines cast into the water. Will baited his hook quickly, motions automatic. Hannibal, on the other hand, regarded the wriggling worm with a faint look of distaste before forcing it onto the hook with clinical precision. By far the most severe incision he has made. Ew.

“You look like you’re performing surgery,” Will teased. “Hate bugs?”

“Precision has its place in every pursuit,” Hannibal replied dryly, casting his line like Will had shown him earlier. “And yes, I despise them.”

Will—giggled—at that. Hannibal would have looked offended, but he wanted to hear that sound again, over and over if he could.

Beau chuckled low in his throat. “Fish don’t care about precision, son. They care about patience.”

For the next hour, the contrast was stark. Beau reeled in two good-sized perch. Will pulled up a small but respectable bass, the flicker of pride in Beau’s eyes not lost on him. Hannibal, despite immaculate posture and unwavering attention, had not a bite. His bobber floated undisturbed, save for the occasional ripple. Not that he minded, he was content to allow Will and his father to fish, but Will kept looking over at him.

Will tried not to grin. “Maybe the fish can smell the cologne.”

“I’m not wearing cologne, William,” Hannibal said evenly, a slight warning in his tone, and a faint crease appeared between his brows.

Another thirty minutes passed before Hannibal’s line suddenly jerked. His eyes widened, and his hands—usually so steady—twitched as he reeled in the line. Finally, the catch broke the surface. Hannibal held it up; it was a small, glimmering sunfish no larger than his palm.

Will leaned over to inspect it, smirking. “Well, look at that.”

Hannibal held the rod higher, studying the wriggling creature. His lips curved into something boyish. “A modest catch,” he admitted. “But satisfying nonetheless.”

Beau’s mouth actually tugged into a smile, rare but real. “Well, now, city boy got one. First fish is always special, no matter the size.”

Will helped Hannibal carefully remove the hook with gentle fingers, handing the fish to him for release. Hannibal gingerly let it down into the water and watched as it darted away into the depths.

Will looked down to catch Hannibal just staring down at the water. He chuckled.

“Hannibal?” He waved a hand in front of his face, “Paging Dr. Lecter…”

Hannibal quirked an eyebrow when he noticed Will’s hand. He turned to look up at him. “Hm?” He asked, tilting his head.

Will blinked and narrowed his eyes, “You okay, big guy? You spaced out on me for a moment there.” 

“Apologies, I was…thinking.”

“That’s dangerous,” Will said as he wormed his hook. Then, without any flair, he took Hannibal’s hook and wormed it as well. Hannibal watched his practiced hands move with ease; it grounded him in the moment.

“I suppose it is,” Hannibal softly smiled, memories once again tucked away and emotions schooled again.

The afternoon dragged in that golden, heavy way Louisiana days did—time stretching long between casts, punctuated only by the splash of a fish or Beau’s occasional puff from his pipe. The sun hung low, painting the lake in bands of molten light.

Hannibal’s second and third catches proved to be much bigger. Two basses were added to his score. Will, on the other hand, pulled in a decent catfish using a weighted line that made Beau nod with something like pride.

“Still got the touch,” Beau said, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Guess some things don’t go away,” Will grinned. Beau patted his back and guffawed.

Hannibal watched them; the pride Beau showed in his son was immeasurable. 

By late afternoon, they reeled in for good. Beau packed up the rods, departing the dock to load his truck. Hannibal lingered at the edge of the pier, gaze fixed on the rippling water, as though reluctant to leave.

“Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Will asked, nudging him with his shoulder.

Hannibal glanced at him, his lips tugging into the barest of smiles. “On the contrary. I found it… restorative.” His eyes flicked toward Will, lingering just a little too long. “I can understand why you return here.”

Will smiled, glancing out at the water. “It’s quiet. Easier to breathe.”

Beau clapped the cooler shut and hefted it into the truck. “You two coming, or ya want me to drive ahead?”

Will flushed faintly. “We’re coming.”

Will ignited the old truck to life and followed his Father’s truck back home. All the while, Hannibal stared out the window, watching the lake disappear from view, feeling at peace.

When they reached the house, Beau carried his tackle and hung the rods back up. Will lingered by the porch, stretching out the stiffness. Hannibal stood near, close enough for Will to feel his presence even without looking.

After a long pause, Beau reappeared on the porch with two cold beers. He handed one to Will, then tipped his chin toward Hannibal. “You have fun out there?”

Hannibal smiled, “Very much so.”

Beau smiled back, “Good to hear, y’all wash up now.” He headed inside, “No funny business in the shower.” He called back out.

Will groaned, "Dad, c'mon..." Meanwhile, Hannibal stared down at him, regarding him with something warm and unreadable, but the glint in his dark eyes was unmistakable. Will knew that look.

Will busied himself with the bottle cap, avoiding the weight of it. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Hannibal asked, voice velvet-smooth.

“Like that .”

Hannibal’s smile was faint, but it lingered. “If you say so.”

Will felt a blush dust his face before downing some of his beer. He needed to lie down.

The bayou had come alive with night-song, the air heavy with the sweet tang of evergreens and river. Will lay stretched in the hammock, a half-empty beer bottle resting in the grass beneath him. The night sky spread wide overhead, stars scattered sharp and clear against the black sky.

He heard the soft tread before he saw him—Hannibal, moving across the yard with the kind of deliberate grace that even the dark couldn’t compete.

“You’re restless,” Hannibal observed, his voice low, almost careful.

Will tipped his head back to look at him, hair mussed, shirt rumpled. “Could say the same about you. What are you doing out here?”

“... Couldn't sleep,” Hannibal admitted. But instead of standing over him like a sentinel, he lingered, uncertain, hands clasped behind his back.

Will studied him for a beat, then shifted to one side, patting the space beside him. “Sit. Or lie down. Hammock’ll hold both of us.”

Another first—for the first time in as long as Will could remember, Hannibal hesitated. His composure cracked just enough to reveal nerves—an almost imperceptible pause, the faintest tightness in his jaw.

“You afraid of falling?” Will teased gently.

“Not afraid,” Hannibal corrected softly, though his tone was softer than usual. “Simply… cautious.”

“Same thing,” Will smirked, but his eyes softened. “Come on.”

With a breath too measured to be casual, Hannibal eased himself into the hammock. The ropes swayed, tilting precariously before settling under their combined weight. His body was rigid, as though some primal part of him resented being out of balance.

Will let out a small laugh. “Relax. You’re wound up tighter than a drum.”

“I am… not accustomed to instability,” Hannibal admitted, lying stiffly on his back, hands folded over his chest.

“Then I’ll steady you,” Will murmured as his hand found Hannibal’s, intertwining their fingers.

For a while, they lay in silence. The night pressed close—warm air, the hum of crickets, the creak of the hammock ropes. Will’s voice eventually broke the stillness, quiet, as if he were talking to himself.

“See that one?” He lifted a hand lazily, pointing skyward. “That’s Cassiopeia. Easy to spot—shaped like a W.”

Hannibal followed his finger, eyes narrowing to trace the constellation.

“And there,” Will continued, pointing again. “Orion’s belt. And if you keep going down, that’s Canis Major. The big dog. Fitting, right?” His mouth quirked.

Hannibal’s lips curved faintly. “Very fitting.”

Will kept going, cataloging stars with a steady rhythm. The names tumbled out—Ursa Major, Draco, Cygnus—as though reciting them was a lullaby, something to anchor Hannibal in the unfamiliar sway of the hammock.

Gradually, Hannibal’s body eased, his arms and legs loosening, his breathing fell in step with Will’s. The nervous energy that had clung to him dissipated, leaving only the quiet intimacy of shared space.

Before long, the words slowed. Will turned his head, realizing that Hannibal was already watching him. Not the sky, not the stars— just him.

The world outside seemed to recede until it was only the two of them, close enough that Will could feel Hannibal’s warmth in the night air. Neither spoke. Neither moved closer. But the silence between them shifted, heavy with something unspoken, something that lingered just at the edge of touch.

For once, it was enough.

The silence thickened, not awkward but charged, the way the air felt before a summer storm. Will shifted just enough that the hammock swayed, his shoulder brushing against Hannibal’s.

“Careful,” Hannibal murmured, voice low, though he didn’t sound bothered.

Will turned his head, catching the way moonlight traced Hannibal’s profile, softening what was usually so sharp. He realized, with a sudden clarity, that this was the closest he’d ever seen Hannibal to uncertainty—relaxed in body, yes, but his eyes were fixed on Will as though waiting for permission.

Maroon meets blue, blending slowly in the space shared, creating something new and beautiful.

Will swallowed. “You don’t have to be so careful,” he said quietly.

The words hung between them. Then, slowly, Hannibal tilted toward him, the faintest lean, as though testing the air.

Will met him halfway.

Stars, Will saw the stars again through closed eyes, and felt the heat from them. It felt like time itself stopped to allow them this moment.

The kiss was feather-light, more a brush than a claim: a pause, a breath. Hannibal stilled, as if cataloging every sensation—the warmth of Will’s mouth, the soap still lingering on his skin, the trust contained in that single, unguarded moment.

Will pulled back first, only just. His eyes stayed closed for a heartbeat before fluttering open, searching Hannibal’s face for regret, resistance—anything.

But Hannibal’s gaze was steady, softened with something Will had never seen in him before. Something dangerously close to worship.

“Years,” Hannibal said softly, almost wonderingly. Pressing their foreheads together. “We’ve circled each other for years.”

“Yeah,” Will breathed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Guess we finally stopped running.”

The hammock swayed gently, cradling them both in the dark. Neither of them leaned in again—not tonight. The kiss lingered in the air, enough to mark a shift.

For the first time in a long while, Will let himself close his eyes and simply… rest.

And Hannibal, for the first time in longer still, allowed himself to do the same.

Chapter Text

The smell of bacon wafted over the yard long before the sun had fully cleared the trees. Will blinked awake to birdsong and the creak of the hammock beneath him. Warmth pressed against his side and cheek, solid and steady, and it took him only a second to remember where he was and who he was with.

Hannibal.

Who was still half-asleep, eyes closed, lazing in the morning sun. One arm curved along the edge of the hammock as though even in dreams he sought to balance them. Kept them from tipping over. He had one arm around Will, and Will was painfully aware that he had slept snuggled up to Hannibal’s chest—even drooled on him, at least he felt well-rested.

Will’s heart fluttered upon seeing him; he looked almost peaceful. Fewer edges, and more relaxed than he’s ever seen someone—like Hannibal—be. A beast lounging in the morning sun.
Will lowered his head back onto Hannibal’s chest and smiled when he felt the arm around him pull him just a little bit closer.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Will jerked upright—or as upright as the hammock allowed—nearly tipping them both. Though if Hannibal noticed, he didn’t show it.

His father stood before them, coffee mug in hand, a thin line tugging at his mouth.

Will’s face flushed hot. “Dad.” He both questioned and acknowledged.

Beau raised his brows, gesturing with the mug. “So, ‘friends’ huh?”

Will opened his mouth to reply—though what exactly he would have said, he didn’t know. How best to explain this situation?

Hannibal, of course, chose that moment to stir, stretching languidly like a cat, adjusting his shirt with the kind of unhurried grace that made it seem as though he’d planned this little venture all along. “Good morning, Beau,” he said smoothly, smiling up at him, as though he hadn’t just been caught tangled in a hammock with his son.

Beau sipped his coffee, “Strike two, Doc. Keep playing around, we got a sayin’.” Beau looked at Will and pointed at him, “Boy, what’s the saying?

“Fuck around and find out?” Will replied, half asleep. Unsure what to make of the situation.

Beau smiled and pointed at his son, “Yes, sir!” Then with a wave, “Breakfast’s on the table. Don’t let it get cold.”

“Your father… is not serious… is he?” Hannibal looked over at Will. His face was amused, and he looked concerned.

“Hannibal, I am pretty sure my dad would chain you to a post outside WITH the dogs. Not just ‘have’ you sleep outside.” Will said as he shifted to get out of the hammock.

But the pause… the silence… he had a feeling.

He peeked over his shoulder just to catch a glimpse of that shit eating grin, before Hannibal could even comment, Will hopped from the hammock jarringly, sending Hannibal violently rocking. The face Hannibal made was worth it.

For all of two seconds, Hannibal righted himself, then crawled—not climbed—crawled out of the hammock before straightening up and heading straight for Will. Will’s giggles turned into startled screams and laughing as he was suddenly scooped up and carried off towards the house.

Ignoring Will’s giggling protests, he crossed the yard. Hannibal set him down on the porch steps.

“What was that for?” Will asked as he was set down lightly, making sure Will’s feet had stability.

Hannibal looked up at Will on the porch step.  Will was finally the same height as him. He smiled softly, “I just felt like it.”

Will felt heat creep up his face, “You’ve been acting different, since you got here.”

Hannibal tilted his head, “Is that a bad thing?”

Will shook his head, “No. You seem happy.”

Hannibal brought a hand to his cheek, thumb slowly rubbing circles against Will’s cheek.

“I am happy.”

Will’s smile grew; he scratched his face sheepishly. “Would it be okay if I asked if we could kiss again?”

Hannibal smirked and raised a brow, “Why’s that?”

Will shoved his shoulder playfully, “'Cause I just feel like it.”

Hannibal didn’t pester him more; he pulled Will into a kiss. It had a bit more force behind it than last night, but was still so damn tender.

“Boys! Food!” Beau shouted from the kitchen window, startling Will, though he was embarrassed by how much he liked how Hannibal’s hands never let him fall.

By the time they shuffled into the kitchen, plates were already waiting—golden eggs, thick slices of bacon, biscuits still steaming nice and warm. Beau always waits for others before eating when he has company. A habit Will picked up, Hannibal mused. He recalls a few times—when invited to Hannibal’s dinner table—Will refused to eat till Hannibal sat down and joined him.

He misses when Will used to come by frequently.

Beau had seated himself at the head of the table, newspaper spread open. When the boys sat down, he tipped it down to observe them both.

Will was eating quickly, suddenly hungry, and avoiding what little eye contact he was able to make. Hannibal, of course, was unbothered—composed, taking delicate bites of egg as though the kitchen table were his dining table. Every so often, he glanced at Will, the corners of his mouth betraying the faintest ghost of a smile before returning to his plate.

Beau muttered something under his breath. He didn’t know what these two were, but he knew he was unsure if he was ready to let his boy go again… not after the last time. He doesn’t want to lose Will again. For now, he’d watch, protect Will.

The silence was awkward.

Finally, Will set his fork down and looked up at Hannibal. “What do you want to do today?”

Hannibal looked up from his plate with a pause, “What do I want to do today?” He asked with a raised brow.

“You’re a guest, you get a say.” Will shrugged. 

“Mn, I do love having a say…” Hannibal dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Shopping, then. I find myself… inadequately dressed for the heat and only brought a few days' worth of clothes.” The truth was—in his haste—Hannibal had miscalculated how long this venture would last. He had only brought enough clothes for the trip South itself, and none of it was suited for being in the Louisiana humidity for long without succumbing to this soupy inferno.

“Wanna know what I think?” Will asked, smirking.

Hannibal’s eyes fixed on Will’s, “Only if it’s honest.” His head inclined when he said, ‘Only.’ 

Will smirked, leaning back in his chair. “That fancy European wardrobe isn’t built for swamp ass, eh, Doctor Lecter?”

Beau nearly choked on his coffee. Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, though a playful glint shone there.

“William,” he said, his voice sharp with mock reproach. “Your audacity—and your language—astonish me.”

Will chuckled. “You asked for honesty.”

“I asked for your opinion, Will,” Hannibal countered smoothly. “Not vulgarity.”

“Hey, it was my opinion,” Will shot back.

Beau was still laughing.

The near-hour drive in the Bentley was interesting. Will had no idea Hannibal was—in fact—a bit of a speed demon, to be fair… It is 55MPH on the backroads that lead to his home, and the closest sheriff was miles away. So, he may have goaded Hannibal on when they got past the dirt roads and gravel in favor of a nice long stretch of asphalt with no one around.

A few gear shifts, and the Bentley roared down the backroads. Will was stuck between fascination and amusement as he watched the graceful hands operate the machine like it was a second skin.

The breeze was amazing.

The midday sun had borne down heavily and thick with humidity that clung to the skin. Even Hannibal, usually undisturbed by uncomfortable conditions, allowed himself a measured sigh as they stepped into the cool AC of the small clothing store in downtown New Orleans. 

“Better?” Will asked, smirking at him from over his shoulder.

“Marginally,” Hannibal murmured, smoothing a hand over his shirt as if erasing wrinkles that weren’t there. His eyes roamed the racks with clinical detachment, sharp and assessing, passing his mighty judgement. “This climate is… inhospitable.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Will said with a grin. He plucked a light blue cotton shirt off a hanger, checked the size, then shoved it into Hannibal’s arms. “Try this. Trust me, linen doesn’t stand a chance out here.”

Hannibal was given pause; he raised a brow, “I hadn’t noticed before, but your accent is coming back.” He leaned closer to Will, “I rather like it.”

Will furrowed his brows and blushed, “Just, try on the shirt.”

Hannibal tilted his head, amused, and complied, disappearing into the changing room. When he emerged in the shirt, Will had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the smile tugging at him.

“Better?” Hannibal asked, dryly.

“Better,” Will admitted. “You look… less like Count Dracula on holiday.”

Hannibal’s face fell, and his brows creased. He looked at Will as if he was disappointed in him, “I am a Count.” Hannibal murmured. Then he turned to look over some shorts to pair with the shirt.

Will scoffed, then, realizing what the man said, he turned to look at him in disbelief. “You’re a what now?”

Hannibal did not look up from the shorts he held, merely shook them once to examine the drape. His tone was maddeningly casual, as though they were reflecting on the weather.

“A Count,” he repeated smoothly. “In Lithuania. It is a hereditary title. My father was a Grafas, or a Count; the title also belongs to me.”

Will blinked, mouth opening, then closing again. He stared, caught between laughing along and the suspicion that Hannibal wasn’t playing around. “You serious?” He asks, walking up to him, making sure he can get a good look at Hannibal’s poker face. 

Finally, Hannibal’s eyes flicked down toward him, the faintest glimmer of mischief sparking there. “Would I jest about such a thing?”

“Yes,” Will deadpanned, though his pulse betrayed him with a jump. “Absolutely.”

Hannibal stepped closer, causing Will to step back. He settled the shorts over his arm.

Will looked up at him. His posture was deliberate, his voice dipping low in that same velvet way he damn well knew unsettled Will. 

“And yet… it explains so much. My palate, my… refinement, my insistence on proper presentation.” His gaze skimmed over Will with unspoken weight. “You’ve been consorting with nobility all along.”

Will snorted, but it came out too sharp, too nervous, and his cheeks burned before he could stop it. “Consorting. Jesus, you make it sound like I’m fraternizing.”

Hannibal’s lips curved, sly. “Are you not?”

The heat in Will’s face spread to the tips of his ears. He broke eye contact fast, muttering something unintelligible as he turned sharply toward a rack of shirts. His fingers worked faster than his thoughts, shoving hangers aside. Pretending he was suddenly interested in hunting down more clothes. Just to put some distance between himself and that stupid, hungry look Hannibal was giving him.

Behind him, Hannibal followed with that unhurried grace of his, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other lightly brushing fabric here and there but never truly browsing. His presence was deliberate—silent but pressing, like a shadow with a pulse.

“You’re blushing, once again,” Hannibal said softly, as an indulgent observation.

Will groaned under his breath, tugging a dark plaid flannel free and thrusting it toward him without turning around. “Here. Try this. Maybe if I bury you in enough flannel, I’ll forget you just tried to flirt your way into convincing me you’re Transylvanian aristocracy.”

Hannibal accepted the shirt with a faint hum, his fingers grazing Will’s in a brush too delicate to be accidental. “Lithuanian, Will. Please, do not demote my lineage.” He held up the flannel with disdain before placing it back, neatly, on the rack. “I don’t wear flannel.”

Will gave a short laugh despite himself, shaking his head as he moved toward the next aisle, putting space between them again. “You’re missing out.”

From behind, Hannibal smiled. Will has never been one to care about titles or the weight they carry. It was refreshing. It made Hannibal feel seen under the persona he’s had to carefully and meticulously craft since a very young age.

To others, it may look like fine, perfect casting. A beautifully constructed marble statue. Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a gentleman’s gentleman.

To Hannibal, it was cold, heavy chains dragging him down while he had to perform, every moment, every day.

Will looked back at Hannibal, playful, flirty, daring Hannibal to join him. Hannibal obliged. He doesn’t have to wear masks around Will. He can relax.

They cycled through light pastel shirts, breathable slacks, and even a few pairs of shorts. Eventually, he settled on a few items with the grace of a man conceding a battle but not the war.

Once back on the main street, the two wandered further downtown. The bars and clubs were quaint, painted in faded pastels or rusty shades, the sidewalks cracked but lively with locals. Will slowed as they passed a brick-front building with a neon sign still seen faintly in the window.

His mouth curved. “Well, I’ll be damned. That place is still here.”

Hannibal followed his gaze. “The… Doghouse? A club?”

“Not just any club,” Will corrected. “The club. My friends and I used to sneak in. Lots of good memories.” He hesitated, then glanced at Hannibal. “We should go tonight.”

Hannibal’s brow creased subtly, but there. “Will, establishments such as this are hardly my—”

“Oh, come on,” Will cut in, nudging him with an elbow. “It’ll be fun, we get to dance. And I want you to see it. Want you to… see another part of Will Graham.” He leaned in and looked up at Hannibal through dark lashes, “a side no one else gets to see.” Those same puppy eyes he got Beau with. Damnit, they were powerful.

Hannibal studied him for a long beat, the resistance softening in his eyes. Finally, he inclined his head and sighed deeply. “Very well. Tonight.”

Will’s grin was boyish, the kind that lit his face in ways Hannibal rarely saw. “Good. But before that—there’s one more thing you need.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. “Which is?”

Will pointed across the street to a window display: sturdy denim jeans, checkered flannels, and boots arranged beneath a sign boasting something gaudy and western.

“You, my dear friend,” He grabbed Hannibal’s hand. “ —are getting a flannel and some jeans. You’re gonna stick out like a sore thumb there, even with your new duds.” 

Hannibal followed his gaze, his lips pursing in faint horror. “Will…”

“Non-negotiable,” Will said firmly, already steering him across the street. “You’ll thank me when nobody pegs you as a tourist before you hit the door.”

“William. You would have me dress like some sort of—?” Hannibal balked as he was guided—more pushed along—towards the storefront.

“No,” Will interrupted, ignoring the fact that he was just about to disrespect flannels. Thems fighting words. “I’d have you blend in. And maybe—just maybe—enjoy yourself for once without worrying about looking like you stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine.”

Hannibal’s sigh was long-suffering, but Will caught the glint of amusement beneath it as he straightened up and started walking towards the store.

“Denim,” Hannibal muttered. “How… cliche,”

Will smirked. “Welcome to the South, Doc.”

The bell above the door jingled as Will ushered Hannibal into the little western-wear store. The air smelled faintly of leather and pine, racks of jeans, jackets, shirts, and flannels lined the walls, while boots in every shade of brown and black lined the shelves.

Hannibal paused inside as if he had just stepped into another planet. His eyes skimmed the displays, hands behind his back, unimpressed. “I feel I’ve been lured into a trap.”

Will smirked, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Not a trap. Just… a beautiful transformation”

“Won’t it be hot?” Hannibal said, actually sounding slightly exasperated.

“Not with these, light cotton flannels breathe, especially if you wear a tank top underneath it, and…. These jeans should fit but not be too snug.” Will said as he began pulling items from the racks. Jeans in varying cuts, flannels in different plaids and colors, and a few pairs of boots. He piled them into Hannibal’s reluctant arms and herded him toward the changing booth.

“Go on,” Will said, grinning. “Show me the new you.”

Hannibal disappeared behind the curtain, emerging first in light blue jeans and a red flannel. He stood stiff, hands at his sides, expression dour.

Will giggled and shot a hand to cover his mouth. “You look like a ranch hand who reads Russian poetry out loud to his cattle. Next.”

Hannibal’s brow creased, and a mutter in Lithuanian under his breath followed as he retreated. The next attempt was better—dark jeans, paired with a pale gray flannel. Cleaner, more fitted.

“Closer,” Will admitted. “But still not quite it.”

It was the third attempt that left Will silent. Hannibal stepped out in dark grey denim, fitted perfectly, paired with a deep green flannel that drew out the rare sharpness of his maroon eyes. The sleeves were rolled to his forearms, veins catching the shop light, and the boots were simple, light, but grounding.

Will stared a moment too long. “Yeah,” he finally breathed. “That’s it.”

Hannibal raised a brow, amused by Will’s sudden quiet. “Approval at last?”

“More than approval,” Will said before he could stop himself. “You look… good.” His voice had gone softer, betraying more than he intended.

Hannibal stepped closer, the curtain of the booth brushing against his shoulder. “Good?” he echoed, tone rich with invitation.

Will swallowed, caught between a laugh and something else entirely. “Better than good. You might actually pass for a local.”

“I hardly consider that a compliment,” Hannibal teased, though his lips curved faintly, pleased by the effect. He lingered close, so close Will could smell the faint cedar of the flannel mingling with Hannibal’s own cologne.

“Careful,” Will murmured. “If you stand any closer, you might just convince me you actually like this.”

Hannibal tilted his head, voice low. “And, what if I do?”

The air between them was charged, humming with something new and unspoken. Will looked away first, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Then we’d better buy it before you change your mind.”

Hannibal let the curtain fall back into place, but not before brushing his hand deliberately against Will’s as he retreated. “As you wish.”

Will exhaled, steadying himself, then called out, “We’re definitely keeping the green flannel.”

From inside the booth, Hannibal shakes his head and chuckles, then catches himself in the mirror. He looked… different. Not in a bad way either. Will was right, he did look good in a flannel.

“Hey, can we stop by this park on the way back?” Will asked Hannibal as they entered the Bentley. 

“Rest stop?” Hannibal asked.

“Not exactly.” Will smiles and looks outside the window. “Just… want to show you something.”

The park was old, worn at the edges, abandoned. A cracked fountain stood at the edge of the rusted and worn-down playground, wildflowers pushing stubbornly through the cracks.

“Why are we here? It looks dilapidated.” Hannibal asked Will as he followed him towards a path that led through the woods.

“My parents used to take me here; it was great and also awful. Got hurt a lot here, these old metal playgrounds sucked.” He chuckled. “But it was still fun.”

“What happened to it?” Hannibal asked.

“Eh, I dunno, they stopped taking care of the place, s’all I know.” Will led him along the winding path, boots crunching over fallen leaves, until they came to a massive oak tree whose trunk grew sideways into a curve, and you could practically walk up the tree. Its roots sprawled across the ground like thick veins, the bark scarred with initials carved decades ago.

“Spent half my summers here,” Will said softly, pressing a hand to the trunk. “Used to climb all the way up to that pine tree, see where they connect? I’d watch the sunsets up there. Felt like the whole world belonged to me.”

Hannibal touched the rough bark beside Will’s hand, imagining the boy who had once scrambled up its limbs, solitary and stubborn. “A fortress,” he murmured.

Will smiled faintly. “Yeah. Guess so.”

The evening light fell warm across his face, turning the curls around his temple to gold. Hannibal studied him a beat too long before tilting his head, almost idly. “Will, you never mention any friends…”

The question made Will shift, his hand dropping from the tree as though he suddenly felt exposed.

“That’s ‘cause I didn’t really have any growin’ up.” He scratched at his scalp, eyes darting away toward the trail ahead. “And by the time I was in high school, I was known as the weird kid. And to be honest, I kinda was.” He let out a short, self-conscious laugh. “I cringe at the behavior I expressed when I was younger.”

“Behavior?” Hannibal prompted gently, his tone curious but sharp. What ‘behavior’ could Will of all people have had that would have left him… ostracized?

Will sighed. “I… didn’t know how to connect with people. Still don’t, half the time. I’d say things without thinking, or I’d say nothing at all, and would stare too long. People thought I was strange. Maybe they weren’t wrong.”

His hand worried at the hem of his shirt, and the laugh he gave was brittle. “They kept their distance. I kept mine. Dogs were easier, you know? At least they didn’t mind if I was quiet.”

Hannibal considered this in silence, his gaze fixed on Will’s profile. The vulnerability of the admission made Hannibal feel tender. “There is nothing shameful in solitude,” Hannibal said softly. “The world is often unworthy of differences. To withdraw from it is… logical.”

Will snorted faintly at that, though his shoulders eased a little. “Logical, huh? Doesn’t feel that way when you’re the only kid sittin’ by yourself at lunch.”

Hannibal’s eyes softened, though his voice remained steady. “Perhaps those who avoided you were not capable of understanding what they saw. A mind like yours would always have unsettled them.”

Will’s throat worked as he swallowed, glancing down at the forest floor. “Or maybe I just made it hard for people to like me.”

Hannibal leaned closer, his shoulder bumping Will’s. “And yet… here I am.”

Will finally looked at him, meeting his gaze, he smiled and kept walking. 

The path curved into a small clearing, filled with wildflowers.

“Will…” Hannibal began, but Will suddenly knelt, plucked a flower, and held it out for Hannibal.

“I… used to get my mother flowers from here.” He said, crouched down to his knees, admiring the field before him, a lost boy staring out into the unknown, yet never wavering.

Hannibal accepted the small bloom between his fingers, its fragile stem bending beneath the weight of his touch. A simple wildflower—unremarkable to anyone else—but to Hannibal, it carried the weight of something special: trust.

Will had offered him fragments before, half-confessions buried under barbs and evasions, but this—his mother—was different. This was not a story of violence or regret, not a detail dug up in therapy or in interrogation. It was tender, unguarded, a memory tied to love rather than pain.

For Hannibal, the gesture carried more significance than any declaration could. He knew the cost of such a revelation, the rawness of it. Will was not careless with sentiment. If he shared this, it meant that beneath his wariness—his mistrust, his suspicion—he was beginning to allow Hannibal inside.

Hannibal turned the flower once between his fingers, then tucked it carefully into his breast pocket as though it were priceless. His voice was soft when he finally spoke.

“What was she like?”

Will was silent for a few moments. He swallowed before speaking.

“Beautiful. She was beautiful.”

Hannibal had expected tears, but instead he looked down to find Will smiling fondly as he brushed fingers along petals and leaves.

“She’d make flower crowns and bracelets, and she’d— she made me feel pretty, but in a way that never made me feel girly?”

Hannibal was silent, letting Will speak.

“I think she knew, she always knew. Cause she even bought me boys' clothes and stuff labeled for boys, whenever I asked her.” He huffed a laugh, “Guess it was obvious, what? All the playing in the mud, loving trucks and dinosaurs—God, I ruined every Barbie she ever tried to buy me.”

Will looked up at Hannibal, “I know it sounds dumb, but I remember her the most for that. She never made me feel weird, never forced anything, just let me grow up and be myself. I loved that about her.”

Will’s smile wobbled, but he kept it composed; he refused to cry.

Hannibal’s heart ached; he felt the pang of memories long since shoved away come forward at the mention of loss, but most of all, it ached for Will.

The way he spoke, the softness in his voice, the way the dying sunlight gilded his curls in copper. Watching Will there—unguarded, absorbed in something that mattered only to him—was like seeing sunlight after an endless winter.

Will understood the pain of loss—something they have in common.

“She would have been pleased, I think…” Hannibal spoke softly, “to see that her son still loves, and offers flowers.”

Will’s eyes flicked up, startled, then softened. Hannibal did not press further. He didn’t need to. The silence was heavy with what Will had entrusted him with, and Hannibal found—unexpectedly—that it humbled him.

He realized, with a clarity that cut through every game and mask he’d ever worn, that he was far past admiration. He had fallen, deeply and inexorably…

And the strangest thing was… he didn’t mind.

“Will,” Hannibal said softly.

Will glanced up, still crouched, eyes curious. “Hm?”

But Hannibal didn’t finish the thought. He only offered his hand, helping Will back to his feet.

Will raised a brow at him but said nothing, instead smiling that quiet little smile—the one that made Hannibal’s pulse stir.

“Come,” Hannibal said at last, smoothing his sleeve. “We should get ready for tonight.”

Chapter Text

The club consumed them whole the second they crossed the threshold. Neon spilled across scuffed floorboards, broken by the shuffle of boots and sneakers. By the glint of glasses raised in laughter. By the shimmer of sweat on skin as bodies pressed close on the floor. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol and fried grease—humid in its own way.

Will paused just inside, taking it all in.

He looked younger in that moment, shoulders loose, a smile tugging at his mouth.. He was wearing his own flannel and boots; the flannel was checkered in red and black, and his jeans were as dark as his boots. In this lighting—with his dark curls bouncing as he moved—he looked breathtaking.

He turned and faced Hannibal, blue eyes turned sterling, glinting with something close to mischief.

“Not bad, huh?”

Hannibal smoothed the front of his new dark green flannel as he looked about. Will was beginning to learn that it was a nervous tic of the Doctor’s.

“It is… spirited,” he replied just over the thudding, muffled music.

“Don’t worry,” Will said, grinning. “You’ll blend in.”

Hannibal initially felt the outfit was too much—especially given the heat.

However, true to Will’s words, it was light enough for the warmth, and they were by far not the only ones wearing a similar outfit.

Jeans and boots weren’t his natural attire, but here, he found something strange; here, he found anonymity.

No one craned their necks to glance at him. No one whispered.

He was not a spectacle, not a host, not even a royal.

He was simply a man in a club, in Will Graham’s orbit.

The relief startled him.

They claimed a small table near the edge of the dance floor. Will fetched them two cold, sweating beers.

Having made his own personal brews, Hannibal regarded his drink with a mix of suspicion and resignation. Though he took a polite sip, finding it to be not wholly unpleasant.

The music shifted from one song to the next, pulsing through the speakers.

“The club isn't the best place to find a lover

So the bar is where I go…”

The crowd came alive.

Will lit up instantly. “Oh shit! This is a good song to start off with!”.

Hannibal raised a brow. “You know this song?”

Will set down his beer, eyes glinting. “Know it? C’mon, Hannibal, you’ve never heard this? Come with me.”

Before Hannibal could blink, Will was pulling him—dragging, really—towards the floor. Hannibal resisted on instinct, boots catching against the planks, until he found himself standing at the edge of the dance floor beneath the colored lights.

“And then we start to dance, and now I'm singing like—”

Will let Hannibal go and began to dance around, slowly moving into the crowd. Hannibal knew he was trying to coax him.

Hannibal hesitated, looking about before he followed and watched as Will began to dance, really dance.

“Say boy, let’s not talk too much.”

And God, how he moved. He was just shaking his hips in a sway, but it was hypnotic.

He wasn’t just dancing—he was daring Hannibal to see him in a different light.

Hannibal stood frozen, heart drumming, a rare pulse of disbelief threading through his calm exterior. Will Graham—quiet, private, built of shadows and restraint—was incandescent.

“Come—Come on now, follow my lead.”

Then Will turned, catching Hannibal’s eye, and beckoned with a wiggle of his finger.

A challenge

“I’m in love with the shape of you—”

Hannibal hesitated. He did not know the steps. And yet—wasn’t that the point?

“ —we push and pull like a magnet do”

Will’s grin was sharp with invitation, daring him to risk embarrassment, to surrender control.

“Although my heart is falling too—”

Something in Hannibal thrilled at the demand. Slowly, he stepped forward.

“ —I’m in love with your body.”

Will rewarded him instantly.

“And last night you were in my room—”

Hands slid down Hannibal’s sides, finding his hips with a confidence that bordered on intimate.

“ —and now my bedsheets smell like you.”

He showed him the rhythm. Hannibal followed—tentative, then sharper, his body learning, adapting.

“Every day discovering something brand new—”

Then Will’s hands found Hannibal’s sides, holding them close.

“ —I’m in love with your body.”

Oh—and how they moved. Will led and did so well, using Hannibal’s size and weight for balance. And when Will leaned in close enough that their chests brushed, when his laughter spilled warm against Hannibal’s throat, guiding him further, something inside Hannibal flared hot and unfamiliar.

“See?” Will teased, voice low but audible over the music. “Not so hard.”

Hannibal’s lips curved faintly. “I’ve had… different lessons.”

Will giggled at that, and Hannibal smiled all teeth.

“Lesson one, Doc: letting go,” Will said as he spun back into step with the music, pulling Hannibal along. The two of them moved together as one, rhythm twined them closer and closer until the air between them felt charged and alive.

Towards the end, Hannibal even added his own moves, stepping back and forth, having Will follow him in a dance of steps. It wasn’t anything really, unoriginal—but it felt right.

By the time the song ended, Hannibal’s composure was mainly intact—his collar sat askew, his eyes bright, his cheeks just faintly flushed. Will smiled upon seeing him let loose like this. Hannibal seemed to be actually enjoying himself.

Will leaned close, voice brushing against Hannibal’s ear as the crowd clapped for the next song. “Not bad, Doc. Not bad at all.”

Hannibal exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. “You are a horrible boy, Mr. Graham.”

“Yeah,” Will murmured, smirking as he pulled back. “But you like it.”

Hannibal didn’t deny it.

By Americano, Hannibal was much more relaxed. He found the intro to be amusing, especially with the way Will danced up to him, clapping in time with the beat. It also left him feeling flattered; he couldn’t help but join in, people watching be damned.

But, he kept pace. Surprisingly, this dance involved legs and moving with each other more efficiently, yet they glided effortlessly.

Suddenly, came the next lesson. One Hannibal would not forget anytime soon.

Loud bass thumped as the opening growl of Cannibal hit the speakers, and the crowd erupted in a scream that rolled across the dance floor like a wave.

The bass dropped, heavy and unapologetic, smoke from a machine filled the floor, and neon lights stuttered across the writhing bodies. Hannibal had just spun Will out and reeled him back in when the song began, its first lines slashing through the air—brazen, predatory, dripping with innuendo.

“Carnivore, Animal, I am a cannibal
I eat boys up, you better run—”

Hannibal froze for the briefest moment, his brow arching in amused recognition. The title “cannibal” repeated, shamelessly and loudly, and a faint gleam lit in his eyes, one borne of both amusement and something darker. He bent his head, lips brushing Will’s ear, voice curling like smoke.

“How curious,” he purred. “Cannibal?”

Will took a second, then realized how close the words “Cannibal” and “Hannibal” were and barked out a laugh, his grin wild and unguarded, curls damp against his temples from the heat of the room. He didn’t miss a beat, moving with the rhythm as though it lived in his blood. “Perfect song for you.”

“I do hope,” Hannibal replied, mouth tilting into a dangerous smirk, “you’re not implying anything too sinister.” He looked around. He couldn’t see a damn thing in this fog. “How does one even dance to this?”

Will closed the space between them, chest pressing flush to Hannibal’s, his hips falling naturally into the thrum of bass. “Relax, Doc. I’ll show you.” His hands slid down, fingers curling around Hannibal’s wrists before dragging them to his waist. He anchored them there, firm and deliberate. “Lesson two: dirty dancing.”

The crowd blurred into heat, smoke, and noise—nothing but shadows at the periphery.

The hook was in, and Hannibal could feel the line tugging deep. His heart was suddenly hammering.

Will’s body rolled against his, slow and sinuous, his shoulders loose, his head tipped just enough to expose the curve of his throat.

Hannibal’s breath stilled.

“I am cannibal, cannibal, I’ll eat you up…” The crowd cheered.

Tentative at first, he followed. He was not a man accustomed to surrendering control, especially not to the reckless sway of bodies on a dance floor. Yet Will led with a confidence that made refusal impossible. Slowly, Hannibal’s movements sharpened, the measured shift of his hips deliberate, his hands tightening their hold at Will’s waist as though he might stake a claim.

Will arched closer, dragging himself up along Hannibal’s frame, hips grinding with delicious friction. His grin was wicked, teeth flashing in the strobe of lights. “There you go. Now you’re getting it.”

The lyrics throbbed around them, playful and hungry. Hannibal matched them note for note, leaning until his mouth hovered at the hollow of Will’s ear, close enough that his words vibrated against flushed skin.

“You realize,” he murmured, his chest pressed fully to Will’s now, “that this song makes… interesting declarations.”

“Your little heart goes pitter-patter…
I want your liver on a platter—”

Will’s answering laugh was shaky, though he never broke rhythm. He dipped, sliding down the length of Hannibal’s body only to rise again in a single, smooth roll, their hips colliding with a sharp jolt of bass. Hannibal’s gaze tracked him with the same unwavering gleam of a predator, eyes dark and dilated.

“I eat boys up—”

“Maybe I want you to keep some of them,” Will whispered back, grin curling, his voice nearly drowned by the music.

“ —you better run…”

Something in Hannibal’s composure fractured—not outwardly, never outwardly, but beneath the surface, the rope of restraint snapped. He spun Will quickly and sharply, pulling him chest to back, hands sliding up from the narrow line of his waist to the breadth of his ribs before trailing back down, commanding.

He surged forward, guiding the dance now, his grip dictating every roll, every shift of Will’s hips.

Will gasped at the sudden control, laughter spilling bright and breathless. One hand clamped over Hannibal’s, where it rested at his hip, the other found the back of his neck, anchoring himself to the contact. He let himself be steered, surrendering the lead but never the challenge in his grin.

“I’ll eat you up…” the chorus chanted again, relentless. Hannibal bent his head, teeth grazing just behind Will’s ear, his voice a dark hum beneath the crash of sound.

“Oh, Will,” he growled enough that Will could feel it vibrate low in his spine, smooth and dangerous. “You’ve no idea how perilous it is to tempt me so.”

A shiver raced down Will’s spine, but instead of pulling away, he pushed back, their bodies sealed together, the air between them electric, what had started as dancing blurred into something rawer, more primal—less choreography than claim, less rhythm than revelation.

The chorus hit once more, and Hannibal spun him again, fast enough to draw a startled laugh from Will. He caught him against his chest, holding him as if they were meant to slot together.

Will’s breath came in ragged bursts, his grin fierce, defiant, absolutely feral. Hannibal’s smile was sharp, devastating, all teeth and edged with promise as they continued to sway.

The song crashed to its end, the final beat rattling the floorboards, and the lights flickered out in a sudden blackout before pulsing back to life.

Hannibal’s hand lingered, heavy and possessive, at Will’s waist. His mask of composure still intact—but his eyes glowed with heat, hunger, something unspoken yet undeniable.

Will leaned close, chest still heaving, lips brushing Hannibal’s jaw as he whispered, “Told you you’d like it.”

Hannibal’s smile deepened, dangerous and indulgent. He tilted his head just enough that his breath skimmed Will’s cheek, his voice velvet and unyielding.

“Oh, I more than like it, Will,” he murmured. “I intend to make a feast of it.”

The crowd hadn’t even settled from Cannibal when Will tugged Hannibal’s sleeve, jerking his head toward the bar. His curls were damp, his grin still reckless, and the flush high on his cheeks looked far too good under the neon glow.

“Drink?” Will asked, beers clearly forgotten, not waiting for an answer before weaving through the press of bodies.

Hannibal followed at an unhurried pace; his posture, for once, lacked its usual immaculateness amidst the chaos of the club. He hunched like a wolf among hounds; the sleek poise now gave way to disheveled and throbbing.

Will leaned over the counter, flagging the bartender with a flick of his hand. “Two Chestbursters.”

The bartender’s brows lifted knowingly, lips quirking as though he’d seen this game played before and set to work.

Hannibal, standing just behind, cocked his head. “Chestburster?” His tone made the word sound vacant but curious, as though Will had just requested a specimen that floats in a jar.

“You’ll love it,” Will said, his grin tipping toward something dangerously wicked.

Moments later, the bartender slid two shots across the bar—each was a miniature spectacle: cream-white base, thick and heavy, with a puddle of bright crimson syrup pooling on top that looked more toxic than festive. As the glasses settled, the puddle began to bleed downward in twisting arterial ribbons, sinking into the pale liquid until it looked less like a drink and more like a crime scene.

Hannibal regarded the drinks with a contemplative air. “It’s… theatrical.”

“Mm. That’s one word for it.” Will pushed one glass toward him with a lazy brush of his finger, then picked up the other for himself. His grin widened, all teeth and mischief. “But hey—elders first.”

Hannibal’s eyes snapped to him, sharp as a knife’s edge. The look he gave Will could have peeled paint off the walls, but Will only grinned wider, raising his shot in mock salute.

There was a beat of silence, a small battle of wills in the sway of the bar. Then, with all the unhurried elegance of a man who had never once been bested—or knew what was coming to him—Hannibal lifted the glass and knocked it back in a single swallow. Smug.

Will’s grin only grew deeper, all teeth—good.

The cream struck first—velvety, smooth, almost cloying. For a fleeting moment, his palate adjusted, noting the heavy texture, the hint of vanilla.

Then the red syrup humbled him.

A violent sourness detonated across his tongue with an intensity that felt almost chemical. The syrup was no gentle citrus, no mild tartness—it was savage. A brutal bite that clawed its way across his palate and down his throat, as though someone had forced him to consume raw vinegar and something like liquid lightning.

His throat worked against the shock, the muscles of his jaw tightening involuntarily, lips clenched at the edges. His nostrils flared, eyes narrowing to slits, and his composure fractured so sharply that he had to curl one hand around the bar for balance.

It was the kind of sour that bypassed a civilized response and went straight to the nervous system.

For one fleeting, extraordinary second, Hannibal Lecter’s composure shattered.

Hannibal slammed the expression back into something controlled, clearing his throat—but too late. The damage was done.

Will saw all of it.

Will’s laugh broke out instantaneously, unstoppable and wild. He doubled over, clutching the edge of the bar, his shoulders shaking violently as the sound poured out of him. The grin on his face was helpless, unguarded, bright enough to burn.

“Oh—oh holy shit,” he wheezed between laughs, his face flushing scarlet as he tried to catch his breath. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. “That—oh god, that face—you looked like you got kicked in the teeth—” He dissolved again, nearly spilling his own drink. “Ch-cheers!” Will knocked his drink back, relishing how sour it was, his fist making contact with the hardwood bar with a silent thud. “Ohh, yup! Just as bad as I remember!”

He looked up to see Hannibal's morose expression and burst out into another fit of laughter.

Hannibal set his glass down with a grace that bordered on rude, his expression smoothing back into serenity as though nothing had happened at all. Only the faintest narrowing of his eyes and lingering burn in his throat betrayed his growing irritation as he regarded Will, who was still shaking with laughter.

“You take extraordinary pleasure,” Hannibal said coolly, “in the suffering of others.” He stepped closer to Will’s space, “Horrible boy.”

Will hiccupped on another laugh, turning his head just enough to speak, his forehead still resting against the bar. “That wasn’t suffering. That was comedy gold.” He finally looked up, grin broad and unguarded, eyes bright as he leaned briefly against Hannibal’s shoulder, still shaking with the remnants of laughter. “And it was so worth it.”

Hannibal allowed the contact, his lips twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “I see. Lesson three, then: never trust what you place in my hands again.”

Will finally caught his breath, grinning up at him, eyes still alight with amusement. “Fair, Doc. Noted.” He continued to giggle, unable to help himself, shoulders still quaking in little aftershocks.

Hannibal regarded this giggling boy, bratty, bold, and beautiful Will. Then, almost lazily, he lifted a hand and brushed his thumb across the corner of Will’s mouth, tracing idle circles.

Will’s grin softened, his breath catching in the slightest hitch, though amusement still glimmered in his eyes. Hannibal didn’t remove his hand, letting the contact linger, allowing the air between them to shift—playful banter bending toward something slower, heavier, charged.

“Your laughter is intoxicating,” Hannibal murmured, voice low enough it vibrated against Will’s chest.

Will’s throat worked as he swallowed. The grin tried to resurface, a shaky thing, but he only managed a breathy, “Yeah? Well, you were a good target for that prank.”

“Mm,” Hannibal hummed, eyes glinting like embers. His thumb traced one last, deliberate sweep at the edge of Will’s lip. “Lesson number four, then.”

Will blinked, chest tight. “Lesson four?”

“Mnhm, my own rule: Naughty boys always get put back in their place.” Hannibal’s mouth curved slowly, deliberately. The shade of scarlet that graced Will’s face and the flushed expression were not lost on Hannibal.

He leaned closer, his breath brushing Will’s cheek, the faintest ghost of cologne threading through the scents of beer and fried food. “But, since we are currently out in public, a kiss will do just fine.” His lips curled faintly, slyly, before he began to close the space.

Will’s heart was skipping beats, his breathing came out more shallow, and the grin he had was wiped off his face. The worst part? This was arousing. This wasn’t like how he usually teased; there was something adoring in it. Will’s eyes fluttered shut, drawn toward the inevitable gravity between them. The pulse of music dulled, the crowd became faceless shadows, and the whole bar seemed to hang on the edge of this one moment—

A sharp tug. A hand on Hannibal’s arm, jerking him back half a step.

A discordant note.

“Take that shit elsewhere,” a man slurred, beer clutched in his free hand, his face red from drink. He sneered between them, voice dripping disdain. “No one needs to see that here.”

Hannibal froze, still, then coiled in an instant. His eyes cut toward the man, dark and dangerous—murderous. 

But Will moved first.

He stepped cleanly between them, his jaw set, his blue eyes sharp and steely, looking like a dog bristling. “Hey.” His voice carried, low but fierce. “You don’t get to say that here, of all places. And you don’t get to touch him.”

“You two—”

“So? Mind your own goddamn business before I make it mine.” Will gritted.

The man scoffed, leaning in, but Will didn’t flinch. “You heard me. Walk away.”

There was something in his stance—something protective, unyielding—that made the larger man falter. Maybe it was the strictness in his tone, or the sturdiness in his gaze. Either way, after a tense moment, the drunk muttered something under his breath and staggered off toward the bar.

He was definitely Beau’s son.

Only when he was gone did Will step back, shoulders tight, breath quick as adrenaline coursed through him.

Hannibal watched him, stunned—stunned not by the confrontation, but by the sheer, instinctive protectiveness in Will’s every movement. He reached out, smoothing a hand over Will’s shoulder.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Hannibal murmured.

Will glanced up at him, eyes still burning. “Yeah, I did.”

Lesson five: Always protect your partner.

The music carried on, unbroken, as if nothing had happened. Around them, the crowd dissolved into a blur.

Hannibal drew Will closer again, slower this time, deliberate. “Remarkable,” he said softly, lips barely brushing Will’s temple.

Will huffed out a shaky breath, but didn’t argue. He only leaned into the sway of the dance again, closer now, unashamed. He rested his cheek against Hannibal’s chest, closed his eyes, and held him close as they swayed. 

The rest of the night passed without incident, but the mood had shifted. Will didn’t step away from Hannibal again, his presence constant—hovering close by at the bar and on the floor, brushing their shoulders together at the table, and walking side by side to the door.

The drive back was thick with silence. It was weighted, dense, every unspoken word hanging in the space between them. The hum of the Bentley's engine filled the air, headlights cutting a clean path through the dark.

Will was watching the world go by outside the window. Now and again, he would glance over at the rearview and dart his eyes away when Hannibal met them.

Finally, Hannibal broke the quiet. “You surprised me tonight.”

Will’s mouth twitched, eyes still glued to the window. “How so?”

“You are not a man who seeks conflict, not on purpose anyway,” Hannibal said softly. “Yet you stepped into it without hesitation.”

Will’s leg bounced idly as he spoke. “That guy put his hands on you. He talked shit. I wasn’t going to let it go.” He flicked his eyes toward Hannibal, quick but sharp. “Nobody talks to you like that. Not while I’m standing there.”

Hannibal’s chest tightened, the words sinking deeper than he expected. His hand left the gear shift to give Will’s thigh a tender squeeze. “You defended me,” he said, more observation than question.

Will gave a humorless huff. “Don’t read into it.”

But Hannibal’s lips curved faintly, with a knowing expression. “You misunderstand. I’m not trying to read into it. I’m simply… grateful.”

Will said nothing to that, only stared harder outside, as if searching for answers there; the faintest flush colored his cheeks under the passing lights.

For once, Hannibal didn’t press. He simply focused on the road, driving a bit more cautiously at night due to the presence of deer, which gave him more time just to enjoy the moment.

His boy defended him.

Hannibal smiled.

Chapter Text

The cabin was quiet when they returned, wind blowing gently in the trees outside. The house was dark, save for a lamp Will switched on briefly—before killing it again after groaning at the harsh light. Neither man said much as they retreated to their separate rooms.

02:14 A.M. The clock read, glaring back at Hannibal.

Hannibal lay awake. The faint hum of the night pressed in, and yet the silence inside him was louder still. He replayed the dancing, the scene at the bar, the moment Will stepped in front of him—fierce, unyielding, protective. He had not expected such devotion, such instinct, and it had shaken him..

A soft, hesitant knock at his door.

He sat up. “Come in.” He said loud enough to carry.

The door opened slowly, and Will slipped inside.

His hair tousled from restless hands, his flannel half-unbuttoned, hanging loose over nothing but briefs. The moonlight caught him in fragments—bare thighs, pale chest, the curve of his throat where the collar gaped.

He didn’t look at Hannibal at first; instead, he sat down at the edge of the bed, shoulders drawn tight, gaze fixed on his hands.

Hannibal reached for the lamp, spilling soft light between them.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Hannibal asked quietly as he sat up fully..

Will huffed. “Something like that.” A pause. “I just… I wanted to talk.”

Hannibal’s pulse quickened, though his voice remained steady. “About tonight?”

“About everything,” Will spoke with his hands, waving them about. “You… being here. Us. Whatever this is.”

Hannibal shifted closer, scooting over to sit next to Will, the mattress dipping with his weight. “And what is it, Will?”

“I dunno.” Will’s voice cracked with the admission. “I’ve spent years tying myself in knots over this—over you. And then tonight, some drunk lays hands on you and suddenly, it isn’t complicated anymore. It’s just me, standin’ there, not letting anyone touch what’s—” he faltered, then corrected, “—who’s mine to protect. Not even with words.”

The silence between them was still. Hannibal’s hand hovered, then rested lightly over Will’s, where it fisted in the sheets.

“Will,” he said softly, “you didn’t have to do that. I am more than capable of handling myself.” His thumb traced over the tense curve of Will’s knuckles. “Yet… you did.”

“I did,” Will murmured, his voice barely above the quiet hum of the night. He finally turned toward him, blue eyes catching the lamplight, soft and full of something fragile.

Hannibal leaned in, close enough that Will could feel the warmth of his breath. “And… here we are.”

The air thickened, charged with years of tension that now trembled at the edge of breaking.

Will’s gaze flicked to his mouth, lingered, then darted back up. His lips parted as though he might speak, but no words came.

Hannibal lifted his hand, cupping Will’s cheek. His touch was featherlight at first, as if he were asking permission. The warmth of Will’s skin, the rough drag of stubble beneath his palm, was grounding in a way Hannibal hadn’t anticipated.

Will leaned into it. Just enough. Enough to tip them both past the point of no return.

Hannibal moved slowly, deliberately, as though savoring the inevitability. Their mouths met—not in hunger, not in conquest, but in something gentle. Something long-denied and fiercely protected. It was a kiss that felt like hesitation and longing. It spoke of unspoken promises neither dared voice until now.

Will made a slight sound, caught between a sigh and a groan, and pressed closer, his hand fisting in the sheets again to keep from shaking.

When he pulled back, his breath was faintly uneven, his lips swollen, and his eyes wide. “This…” He swallowed hard. “This is dangerous.”

Hannibal’s hand never left his cheek. His thumb brushed over the flushed skin, soothing, devoted. “Everything worth having is.”

The words broke something in Will. He closed the distance again, the kiss deeper now, warmer, less cautious. His hand slid into Hannibal’s hair, gripping lightly, tugging just enough to draw a quiet groan from him.

This kiss deepened before either of them made the conscious choice. What started soft and tentative shifted, unspooling like a dam, breaking after years of restraint. Will’s hand tugged again, pulling Hannibal closer, his breath ragged between kisses.

Hannibal responded in kind, one hand cradling the back of Will’s neck, the other sliding down his spine to anchor him firmly. The careful mask Hannibal always wore cracked under the pressure of Will’s mouth, the weight of his body leaning into him.

Will broke away just long enough to mutter against his lips, “God, I hate how much I want this.”

Hannibal’s laugh was low, hungry, vibrating against his throat as he kissed there next. “And yet you came to me.”

“Shut up,” Will breathed, but his fingers curled tighter into Hannibal’s hair, betraying how badly he wanted this—wanted him.

The lake, the hammock, the bar, and the fact that he had driven fifteen fucking hours just to apologize—every moment of tension was ignited here, in the dark of the guest bedroom. Their mouths found each other again, more urgent this time.

Tongues brushing slowly and languidly at first, until more bite came—teeth clashing. Hannibal shifted, pulling Will into his lap firmly, and Will went willingly, straddling him with a sharp inhale.

Hannibal’s hands gripped his hips, steady, grounding him. He kissed him like he meant to consume, but every touch of his palms was careful, worshiping—as though Will might break if he pressed too hard.

Will pulled back just enough to search his face, breathless. “This doesn’t… fix everything. You know that, right?”

Hannibal’s thumb traced his lower lip, eyes dark, steady. “No. But it is honest.”

Will kissed him. Hard. Desperate.

His hips shift down against Hannibal’s. The groan of relief Hannibal gave in return was muffled between their mouths, but it went straight to Will’s groin.

Will’s weight pressed warm and solid against Hannibal.. Their mouths collided again, hungrier now, less careful. Hannibal’s hands slid up beneath Will’s shirt, tracing his sides, then his back, memorizing each muscle, each shiver.

Will gasped at the touch, breaking the kiss only to bury his face in Hannibal’s neck, nipping there, breath hot. “You make me insane,” he murmured, voice ragged.

Hannibal tilted his head back, eyes fluttering shut, savoring the confession almost as much as the teeth grazing his skin. His grip tightened on Will’s hips, guiding him closer, grinding against him until Will’s answering groan vibrated through them both.

“Will,” Hannibal whispered, voice rough, like prayer and plea all in one. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“No.” Will breathed, then looked down at where their hips were grinding against each other, feeling the obvious growing arousal there. “But I'm starting to get the idea.

Hannibal chuckled and pulled Will's hips down harder as he bucked against him lightly..

“Sweet boy, you have no idea.”

Will gasped and pulled back, eyes dark, lips swollen. He didn’t answer with words—just crashed their mouths together again, fingers clawing at the hem of Hannibal’s shirt until he could drag it up and over his head.

Hannibal, in turn, grabbed Will’s shirt and began unfastening the buttons, each one like a confession, “I missed you,” “I want you,” “I need you,”. Skin met skin, feverish and burning, every point of contact like an open flame.

The air between them turned molten. Will kissed down Hannibal’s neck, slow and aching, leaving marks in his wake. Hannibal’s hand threads through his curls, tugging just enough to draw a sharp gasp from Will’s throat.

It was messy, desperate, years of repression finally given form. Neither man is pretending anymore. Neither is holding back.

Will’s voice cracked against his ear, low and trembling but sure. “I want this. I want you.”

Hannibal’s breath shuddered as he pulled him close, their foreheads pressed together. Eyes searching and grounding. “Then have me.”

And with that, restraint shattered completely.

Because what else happens when an object in motion meets an immovable object?

They surrender.

Hannibal was a mess. 

His hair, usually immaculate, was mussed; strands falling across his forehead.

His maroon eyes burned with a hunger that was both tender and rugged. He inhaled deeply near Will’s ear, savoring the scent of him—salt, musk, and something uniquely Will, raw and intoxicating in this moment.

Hannibal’s lips grazed Will’s throat, slow and deliberate, tracing the pulse that thrummed beneath the skin like a rabbit on the run.

His hands, warm and solid, explored Will’s lean body. Fingers gliding across Will’s chest, down his arms, along his back, down his thighs. Exploring every inch of skin, he was allowed to savour.

“For one so bristly, you are deceptively soft to the touch,” Hannibal murmured, his voice a low growl, thick with desire. “Like fine velvet…”

“Did you just call me fuzzy?” Will asked, amused as his hands explored Hannibal's arms—God, those biceps…

A soft chuckle rumbled against Will’s skin, and then Hannibal nipped at his earlobe. “More like a stag’s fresh antlers. Hiding something dangerous underneath.”

The words sank into Will like a brand, equal parts warning and admiration. His arms wound around Hannibal’s shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle there. He held on—clung—though Hannibal couldn’t decide if it was to anchor himself or to pull him deeper into his orbit.

It was enough. He guided Will down with infinite care, easing him onto the sheets, the cotton cool against fevered skin. Hannibal followed, covering him with his body—an elegant cage of power and precision.

Will’s eyes roved over him, drinking in every inch, every scar, every line of restrained strength. His hands roamed with trembling worshping, exploring the ridges of Hannibal’s abdomen, tracing what life has carved into him.

When his fingertips brushed a scar right below his navel, Hannibal’s skin twitched beneath the touch. A faded memory that still burned more than words could describe.

Hannibal tensed.

He smelled blood.

“You’re beautiful,” Will whispered, the words fragile, grounding him. Will’s gaze lifted, meeting eyes gone maroon with heat and something more—something devastatingly human.

Hannibal’s composure didn’t just crack.

That old familiar monster within him breached, if only just a moment.

His kisses turned sharp. Will hissed, spurring him on, his teeth grazing past Will’s collarbone before—finally— sinking into tender flesh just shy of breaking the skin. The threat of it hung heavy between them. He could have taken more, could have let the mask shatter entirely and revealed everything that simmered beneath his cultivated surface.

He wanted to show Will who and what he was under the perfectly polished, fabricated lie that was Hannibal Lecter.

And still—Will stayed.

His breath hitched, a whimper breaking free, raw and unguarded. But instead of recoiling, he arched into Hannibal’s mouth. Took what was given and even let Hannibal feel the sting of retribution by digging nails into skin, dragging them down his back, pulling him closer—not pushing him away.

It ignited a roaring inferno in Hannibal. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, the sound of his own blood roaring in his ears as he licked over the fresh bite, soothing, erasing the edge of pain he’d left behind. Will writhed beneath him, torn between surrender and defiance, and Hannibal adored him for it.

He continued to kiss, suck, and bite his way across Will’s shoulders and neck, each mark a claim, each one a release of years of pent-up longing. The bruises bloomed darker, a map of possession, and Will’s soft gasps and choked cries only spurred Hannibal on, his lips curling into a faint, predatory smile where it pressed against skin. His hand found Will’s hair again, giving a gentle tug to expose more of his neck to him.

Hannibal’s hips found Will’s, pressing down gently, the slow grind against Will’s pelvis was a deliberate tease. 

Hannibal’s kisses trailed lower, losing their bite—for now. He kissed along the sharp line of Will’s jaw and down the center of his chest where his heartbeat fluttered against Hannibal’s lips.

Will watched him in fascination. He’s never had this kind of treatment before; it’s usually just—

No, no no, don’t go there, stay here with Hannibal.

Hannibal lingered at Will’s stomach, lips brushing the soft skin that twitched under his lips.

“Relax, Will. I promise, I have you.”

Will simply nodded, rapidly, watching him move lower still, to the sensitive crease where thigh met pelvis.

And oh—if tonight wasn’t about restraint. Will’s thighs would be a beautiful canvas… still, teeth dragged along sensitive skin, not as a threat, as a promise. 

Will’s breath hitched, a sharp intake that broke the rhythm of his panting. 

Hannibal’s fingers wasted no time hooking into the waistband of Will’s briefs and pulling them down slowly, revealing the soft, dark hair of Will’s mound and his flushed, glistening folds. There was already slick soaking the fabric of the briefs, the scent of arousal flooded his senses, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, Hannibal was ravenous. 

Will was so achingly beautiful that every fine thing Hannibal had ever savored in his life could turn to ash, and he would not mourn them.

The air kissed the wet heat, and Will’s heart hammered; his eyes were glued to Hannibal as he kissed the inside of his thigh, his lips lingering on the soft, sun-kissed skin, moving higher with agonizing slowness.

“Nervous still?” Hannibal asked, his voice casual, but his smile was all teeth—breath hot against Will’s thigh. 

Will couldn’t find his voice. Big hands slid down the younger man’s thighs, fingers tracing the curve of them before gently spreading his legs, exposing his slick, twitching hole. Will's dick was already peeking from its hood, flushed and needy. The satisfied groan that came from Hannibal caused it to swell in response.

“Never… uh, had anyone go down on me before,” Will admitted, his voice trembling, a mix of embarrassment and anticipation.

His eyes were wide, pupils blown, watching Hannibal’s every move. Hannibal wanted to be gentle, wanted to take things slow for Will’s sake. But denying them both the satisfaction felt cruel.

Hannibal raised a brow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Shame,” he murmured, before lowering his head abruptly. His tongue pressed warmly against Will’s folds in a slow, long, filthy, deliberate swipe that parted the slick lips. 

Will’s “Oh—ohh…” was a broken sound, his hips twitching as Hannibal’s tongue explored, tasting the musky sweetness of his arousal. 

The scent and taste were intoxicating, raw and primal, and all Will. Hannibal’s tongue traced higher, circling Will’s dick with a teasing flick before drawing it into his mouth, sucking lightly.  

Will’s eyes widened, then went blank, a soft “Holy shit” escaping his lips as his hands found Hannibal’s hair, fingers tangling in the strands, tugging with desperate restraint.

Hannibal hummed, the vibration sending a jolt through Will’s core, his hole clenching, slick dripping onto the sheets.

Hannibal finally pressed his tongue firmly against Will’s hole, breaching him, growling when the taste only grew richer. Will couldn’t tell what was going on at first, only that it felt really good.

But the longer he felt a warm tongue slick in and out of him, the louder his whimpering got. His hand found its way to his mouth, stifling the sounds. 

Then, Hannibal pulled back briefly. Will looked down, ready to complain, but his brain stopped working after his eyes met Hannibal’s

Will watched as Hannibal sucked on his fingers with a lewd, deliberate slowness, his eyes locked on Will’s flushed face. Will’s expression—shock, need, unraveling control—was a masterpiece, and Hannibal grinned.

He slid one slicked finger into Will’s eager hole, slow and careful, cataloging every twitch and gasp. When Will’s breath hitched with discomfort, Hannibal tested two fingers, delighted that his boy relaxed again.

The tight heat welcomed him. He pumped them lazily, watching Will unwind, his soft moans and gasps filling the room like music.

“You look beautiful like this,” Hannibal said, his voice low and worshiping, his fingers curling slightly to brush a sensitive spot inside. Will’s body responded, his insides slick and hot, the scent of his arousal thick in the air.

Hannibal groaned, biting back the urge to explore Will’s mouth, to test its softness. But tonight was for Will, for unraveling him completely.

“Hannibal…” Will whined, his voice a desperate plea, and when Hannibal slowed, Will’s “Fuck, no, don’t stop, I need you, please.” was a siren’s call, impossible to deny.

Hannibal leaned down, capturing Will’s lips in a kiss that swallowed his moans. Will groaned, tasting himself, exotic and off-putting at first. But Hannibal kept deepening the kiss, and somewhere between heavy, humid pants between kisses, Will was lost in the sensation.

Hannibal’s fingers slipped free with a wet sound. He slid off the bed, shedding his pajama bottoms, his cock sprang free—thick, heavy—the head flushed and leaking, throbbing with need.

Will’s eyes widened, a sharp gasp escaping him. “Goddamn, I thought I felt a fucking brick in your pants,” he whispered through gritted teeth, his voice rough. Eyes flickering with a dark, needy heat, his mouth watering despite himself.

Hannibal snorted, then groaned, realizing they needed supplies.

“Please tell me you have lubricant and condoms,” Hannibal whispered back.

Will’s grin was big, wolfish. Both from hearing Dr. Lecter saying something so mundane as ‘condoms’ and from amusement—the guy really was a gentleman. “Don’t need ‘em, city boy. We country boys make do.” He patted Hannibal’s arm, “I’m sterile and so long as you are clean too, have at it.”

Hannibal felt like the blood went a little too far South for a moment. He nearly swayed.

“Lubricant?” He asked dryly.

“Just use spit, big guy, come on, I’m already wet enough and you prepped me more than I do myself when I use my toys so…”

“Will, are you su—”

“Yes!... yes, I’m a big boy, Hannibal, I can handle it.” Will pleaded. “Trust me.”

Hannibal huffed a laugh. He slicked himself up with as much spit as he could, climbing back over Will, kissing his forehead tenderly before pressing his forehead against Will’s. “I’ll go slow,” he murmured, lining himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against Will’s slick entrance, parting the swollen lips with a slow, deliberate stretch.

Will gasped, hands shooting to Hannibal’s shoulders, fingers digging in as he was stretched, the smart of it mingling with a pleasure so intense it drowned out the pain.

His hole clenched, slick coating Hannibal’s cock, easing the way. Hannibal groaned something, a guttural mix of words in Lithuanian if Will had to guess, as he bottomed out, caging Will against the bed.

Will’s cry was raw, muffled against Hannibal’s shoulder, his arms wrapping around Hannibal’s back, nails dragging, leaving red trails that made Hannibal growl low in his throat.

Hannibal stilled, savoring the tight, wet heat, giving Will time to adjust.

“You can move, please move,” Will whimpered. Hannibal wasn’t going to deny his boy anymore. He began a slow, gentle rhythm, each thrust deliberate, his lips capturing Will’s, swallowing every moan.

The lamplight spread a warm glow, highlighting the sweat on Hannibal’s brow, the flex of his arms. When he pulled back, Will saw a flash of something dark in Hannibal’s eyes, a possessiveness that made his heart race.

Will’s hands tangled in Hannibal’s hair, tugging gently, his moans growing louder, he struggled to stay quiet as Hannibal’s thrusts deepened, brushing against his dick with each movement. Hannibal scooted closer, changing the angle, and Will’s mind nearly went blank.

The new angle and speed caused the headboard to knock against the wall lightly while the bed creaked, complaining under their weight and mannerisms.

“Will…” Hannibal groaned against his ear, rocking into Will’s body, “I’ve dreamt of this.” One hand gripped the sheets, knuckles white, the other holding him up as his thrusts grew sharper, more desperate. “So–so many times, I’ve—God—I’ve only been able to imagine…” His voice was strangled on words, caught between being easy on Will for their first coupling and trying to chase after a climax years in the making.

Will felt the hot coil of desire building, the press of Hannibal’s body, the friction against his dick, pushing him closer. “Hannibal, you-you—Hnng! Please!” Will grabbed onto Hannibal and pulled him closer, wrapping his legs around his back, locking him in, pinning him down. Hannibal continued his relentless pace; he didn’t seem to falter—it was there, pressed against him, enough to strain, that Will felt claimed.

“Hannibal… Han–Hann—Hannibal! Hannibal!” Will cried his name out like a prayer as he came undone, his insides clenched and fluttering around Hannibal.

Hannibal’s resolve frayed, his hips snapping harder, chasing release, staking another claim. God, he’d take anything he could get; he’d be damned if he wasn’t greedy.

“Will—where?” he growled against his neck, voice thick and rough.

“Inside! Fuck, please!” Will cried out, holding on for dear life as Hannibal’s hips stuttered.

He growled hard and loud as he came, eyes screwed shut as thick spurts of cum filled Will’s insides. Will whimpered, feeling the slick heat spread deep inside of him.

Hannibal stilled, chest heaving, a shudder rolling through him as he fought the urge to simply collapse against Will’s trembling body. His sweet boy was already breathless, flushed crimson, chest rising in sharp, uneven bursts after being pinned beneath Hannibal’s weight. The sight was both intoxicating and sobering.

Carefully, Hannibal braced himself and leaned down, brushing a tender kiss along Will’s jaw. He lingered there, tasting salt and warmth, before resting their foreheads together.

Maroon locked onto blue, a wordless tether sparking between them—something new, raw and molten, now forged in iron.

Will smiled first, faint and crooked, his lips swollen and bruised. Hannibal followed, though his own smile was softer, edged with a rare vulnerability. They both laughed, quiet and shaky, as though the sound itself might break the spell.

With reluctance, Hannibal eased out of him, the separation already feeling like a loss. He left only to fish a washcloth from his luggage and step into the bathroom. He returned with the wet and warm cloth and, with careful precision, tended to Will.

Hannibal lingered as the warm cloth in his hand moved with deliberate care, wiping away the mess of slick, cum, and sheen of sweat—smoothing faint tremors still coursing through Will’s body.

His eyes lingered on the bruises at Will’s throat, the swollen lips, the redness along his hips where hands had gripped too tightly. Pride hummed in his veins, and his hunger to claim had been sedated,  but beneath it twined a strand of unease, a flicker of doubt. Had he pushed too far, let desire drive him into something unkind?

Before the thought could take root, Will stirred. His hand, unsteady but purposeful, caught Hannibal’s wrist, halting the ritual of gentle tending. Blue eyes, still hazy with exhaustion, found him in the dim light. “Don’t,” Will rasped, his voice cracked but sure. “Don’t go looking guilty on me.”

Hannibal stilled, breath caught in his throat.

Will’s thumb brushed against the tendon in Hannibal’s wrist, a grounding touch. “I liked it,” he said, softer now, but with enough to carve through Hannibal’s hesitation. “Every second of it. You don’t need to treat me like I’ll break. I can handle… rough hands.”

A low sound escaped Hannibal’s chest, something between a growl and a laugh, his self-control fracturing in the face of such brazen honesty. He leaned down, lips grazing the edge of Will’s jaw, then his ear. “Careful, Will,” he murmured, voice dipped in velvet and sin, “such declarations will only tempt me to test the limits of your endurance.”

Will huffed a laugh, though it came out weak and breathless. His arm curled around Hannibal’s shoulders, dragging him close enough that their bodies touched once more, skin to skin, heat to heat. He wanted to hold him, and Hannibal didn’t argue, curling up with Will.

“You already did,” he said with a tired smirk. “And as much as I hate to bruise your ego, I’m not doing another round tonight. I can barely move.”

Hannibal’s teeth grazed the shell of his ear, a tender predator’s kiss. “Then I shall take that as a promise for tomorrow.”

Will groaned, shoving halfheartedly at his chest, though he didn’t let go. “God, you’re relentless.”

“Relentless,” Hannibal echoed, brushing a final kiss to Will’s temple, “only because you are worth the pursuit.”

Will sighed, the kind that surrendered rather than protested, and buried his face against Hannibal’s throat. Sleep began to pull at him, heavy and insistent, while Hannibal held him close—content to savor the aftermath, the bond forged.

Chapter Text

Will groaned as he sat up, every muscle in his body protesting, though a strange, buoyant euphoria accompanied the soreness. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh at himself or fall back into the sheets.

Something warm slid against his chest as he moved—an arm, heavy and possessive even in sleep. Hannibal stirred, shifting against him with a faint sigh.

Will glanced down and stilled. Hannibal looked impossibly serene; his lashes were low against his cheeks, his lips curved in the faintest of smiles. Peaceful. Human. Will reached down before he could stop himself, tucking a stray lock from Hannibal’s face. Two treacherous thoughts struck him at once: What have we done? And, when can we do it again?

Hannibal’s eyes opened slowly, almost amber and clear, even through the haze of sleep. The moment he saw Will leaning over him, his expression softened further into an unguarded smile.

“Good morning, Will,” he murmured, voice still groggy with sleep.

Will chuckled, the sound rumbling low in his throat. “Good morning, Hannibal.”

The exchange should have ended there, domestic and straightforward—but after a few moments, Will shifted to get up only for Hannibal to grab him and bring him back down with surprising strength, pressing a kiss to his mouth, light and sweet at first, then lingering. Will felt the curve of a smile against his lips just before Hannibal’s mouth trailed lower, brushing down his jaw to his neck.

Will squeaked, half-laugh, half-protest. “Hannibal! No—breakfast!” He squirmed as the older man nosed against the crook of his throat, leaving a deliberate hum against the tender skin.

“Breakfast is essential,” Hannibal rumbled, voice vibrating against his pulse. “But I find myself craving something far more satisfying than your father’s eggs and toast.”

The growl in his ear made Will laugh harder, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re incorrigible. I’m starving.”

Hannibal finally lifted his head, entirely too composed for someone caught red-handed. “Then we must feed you properly. I can’t have you fainting on me.”

Will scoffed, swatting him lightly before dragging himself out of bed. He found his briefs but couldn’t locate his flannel immediately, and with a shrug, pulled one of Hannibal’s undershirts over his head instead.

Hannibal froze mid-motion. The shirt was far too big, skimming just low enough to cover the edge of Will’s briefs. Worse—or better—the collar hung loose sufficient to bare his throat, which bore a constellation of fresh marks, vivid against pale skin. Hannibal’s eyes lingered for a dangerous moment before he schooled his expression into polite amusement, slipping into a sweater and sweatpants as though nothing had happened at all.

Will noticed the stillness, the look. “What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. 

“Nothing,” Hannibal replied smoothly, smile betraying him anyway.

Will rolled his eyes, ruffling his curls into something resembling casual disarray before following him toward the kitchen.

Beau was already at the stove, spatula in hand, the morning light catching in his thinning, greying hair as bacon sizzled and popped in the pan.

The kitchen was thick with the savory smell, layered with the faint bitter edge of coffee that had been sitting on the burner since dawn. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard footsteps, his sharp blue eyes landing on Will first before shifting—lazily—to Hannibal.

“Mornin’, boys,” Beau drawled. Flipping the bacon.

“Morning, Dad,” Will replied, just a little too quick, a little too chipper from his usual flat voice. He darted for the coffee pot like it was a lifeline, filling his mug to the brim and holding it with both hands, sipping as though it could shield him.

Hannibal, meanwhile, moved with unhurried grace, collecting plates and silverware from the cupboards—as if he’s lived here for years. Every gesture was calm, precise, methodical.

Beau watched them from his post at the stove, his eyes narrowing slightly.

His son was bouncing on the balls of his feet, shoulders looser than usual, wearing a shirt that looked suspiciously too big for him but just about right for Hannibal’s frame. Hannibal himself stood at ease, radiating quiet satisfaction… too much damn satisfaction.

Then Beau saw it—dark shadow like blooms at Will’s throat, bruises gathered like storm clouds against pale skin. His eyes immediately shot to Hannibal, who met his gaze, locking eyes with him.

Bastard was smiling.

Beau’s hand tightened around the spatula until the handle creaked. His eyes stayed locked on Hannibal, sharp and cold, as he snapped the burner off. Will hummed under his breath, sipping his coffee as if he had no idea a storm was coming.

“Will,” Beau said finally, his voice even and quiet. Too even. “Go feed the dogs. Take your time with it. They’ll like the company.”

Will glanced up, taken aback. “Can I eat my—”

“Now,” Beau snapped, sharper than he meant, but it got the job done.

Will blinked, surprised by the edge, but didn’t argue; he knew better. He grabbed a strip of bacon and a piece of toast on his way out the back door, muttering something as the screen door banged shut behind him.

The kitchen shrank around them.

He squared his shoulders at Hannibal. “You son of a bitch!” He hissed as he stepped closer.

Hannibal didn’t flinch. He only folded his hands behind his back, almost amused. “Good morning to you as well, Beau.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare play polite with me right now.” He jabbed a finger in Hannibal’s direction. “You’ve got some goddamn nerve. The flirting was one thing, but you’ve crossed the damn line.” Beau’s voice had dropped, gravel rough with bitter anger.”Some pompous Doctor—of-all-people comes by, takin’ advantage of my boy, you must be outta yer damn mind.”

“He’s a grown adult, Beau; he can make his own choices,” Hannibal shrugged and spoke undisturbed, then added almost sadistically, “And he did. Me.”

Beau barked. “Choice? His neck looks like he’s just come home from a scrap and got his ass handed to him! You call that a choice? More like you taking out your shit on him.”

The faintest flare of irritation sparked in Hannibal’s eyes. He stepped forward, just enough to let his height carry weight, speak for itself. His eyes looked sharp, dangerous, but his voice stayed precise, every syllable carved sharp. “You presume too much. And worse, you accuse me like a child, when you should know better. Your son is an adult. His choices are his own. He came to me, Beau, not the other way around.”

“A ‘child’? Now you listen here, it’s been plenty clear what you’ve been—” Cleary ignoring his words. Hannibal exhaled sharply.

“Beau, I refuse to be in a pissing contest over Will.” Hannibal interrupted, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve been courting him, yes, but we have always moved at his pace.”

Beau’s hand curled into a fist at his side. “You don’t get it. I’ve seen him break before, and I’ll be damned if I let you stroll in here thinkin’ you get to own him.” He looked outside, towards where Will was sitting down with his pack. “You don’t understand what it’s like to build a life only to have everything taken away,” Beau said coldly.

Oh, that’s… too far.

“I do actually,” Hannibal said, coming closer, looming over Beau, “and it’s quite rude of you to assume that I haven’t.” Hannibal snapped back, he held Beau’s gaze, “I have had everything taken away from me. I have been stripped bare to the point of public humiliation, Beau. Do not speak to me of loss.”

Then, laced with anger,

“And now, some overprotective zealot, so blind to his own son’s needs, is threatening to take it all away from me again.” His eyes were narrow, his brow furrowed, and he damn near looked like he was snarling.

It went quiet, and Hannibal’s features softened, realizing he's gone too far.

“Beau I—”

But Beau held up a hand.

It was quiet because, shit, if Beau wasn’t slightly intimidated, and… if Hannibal wasn’t right. Before the doctor arrived, Will—even though he could still have fun and enjoyed spending his time outside—was still depressed and anxious.

Most days, Will was restless, having panic attacks, wouldn’t eat much, or sleep well. Beau didn’t know how to fix that, and frankly, given the context of what had fixed it, he never could. He’d need help. He resented working on a project and needing damn help. But for his son, he’d try anything.

“I don’t wanna lose my son, I lost my Grace, I can’t lose my Will.” Beau huffed a short cough, trying to keep from rippling under the doctor.

Hannibal felt regret for his choice of words; he shouldn’t be treating Beau like he’s an obstacle.

He breathed out before pressing on.

“Beau, I’m not here to whisk your son away. I was originally going to, because your son had left a gap too big to suffer through.” He chuckled, humorlessly, “I will honestly admit, I came here out of anger. It’s why I drove, I needed to figure out why I was angry.” He shifted, his hand running through his hair as he wetted his lips, feeling bizarrely nervous, “It took two days, but I found. It’s because your son has carved himself a spot inside my chest so deep I couldn’t dig him out if I wanted to.” He frowned and drummed his fingers along the countertop. “I was the one who pushed him away. In my arrogance, I made a mistake. I can’t lose him again either, Beau.”

Beau’s expression softened; he had never heard anyone speak like that concerning his boy, and here this man was, pouring his heart and soul out.

“He allowed me back in his life, and I see how happy he is to be here. I honestly wish he had more time to spend here.” Hannibal looked back over at Beau, “But I want—need—you to understand, is, when he returns, unless you plan on moving, you won’t be able to be there to protect him.” Hannibal made sure he had Beau’s attention when he said,. “But I will be. He’ll need an anchor, and I’ll be that.”

Beau held his stare. He felt his chest swell with something he couldn’t name—the realization that Hannibal wasn’t bullshittin’ him. He was being open and baring himself at the moment.

For a long moment, neither man moved.

Then Beau chuckled, leaned forward as he blew out air sharply, and shook his head.

“You really like him, huh?” Beau asked at last. No drawl this time, no smirk. A straightforward question, as direct as a bullet.

Hannibal offered a very warm smile, “More than you can imagine.”

Beau’s jaw worked as he studied him, eyes narrowed, weighing the words against the man.

“It ain’t my place to talk about my son’s business. But…” Beau looked up at Hannibal. He felt a wave of uncertainty flood him.

“I can’t watch him get hurt again, please. Please promise me that if you’re here to hurt him, just walk out right now. I don’t think he would survive more heartbreak.”

“Beau,” Hannibal reached out to place a hand on the man’s shoulder, “I promise, your son is in good hands.” He smiled faintly, “Why don’t I show you? A demonstration of how I see Will, and an exercise in patience for Will.”

Beau was quiet; he didn’t know what to make of all this… “What’d ya have in mind?”

“Dinner.” Hannibal smiled.

The back door creaked open, screen snapping shut behind Hannibal as he stepped out onto the porch. Morning light lay golden across the grass, the dogs bounding through it in a herd, rushing and circling Will, who was trying to balance the food bucket in his arms.

Will was in the middle of it all. He grabbed a ball, made sure everyone saw it, and tossed it with impressive distance, laughing to himself as he quickly filled bowls. His curls were ruffled, cheeks pink, and when the dogs returned in a thunder of fur, he laughed and succumbed to the pile of fur, tongues, and whipping tails, like a boy who’d never grown past summers in Sulphur. The kind of sight that made the yard itself feel smaller, like all that mattered was in this one corner of the world.

The dogs began their meal, and Will had to pick up and move a few of the eager eaters crowding bowls.

“Greedy bastard,” Will muttered to Max as he pulled him off Harley’s bowl and towards his own, grinning despite himself. He nudged another dog back off Ellie’s with his knee. “You’ll all get yours, quit pushin’.”

For once, his shoulders weren’t heavy with tension. His curls, still mussed from sleep, stuck up every which way, and his mouth curved with a smile that hadn’t been there in years. He looked younger, freer.

From the porch, Hannibal leaned against the railing, watching the chaos quietly. A small, amused smile tugged at his lips, his sharp eyes softened with something warmer. There was elegance in his stillness, but beneath it, something restless—a swell in his chest as he watched Will commune with his dogs.

At length, Hannibal descended the steps, his tread unhurried across the lawn, his hands tucked neatly behind his back. The dogs caught his scent and barked at him, tails wagging furiously, but Will’s voice cut above the racket.

“Down, down—he’s not here for you,” Will said, ruffling as many heads as he could before turning his head. When he saw Hannibal crossing the grass, the grin softened but lingered. “What? My dad sent you out here to make sure I was doing my chores?”

Hannibal’s smile deepened. “No, I came for the company.”

Will shook his head, trying and failing to hide the flush that crept up his throat. He pushed himself up to stand, brushing grass from his thighs. “That sounds like somethin’ you’d say just to watch me squirm.”

“Perhaps.” Hannibal smiled. He spotted the marks on Will’s neck and smirked. Stepping closer, his voice quieter now, meant only for Will, regardless of being alone. “I have a plan for us today. If you’ll indulge me.”

Will raised a brow, cautious but curious. “Plan?”

“The farmer’s market is in town,” Hannibal explained, folding his hands behind his back once more. “There are dishes I wish to try, but more importantly, there are things I wish to teach you. Something beyond fish and bread.” His eyes softened, almost playful. “Though you do have a talent for those.”

Will let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You want to drag me to the market? You know you're gonna have a field day with that. I don’t cook, Hannibal. Not like you do.”

“That,” Hannibal replied smoothly, “is precisely why you should come with me. I would like to get a sense of where you grew up through food and culture. But I would also like to teach you something new, a lesson in patience, in care… and in feeding the people you love.”

Will froze at that, his smile faltering just a fraction. His heart gave an uncomfortable twist. He cleared his throat, looking away toward the dogs, his hands finding their way into his pockets. “You’ve got a hell of a way of dressin’ up chores.”

Hannibal gently tilted Will’s head to look up at him.

“I promise, cooking is never a chore when you are with me,” Hannibal said softly, tilting his own head in turn as he studied Will’s face. “It is an act of devotion. And you deserve to know what it feels like to prepare something time-consuming. Something that requires a steady hand and patience, much like fishing.” His smile grew fonder, something like pride… “So I have great faith in your ability to handle this.”

Will blinked, taken aback by the earnestness in his tone. He shifted on his feet, trying to disguise the way the words burrowed under his skin. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

“Only with what matters.” Hannibal’s smile was faint but genuine. “And you, Will, mean a lot to me. Your time, your thoughts, your dreams…” He pulled Will closer, languidly by his hips. “Especially your laughter.”

Will didn’t look away; he flushed crimson and muttered under his breath, “God…”

Hannibal smiled, “No, but I appreciate the comparison.” Will gave him a look of disbelief and swatted his arm.

Hannibal, on the other hand, only smiled wider, amused. He leaned just close enough that his words brushed Will’s ear. “Shall we go to the market, then?”

Will sighed, but the grin returned, crooked and fond. “I dunno… What do y’all think?” He asked his loyal pack.

The dogs barked again as if in approval—traitors—and Hannibal couldn’t resist watching how Will’s face lit with that laughter, the simple sound worth every storm that had brewed inside the kitchen.

Will smiled up at Hannibal. “Alright. Market it is. But fair warning—if you’re planning on making me eat something… exotic, I’m gonna be the one to bite you next time.” Will said, hiding his blush against Hannibal’s shoulder, remembering how that felt last night, shit hurt but in the best way.

Hannibal’s brows lifted, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare. After all, I wouldn’t want to be displaying such marks shamelessly around others afterward.”

Will chuckled and nodded along, then he paused.

“Hannibal…”

“Hm?” He hummed, the sound vibrating through Will.

“Hannibal, I forgot.”

“Oh, you very much did.” Hannibal purred, nuzzling Will’s neck, till he could press a kiss along the bite mark that was most prominent on the juncture of Will’s neck.

“What uh… what did my old man say?” Will winced, oh shit.

“Well, something about knowing how to castrate,” Hannibal recalled the last bit of their little conversation. Will snorted and broke into a laugh.

The farmers’ market stretched along a shaded park, stalls set up beneath the mossy trees. The air was thick with various scents and the chatter of the crowd as it lazily moved around the stalls.

Will shoved his hands in his pockets, walking half a step behind Hannibal, who moved through the crowd with deliberate grace, like he was inspecting an art gallery. His gaze lingered on displays of produce, goods, and handcrafted clothes and adornments.

“See anything you like?” Will asked, looking around.

“Everything,” Hannibal murmured, bending to inspect a crate of tomatoes. He lifted one, turning it in his hand, examining it. “For instance, these have been kissed properly by the sun. You can taste the difference.”

Will smirked. “You gonna kiss it too?” He cooed.

After fixing Will with a gaze that managed to get his boy flustered enough, Hannibal moved on, pausing at a stall heavy with herbs. He picked up a bunch of basil, inhaling the fragrance once before offering it to Will. “Smell.”

Will leaned in, reluctantly. The peppery, green scent hit him sharp and clean. “Okay… that does smell good. But I know what basil is.”

“What is it?” Hannibal asked.

“An… herb?” Will replied.

“It’s creation, Will,” Hannibal said with a smile. Will scoffed but held onto the piece of basil, sniffing at it now and again as they walked.

By the time they’d made it halfway through the market, Hannibal had already managed to transform the errand into a quiet performance.

As he moved fluidly through the stalls, Will witnessed how he chose his words carefully.

Two older women, charmed by his interest in their garden-grown herbs, pressed extra bundles of thyme and oregano into his hands with bright smiles. “For the handsome young Doctor,” they said and Hannibal inclined his head in gracious thanks, tucking the greens neatly into his basket.

Will trailed a step behind, watching with equal parts suspicion and rapt fascination.

Hannibal wasn’t loud, wasn’t overbearing, but there was something magnetic about the way he made each vendor feel as though their produce was the finest in the world.

He asked questions—about the soil, about the harvest, and about whose hands had pulled the vegetables from the ground—and he listened, really listened.

Will watched as Hannibal engaged with people, as if he had been a member of this community for years. Will could see the way shoulders relaxed, the way smiles bloomed wider. It was unsettling how easily Hannibal could slip into a place and belong.

At a stall brimming with bell peppers and onions, Hannibal selected each one with care, lifting them delicately as though their weight told him a story. “These will do beautifully,” he murmured, turning the curve of a green pepper in the light. A moment later, he added celery to the basket, completing what Will recognized as the beginnings of the holy trinity.

“Étouffée?” Will guessed, watching the ingredients pile up.

Hannibal’s eyes slid toward him as his smile stretched, pleased. “Precisely. Your father informed me he would be obtaining crawfish from traps today…” He lingered at a table of fresh garlic and shallots, choosing cloves as if he were selecting a fine vintage. “I thought a dish rooted in patience and depth felt… appropriate.” He glanced over his shoulder at Will. “The foundation must be sound, or the whole collapses.”

Will huffed, amused despite himself. “We’re still talking about food, right?”

“Of course,” Hannibal replied smoothly, though the flicker of his smile made Will suspect otherwise.

Will watched as he reached out for tomatoes, and he grabbed Hannibal’s wrist and shook his head.

“Well, in that case, you'd better not add the tomatoes, Dad’ll be pissed.”

Hannibal raised a brow, “Oh? Why is that? Does he dislike tomatoes?”

“Yup, and he hates ‘fancy’ food. Swears Cajun style is better.” Will shrugs as they stop at a table selling local honey and butter. Hannibal, of course, grabs one of each.

“Fancy…” Hannibal mused. He would omit the tomatoes for now. “Speaking of which, during a conversation, your father spat the word Doctor like it had venom. Why does your father have such a disdain towar—”

Will grabbed his wrist again to stop him, not hard, but jarring enough to get Hannibal’s attention.

“I know you like head games, but I am telling you now—don’t. It’s a very touchy subject for him.”

Hannibal had never seen Will look so… worried.

“Why not?” He asked softly, gently guiding Will to the side of the market, away from the main crowd.

Will wasn’t ready to have this conversation, but he knew it wasn’t fair to keep information like that at bay. He rubbed his face, exhaling sharply through his nose before looking up at Hannibal. He could do this.

“When my mother was sick, my father did everything he could to afford treatments, see doctors, keep appointments—” His voice faltered a bit, and he steadied himself with a sharp inhale of air. “And my mother kept getting worse, and needed to see specialists, it kept adding up, and she just kept getting worse! Like they couldn’t figure out how to treat her.” He grunted as he felt his throat tighten. He was already overwhelmed as it was.

Hannibal watched as Will tensed, his face flushing from the frustration. Hannibal could hear the strain in Will’s voice. He let him have the floor, quiet and listening.

He always listened.

But when he spotted tears—

—his heart sank.

For one, he has never seen Will Graham cry, and two, he could guess where this was heading. Will wouldn’t need to continue to share something so painful.

Hannibal reached out his hand to smooth Will’s curls from his forehead, gently tilting Will’s head back so that he could look up at Hannibal. The sight alone made Hannibal’s chest ache painfully so. He saw so many emotions flicker in those shimmering, greying eyes like a hurricane brewing under blue skies.

Hot, angry tears welled up and graced his cheeks, all the while Will looked like he was just stabbed and left for dead.

Hannibal didn’t need words; words were useless right now.

He set his basket down on the ground and pulled Will in for an embrace, firm and solid. Even when Will curled his face into Hannibal’s shoulder to silently scream out his frustration, he held him steady, running fingers through his hair, rubbing his back, and allowing him to come apart—muffling cries and shielding his boy from the world when he’s at his rawest and most vulnerable.

Will’s cries slowed into sobbing before dying out, sniffling. Hannibal was always the gentleman, already had a handkerchief dabbing at Will’s eyes before cleaning away dribble, paying no mind. Will was too numb from crying so hard to really put up a fight.

Once Hannibal was satisfied, he folded the handkerchief and tucked it away in his back pocket. His eyes met Will’s again, and he moved his hands to cup Will’s face, thumbs brushing gently across reddened cheeks.

Maroon holding blue, I’m here, it’s okay.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Will,” Hannibal spoke softly. He pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of burnt skin from the blood boiling just beneath it that lingers after one sheds years of bottled-up emotions. “That was very brave of you.”

The light returned to Will’s eyes as Hannibal came into view. Will trembled, realizing what had happened, and was now staring at a vast, messy stain on Hannibal’s new shirt. Hannibal kept him steady. “I-I’m—”

“Do not apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.” Hannibal gently interrupted.

“Can I kiss you?” Will asked so quickly and so quietly that Hannibal almost didn’t catch what he said.

Hannibal smiled softly, his features relaxing as Will looked better. “Darling boy, you don’t have to ask. If I’m there, I’m yours no matter how you need me.”

Will scoffed, “You’re ridiculous… thank you.”

Hannibal’s smile grew fonder, “You’re very welcome.” He let Will lead, let his boy kiss him with a gentle press of his lips against his while he kept them both steady. It was soft and tender—another thank you.

After a few moments to decompress, they returned to the market. “You do realize you just managed to turn grocery shopping into some kind of social event,” Will muttered as Hannibal reached out to gently tug him out of the way of other patrons.

“I find food is a natural bridge between people,” Hannibal replied, glancing at him sidelong. “When one gives their labor, their pride, their identity… I give appreciation in return; how I show it is up to me.” His gaze lingered on Will a beat longer than necessary. “It is a fair exchange.”

Will understood the undertones of what he meant and looked away shyly, focusing on a dog trotting past with a beaten-up stick in its mouth. By the time they reached the end of the street, Hannibal’s basket was heavy with the makings of étouffée: vegetables, herbs, spices, even two crusty loaves of bread for sopping up sauce.

Will was walking in front of Hannibal on the way back. He turned to peek at Hannibal and caught the subtle strain in Hannibal’s posture as he adjusted the basket in his grip. The thing was weighed down, heavy with everything they’d gathered. Will reached out, brushing his fingers against the handle.

“Here—let me carry it for a while,” he offered, his voice low, casual. “You’ve been hauling it this whole time.”

Hannibal only tilted his head, eyes flicking briefly toward Will before turning back to the street ahead. “It is hardly a burden at all.”

Will frowned, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Hannibal, it’s packed full. I can take it.”

A quiet hum, deep in Hannibal’s chest, his refusal both gentle and firm. “No, Will. Allow me.”

The simple dismissal made Will pause. Usually, he might have pressed. But as he looked at Hannibal—the straightness of his back, the care in his tone—it dawned on him why the older man refused. Hannibal wasn’t just being stubborn. He was protecting him now.

Will’s gaze slipped downward, catching the faint, irregular stain across Hannibal’s shirtfront. Dried streaks, dulled now by time, but undeniable—the remnants of his tears, his grief pressed hard into Hannibal’s shoulder when the world had cracked open and he hadn’t been able to stop it.

Hannibal hadn’t flinched. He hadn’t stepped away. He’d held him there and taken it, letting Will unravel against him without shame, helping Will unload a burden that had been weighing on him, taking what he carried. Now, with the weight of the basket in his hands, he was quietly making sure Will wouldn’t have to bring anything at all—not even groceries.

Will’s throat tightened, not with tears this time, but something steadier, warmer. He slowed his steps until he was walking in rhythm beside Hannibal, no longer reaching for the basket.

His lips curved faintly, the smile hesitant but real. He let the thought settle, unspoken, lingering like a truth he wasn’t ready to say aloud but needed Hannibal to feel anyway.

He slowly reached a hand for Hannibal’s.

“Hannibal—”

“Will? Will Graham?”

The voice stopped him short. Will turned, brows furrowed, scanning the crowd, until his gaze landed on a vendor waving enthusiastically from behind a table stacked high with jars of preserves and jewel-toned jams. Recognition hit him almost at once, and his brows lifted.

“Max?” he said, stepping closer, surprise warming into a grin. “Max! I’ll be damned—it’s been a long time.” 

Max’s grin spread wider, boyish as ever despite the gray beginning to creep into his hair and the laugh lines etched around his eyes. He came around the table and clapped Will heartily on the shoulder. “Too long. Look at you, Baby Graham. You finally grew a beard—miracles do happen.” He gave Will a quick once-over, then let out a low whistle. “And what’s this? You’re practically glowing.” Then, grinning, he leaned forward on the stall. “Who’s responsible for that?”

Will rolled his eyes, about to deflect with a muttered quip, but the words never had a chance to leave his mouth. Hannibal had noticed his absence from a few stalls down.

“That would be me,” Hannibal said smoothly, his voice carried the warmth of courtesy, though sharpened just enough to make the point clear.

His hand came to rest at the small of Will’s back. A motion that earned a light shiver from Will. He was claiming the space with an ease that felt both natural. His gaze lowered to Will, and in the softened curve of his mouth, in the soft glint of his eyes, was the kind of fondness that made Will’s pulse skip.

Max blinked, caught by the subtle intimacy of the gesture. He leaned a little closer to Will, his smirk unchanged since college. “Well, well. Who’s this then? A friend of yours?”

Will’s mouth opened, then promptly betrayed him by failing to produce a coherent answer. He stammered, his ears heating, and Max’s grin only deepened.

“More than a friend,” Hannibal supplied calmly, dipping his head ever so slightly. There was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt—just certainty delivered with a kind of quiet finality that left no room for misinterpretation.

“Dr. Lecter, it’s a pleasure to meet a friend of Will’s.” Hannibal extended a hand.

Will shot him a look, startled and wide-eyed, but Hannibal’s face remained serene, unreadable, save for the faintest suggestion of satisfaction at the corner of his lips. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Max said, shaking the older man’s hand. “About damn time.” With a wink, he stepped back behind his table to greet another customer, leaving Will standing beside Hannibal, cheeks pink and mouth pressed tight in a thin line of disbelief.

They moved back into the flow of the market together, heading back for the truck, Hannibal’s hand brushing lightly against Will’s as though testing how much he could get away with.

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” Will muttered, eyes fixed stubbornly ahead.

Hannibal’s mouth curved, just enough to show that he’d done it deliberately. “Would you have preferred I said less?” His tone carried the faintest thread of teasing, the predator feigning innocence.

Will gave him a sideways glance, his lips twitching despite his effort to stay annoyed. “So, what does ‘more than a friend’ mean? Are we—what? Boyfriends now?” He said it half-jokingly, though there was a nervous hitch to the question, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted Hannibal to laugh it off or confirm it.

Hannibal didn’t laugh. Instead, he reached down, interlaced their fingers, and gave the faintest squeeze, his thumb stroking deliberately against Will’s knuckles. His smile was soft, but there was something in it that rooted Will to the ground—a promise, a claim.

Will swallowed, flustered, before muttering under his breath, “Boyfriends, then.”

The word tasted strange on his tongue; it felt weird to put a label on themselves finally, but Hannibal’s answering smile made it feel inevitable. Will looked away quickly, trying to will the color from his cheeks, but he had a hard time when Hannibal squeezed his hand and started leading them through the market.

By the time they looped back toward the truck, Hannibal’s basket was heavy enough that the straps strained against the seams.

“So, you planning on feeding half the parish, or just me?”

“Just you,” Hannibal replied with an even, unbothered tone. He brushed his hands together delicately, as though dusting off invisible dirt. “And your father, of course. But it is high time I teach you how to cook with artistry in mind.”

Will raised a skeptical brow, his mouth quirking. “In my dad’s kitchen?”

“In our kitchen,” Hannibal corrected smoothly, as though it were the most natural substitution in the world.

Will choked on a laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, good luck with that...”

Chapter Text

When they pulled into the gravel drive and lugged the damn basket inside, Beau was already in the kitchen, cleaning. He turned at the sound of the door opening and stopped cold when he saw Hannibal unloading produce onto the counter like an invading army establishing camp before moving towards the knife block and cutting board.

“What in the hell—Hang on, I thought—” Beau sputtered, eyebrows climbing as Hannibal grabbed the whetstone. 

“I’ll be making dinner this evening,” Hannibal said smoothly, his voice carrying the steady authority of a man declaring fact, rather than asking permission, walking back towards the knife block. “You’ll forgive me if I borrow your space.”

“Borrow—” Beau’s eyes cut sharply toward Will. “Son!?”

Will leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, doing his best not to grin. “I heard him.”

Beau pointed a spatula like a weapon. “I’ve been cooking in this kitchen near thirty years. Ain’t nobody ever told me to get out of it.”

Hannibal didn’t so much as blink. He plucked a knife from the block, testing its weight as he rolled it between his fingers with unsettling ease. “You may attend to boiling the crawfish, Beau, if you like. But tonight,” Hannibal smiled, all teeth, knife in hand. “I am in charge.”

Beau’s mouth fell open like a man witnessing sacrilege. “You’re lettin’ him do this?”

Will shrugged, failing to hide the laughter bubbling up. “I’m not letting him do anything. He’s… hard to argue with.”

“Hard to argue with?” Beau muttered, tossing down his towel and glaring at the counter like it had personally betrayed him. “I’ll tell you what’s hard to argue with—a man takin’ over another man’s kitchen. That’s a damn sin.”

Hannibal’s lips twitched faintly, though he resisted taking the bait. He slid a cutting board into place and set a piece of paper upon it with reverence, a lone sacrificial lamb to test the sharpness of the blade. “I assure you, Beau, you will not regret surrendering control.”

Will watched in fascination as Hannibal began to sharpen the blade with practised ease, like he wasn’t afraid of slipping loose.

Beau crossed his arms and sank heavily into a chair at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, the very picture of a man prepared to witness a disaster. His eyes narrowed as Hannibal began slicing the paper with buttery smooth ease, each cut clean, deliberate, beautiful.

“You’re usin’ my best knife,” Beau muttered darkly.

Hannibal’s gaze flicked up—polite, but razor sharp. “It deserves to be used. Neglected tools are a tragedy.”

“Neglected—! I sharpen that blade once a week.” Beau looked personally affronted.

Will leaned against the counter near Hannibal, “Don’t mind him, Hannibal. He gets territorial.”

“I noticed,” Hannibal said without missing a beat. He drizzled olive oil into a pan, tilting it to coat the bottom before setting it on a warming burner. “I respect territory, Beau. But tonight, you are my guest. I must insist.”

“‘Guest,’ he says. In my own damn house.” Beau shook his head before heading outside to set up a boil for the crawfish, regardless.

By the time Beau returned, the boil was underway, and Hannibal had laid the knife flat on the cutting board, with a neat row of vegetables arranged like soldiers at attention. He turned to Will, eyes bright with quiet intent.

“I’ll need to borrow you as well,” Hannibal said, extending a hand toward him as though inviting him into a waltz rather than a kitchen task.

Will arched a brow. “Borrow me?”

“For assistance,” Hannibal replied smoothly, his tone polite but carrying that unmistakable edge of possession. “You showed me how to dance, Will. Tonight, I will show you how to cook properly. Refinement has its own rhythm.”

Beau stills as he reached for his mug and gave a sharp snort of a laugh. “Now wait just a damn minute. First, you move into my kitchen, now you’re claimin’ my boy for your sous-chef? You said you were just gunna throw a little dinner party. Good luck gettin’ him to sit still long enough to mince.”

“These will be diced, actually,” Hannibal corrected, and Will couldn’t help the chuckle that came from him. Hannibal inclined his head toward Beau, respectful but unyielding. “I promise you, Beau, he will return to you intact. But, for now,  I require his hands and his attention.” Hannibal looked at Will and softly chided. Will was grinning into his shoulder, fighting back laughter, seeing his dad put in his place was new. Hannibal, however, knows how to get his boy’s attention easily.

Beau’s eyes narrowed, but his glare didn’t quite have the fire it should. “Mm-hm. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Hannibal stepped behind Will, hand guiding him toward the counter. Three glossy green bell peppers waited beside the onion and celery. “First lesson,” Hannibal murmured, lowering his voice as though confiding in him, “Cooking is not chaos. It is structured. Your ‘Holy trinity’: green peppers, onions, and celery. Together, they create the foundation. Without them, there is no dish.”

Will picked up the knife, glancing at Hannibal with the faintest trace of nerves. “No pressure then.”

Hannibal’s hand settled lightly on his wrist, steadying him, and he spoke softly. “Curl your fingers to keep them protected. Respect the edge.”

Will exhaled, setting the blade against the pepper. His first slice was uneven, a clumsy stumble, and he huffed in frustration. “That wasn’t graceful.”

Hannibal leaned closer, his breath now grazing Will’s ear, his hand guiding the motion. “Again. Lift with confidence, lower with purpose.” He moved Will’s hand in his, allowing him to feel the motion again. “It is not brute force that yields precision—it is grace. As in dancing, strength is wasted without control.”

 “Breathe, Will. Let the knife move as though it is a part of you.”

Beau, at the table, rolled his eyes. Lord, have mercy. He’s makin’ a sermon out of peppers. But he continued to watch his son.

Will tried again, and this time the slice came out thinner, better for dicing. Hannibal’s mouth curved, approval written in the smallest shift of his eyes. “Better.”

Will shot him a crooked grin. “So I’m trainable, huh?” 

“Exceedingly,” Hannibal said, almost fond. “Again.”

Will’s smile beamed up at Hannibal. This was new, Will had to admit; he didn’t really eat many vegetables, and when he did, they were usually precut. He hates the time it takes to cut and always does a terrible job at it, but seeing that he can do it, it lit a fire in him. Soon enough, he was moving on from slicing to dicing.

Beau’s hands tightened around his mug, but his expression was no longer sharp. He wasn’t blind—he saw what Hannibal was really doing. 

Hannibal was teaching his boy patience.

Will, who so often rushed, stumbled, or carried too much in his head, was slowing down, following direction, finding calm in the rhythm. And Beau, against his will, felt a flicker of pride as he watched it happen.

The pepper hit the hot oil first, followed by the celery and the onions. Soon, the kitchen is filled with a deep, savory perfume.

Will was sautéing the vegetables, while next to him, Hannibal prepared the roux, whisking flour into butter until it browned, turning nutty and rich. Hannibal added it to the skillet as he narrated each step with patient elegance, guiding Will’s hands to stir, to fold, to season with a precise pinch of spice.

Hannibal didn’t hand-hold; he guided Will, instructing him how and when to do something with ease. Will kinda got flustered a few times, especially when he felt hands on him, manhandling him into position or moving around him.

Will, his tongue caught between his lips and teeth, his brow furrowed, watched Hannibal like an artist watching his canvas take shape.

Beau, sipping his coffee, finally let out a low breath. His judgment eased, shoulders loosening as he admitted—if only to himself—that maybe this wasn’t about someone stealing his kitchen or his boy. Perhaps it was about someone giving Will something he hadn’t had before. Maybe for once, everything in his world wouldn’t be whisked away again by some vain prick.

Patience. Focus. Refinement even…

And damn it, Beau thought with a grudging warmth, he could ease down. Relax for now.

Hannibal plated carefully, ladling the glossy étouffée on a plate before topping it with rice. Then, almost as if it was a ceremony he stepped aside and gestured for Will to take the dish to his father. Will hesitated for a moment, staring down at the dish. It looked beautiful. He was caught off guard that he… made this.

Will carried the steaming plate to the table, looking a little sheepish. “Don’t hold it against me if it’s terrible. He supervised every step.” He set down the plate before his father.

Beau eyed the dish with suspicion, spoon in hand. He took one cautious bite, then another. His face softened despite himself. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Good ‘damned’ or bad?”

Beau scooped up another bite, this time with a chunk of crawfish. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste, before shaking his head. “Boy, this tastes like you’ve been standin’ at my stove for years. Balanced, not too heavy, not too spicy. Rich as sin. You actually… did this?”

Will flushed, rubbing the back of his neck and looking down at the plate. “With a lot of direction, yeah.”

Beau set down his spoon, looking between his son and Hannibal. For the first time all day, the hard line of his mouth eased. “I’ll be honest with you, Will. I never woulda have thought I’d see you have the patience for a dish like this. But you listened, you learned, and you pulled it off. That’s somethin’ to be proud of.”

Will blinked, caught off guard again. He looked up at his father and smiled softly. “…Thanks, Dad.”

Beau leaned back in his chair, pipe-rough voice softened by the food. “And it’s damn good too.”

He jabbed his spoon toward Hannibal, though the gesture was less accusation than reluctant respect. “You, you actually managed to teach my boy somethin’, I appreciate it.”

Hannibal inclined his head, not gloating, only acknowledging. His gaze lingered on Will with a warmth that didn’t need words. “It was always his to learn. I merely provided the framework. I’m very proud of him as well.”

Beau grunted, but there was no venom in it this time. He returned to his plate, savoring each bite more slowly now, a hint of pride slipping across his features whenever his eyes flicked back to his son.

Will felt his chest tighten at the sight. He was being celebrated. By his father. By Hannibal. By the food he had coaxed into life with his own hands. He ducked his head, took a seat, and a flush rose to his cheeks, smiling faintly at the steaming dish in front of him.

But when he lifted his eyes to watch Hannibal sit down, when he met Hannibal’s eyes, the smile faltered. He didn’t mean to look too deeply, but he did—and what he saw shook him. Hannibal’s mask was still in place, elegant as ever, yet behind the stillness, Will caught it: a glimmer of pain, hunger, loss. He saw snow, blood, and a memory that never left. It was there in the lines of his mouth, in the faint tension at the corners of his eyes as he stared at his own dish. A vault tightly shut, but not impenetrable.

Will’s chest ached. More sensations filled him.

He had created this dish with his own hands, spun from the earth’s simplest offerings into something delicate, something layered, something powerful. He felt the rush of it—a godlike surge. Is this what Hannibal feels every time he cooks? The thrill of control, of creation? The power of turning suffering into something exquisite?

He tore his gaze away, but the thought followed him, clinging.

He eats and crafts meals, not just for subsistence but because it’s tied to something. Something happened. It’s trauma disguised as art.

He understood now—why Hannibal turned every meal into a ceremony, why the table was always an altar, why his insistence on cultivation and refinement went beyond vanity. It wasn’t performance for the sake of performance. It was therapy. It was survival. It was the way he kept the hunger and the loss at bay.

Raised a noble man, held back by internal suffering.

Will’s heart softened in recognition. Hannibal wasn’t the only one who had built walls out of grief. Will knew that ache intimately, and though he wouldn’t pry—not yet—he wouldn’t let Hannibal slip by untouched forever. Not when Will had been forced into his own confessions. Fair is fair, Doctor.

Later, when Beau had eaten his fill and excused himself to the porch with his pipe, the table fell quiet. The steam rose from the pot, the room still heavy with the perfume of peppers and stock. Hannibal moved gracefully as always, plating a second round of food, his hands precise, movements deliberate.

Will leaned back, still watching him, then said under his breath, “I get it now.”

Hannibal’s brow arched, though his expression betrayed no surprise. “And what is it that you believe you understand, Will?”

“This.” Will gestured with a loose hand, encompassing the room, the pot, the table, the aromas clinging to the air. His voice was low, thoughtful. “Why you do it. Why you cook for people. It isn’t just food. It’s…” He faltered, eyes narrowing slightly as he searched for the right words. “It’s control. Creation. Something therapeutic. A release.” His gaze softened, gratitude threading into it, turning loss into something beautiful.

For a long moment, Hannibal simply looked at him. His dark eyes were unreadable, fathomless, but then his features shifted—subtle, softening into approval, into something gentler still. “Precisely.”

Will felt the corners of his mouth lift. A small smile, shy but sincere. “Thank you. For sharing it with me.”

Hannibal set the plate aside, his hands folding with the same deliberation he gave every act. Then, with no grand gesture, he reached across the table and took Will’s hand in his own. His hold on him was steady and sure. “And thank you, Will… for listening.”

Beau lingered long enough to pour himself another glass of ice-cold sweet tea before he set it down with a satisfied grunt. He leaned against the counter for a moment, surveying the room, his son, and Hannibal with a guarded expression that carried more ease than it had earlier. Finally, with a groan in his joints, he pushed himself upright.

“Well, I’m callin’ it a night. Been a long day.” His voice rumbled low, worn but teasing.

As he passed Will, he clapped him on the shoulder with a thud that spoke more of affection than admonishment. His tone slipped into the theatrical, drawl, dramatic enough to make Will roll his eyes. “Don’t let him touch my knives, boy.”

“I won’t, Father,” Will fired back, his palm finding his father’s shoulder, matching the playfulness in kind.

Beau looked back at Hannibal then, his face unreadable, before giving a short nod. “Goodnight.”

The crickets and frogs outside sang through the open window, blending with the faint tick of cooling metal pans and the gentle clink of glassware as Hannibal started to clear the table.

Will began scrambling to start stacking plates, his hands restless. “You don’t have to—”

“I insist,” Hannibal interrupted, already beside the sink. He’d folded his cuffs back neatly, wrists bared to the glow of the overhead light, movements deliberate as always. He turned on the tap, letting the water run until it steamed, before slipping the first plate beneath the stream. The sound of it filled the room, steady, unhurried.

Will cocked an eyebrow. “You cook, you don’t clean. That’s the rule.”

“Not in my kitchen,” Hannibal said smoothly, his voice carrying the faintest undercurrent of amusement. He flicked a glance sideways, catching Will’s gaze with a glint in his dark eyes. “And tonight, this was my kitchen.” He smirked.

Will huffed a quiet laugh, dropping the dishes beside him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Hannibal’s reply was calm, but there was a note beneath it, low and softened, something that warmed more than the steam curling from the sink.

Will leaned his hip against the counter, watching him. The sight was dissonant yet strangely right — Hannibal Lecter, sleeves rolled and hands submerged in suds, tending to dishes in his father’s kitchen. There was no performance now, no carefully curated spectacle—just the quiet precision of a man doing something with care.

Without thinking, Will reached for a towel and began drying each plate Hannibal passed along. Their fingers brushed once, then again, lingering just a breath longer each time. Deliberate, not quite accidental. Each touch sent a thread of heat curling low in Will’s chest, winding tighter.

“Y’know,” Will broke the silence, his voice rougher than he intended, “I think my dad actually likes you. Not that he’ll ever say it out loud.”

“Mm.” Hannibal set another plate into the drying rack, the motion fluid, unhurried. “Approval is a complex currency. It is often withheld, rarely granted. But I am… patient.”

Will smirked faintly, drying a plate a little too quickly before setting it down. “Patient, huh? You?”

Hannibal turned his head then, meeting Will’s eyes fully, gaze unwavering and sharp with something unspoken. “When it comes to things worth waiting for… yes.”

The words hung there, thickening the air between them.

Will’s hand stilled on the towel. He swallowed; his heart was drumming far too rapidly in his chest. “Damn,” he muttered, barely above a whisper, “you make it hard to breathe sometimes.”

Hannibal’s lips curved, subtly but unmistakably, the barest hint of a smile. “Good.”

After the last dish was dried and stacked neatly away, Will cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet kitchen. He flicked the towel onto the counter with more force than necessary. “We should… do something that doesn’t involve you staring at me like you’re about to dissect me.”

Hannibal, sleeves still rolled, turned his head slowly. His eyes were calm, but they glinted in that knowing way that always made Will feel too exposed. “A diversion, then,” he said smoothly, as if he’d been waiting for Will to suggest it.

“Yup,” Will muttered. “A movie. Dad’s got that old vintage TV and a box of DVDs in the den.” A crooked smirk tugged at his lips. “He’s got some real gems from the dollar bin. Think ‘low budget’ as a genre.”

Which was how they ended up slouched side by side on the sagging green couch that had seen better years. The television screen flickered, casting a blue glare. They had chosen some early 2000’s horror film about some disease that causes people to turn rabid. Hannibal found it fascinating, if not utterly cheesy with the CGI cheap scares and jarring music.

Will leaned back, arms crossed, pretending indifference. The rabid grandma shrieked across the screen, pale face lunging from the dark with all the subtlety of a carnival funhouse, and his shoulders jerked despite himself. His pulse kicked against his throat, betraying him.

Hannibal didn’t so much as blink. If anything, the corners of his mouth curved faintly as he let his arm settle casually along the back of the couch, brushing just behind Will’s shoulders.

“You’re enjoying this,” Will muttered, eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen.

“I am observing,” Hannibal corrected mildly, his voice low and steady. “Fear response is a fascinating thing. Your pupils dilate. Your breathing quickens.” His head angled slightly, close enough that Will felt the warm brush of his words against his temple. “And, at present, you are gripping my shirt for dear life.

Will glanced down, realizing with a flush that his hand was fisted tightly in Hannibal’s button-down, knuckles white against the fabric. He let go immediately, flexing his fingers as if to prove a point. “I’m not scared.”

“I never said you were,” Hannibal replied, smile spreading wider. He shifted, fluid and deliberate, pulling Will into the curve of his body, slotting them neatly together on the couch. His arm settled around Will with a certainty that allowed no argument. “But I could use the company.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Will huffed out a breath, caught between amusement and something warmer, and let himself relax, leaning into Hannibal’s chest.

His ear pressed against the steady rhythm of Hannibal’s heart, and though the film kept tossing rabid humans at the screen, their impact dulled. Each jump scare landed softer, less cutting, as if Hannibal’s presence absorbed the sharp edges.

By the time the credits rolled, the room was thick with the hum of crickets outside and the faint static buzz from the DVD player. Will pushed off the couch too quickly, stretching like he’d been waiting for the excuse. “Well. That was lame,” he announced, his voice louder than necessary. “The monsters weren’t even scary.”

Hannibal didn’t call him on it. He only regarded Will from where he sat, expression infuriatingly patient, gaze steady as if he could see straight through the deflection.

Will rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but at him. “I think I’ll—turn in,” he muttered, already retreating toward the hall, shadows swallowing him up.

“Sleep well,” Hannibal’s voice followed, calm and confident, carrying through the dark. It lingered in Will’s ears long after he disappeared down the hall and into the dark.

The house creaked and groaned throughout the night. The stark sounds of the Bayou mixed with Beau’s snoring wasn’t helping sooth Will into a restful slumber. The night pressed heavily against the windows, shadows swelling thick across the warped floorboards.

Will lie stiff on his narrow bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling where the plaster has cracked into crooked lines that could almost be constellations if he stares long enough. Every creak of the old house made his pulse leap, his body tightening before logic had the chance to intervene.

Ridiculous, he told himself. He was too old for this. Too grown to be lying awake like some kid spooked by campfire stories. He wasn’t scared. Just… restless. Restless in a way that had nothing to do with horror films or Beau’s lumbering snores.

Some water may help.

With a sharp exhale, he shoved the blanket aside. The boards whispered cold under his bare feet as he padded across his room, shadows licking at his ankles. When he opened his door, he spotted a ribbon of lamplight spilling into the dark corridor, coming from Hannibal’s room. It was both an invitation and a taunt, daring him to come closer.

He paused with his hand hovering above the frame, and told himself this was absurd. And then, without giving himself time to think further, he pushed the door open.

Hannibal was awake—of course he was. He sat upright against the headboard, a book balanced loosely in one hand, reading glasses perched low on his nose. The lamplight painted his face in soft amber, gilding the clean line of his jaw and glinting faintly in his eyes. He looked up slowly, almost lazily, as though Will’s appearance had not been a surprise.

“Will,” he said, voice rich and steady.

Will cleared his throat, keenly aware of the picture he made: A dress shirt and long legs covered only by boxers, barefoot, hair mussed, lingering in the doorway like a boy caught sneaking out of bed. “Couldn’t sleep. Too many creepy sounds.”

Hannibal closed the book with exaggerated care, fingers smoothing over the cover before he placed it neatly on the nightstand. “This house is ancient,” he said smoothly. “Its bones creak, its timbers sigh. Such sounds can rattle even the bravest of men.”

Will snorted, though his feet had already given him away, carrying him forward. Before doubt could twist him back to his room, he climbed onto the bed, sprawling across the top of the covers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Arms folded behind his head, he forced nonchalance into his posture—like he was the one allowing Hannibal’s company, rather than seeking it.

Hannibal’s gaze lingered on him, long and steady, and dissecting. “You needn’t pretend,” he said after a beat. His voice was soft, almost gentle, which somehow stung more than mockery. “If the film unsettled you, there is no shame in seeking comfort.”

“I’m not unsettled,” Will muttered, pulling a corner of the blanket over his chest anyway.

One of Hannibal’s brows twitched upward, a flicker of amusement he didn’t bother to disguise. He reached for the lamp. “No? Then you won’t mind if I turn out the light.”

Will’s hand shot forward, catching his wrist with more urgency than he’d intended. “Leave it.”

The air thickened instantly, the pause stretching deliberately. Hannibal’s eyes fell to Will’s grip, lingering there with quiet satisfaction before lifting back up to his face. The corner of his mouth curved up, smugly.

“Of course,” he murmured. But instead of leaning back, he shifted closer. Turning Will onto his side and slotting himself against Will’s back. He was lazy, draping an arm over Will’s waist as though it were the most casual choice in the world. The weight was solid, steady—far too intentional to be mistaken for casual.

Will tried for indifference, but his exhale came too slow, too relieved, betraying him. “You’re impossible,” he mumbled into the pillow, voice rough.

“Mnm,” Hannibal breathed, his lips hovering close enough for his words to graze the shell of Will’s ear, “you crossed the hall to seek me out.”

Will made a face at the ceiling, muttering, “Here I am…” softer than he meant to, stripped of sarcasm and armor alike. The words hung between them like a confession he hadn’t chosen but couldn’t take back.

Silence settled—thick, but not oppressive. Beneath it all, Hannibal’s hand stayed at Will’s waist, thumb sketching lazy circles against the thin fabric of his shirt. Each touch was subtle, maddening, a game of patience he knew he was losing.

The silence stretched comfortably. Hannibal’s hand remained warm and steady at Will’s waist, thumb tracing idle, lazy circles through the fabric of his shirt. Each pass sent a subtle current through him, making the quiet feel less oppressive, more charged.

Will huffed a laugh into the pillow, muffled and rough, as though humor were the only way to cut through the dense charge between them. “Y’know,” he said, voice low and a little strained, “I haven’t felt this on edge since I was a kid.”

“Most children fear the unknown,” Hannibal replied smoothly, his tone carrying that subtle, lilting edge he wielded like a scalpel—never sharp enough to wound outright, but precise enough to slip neatly under Will’s skin. “But if you’re truly too shaken, I could always fetch your father for you.”

Will barked a laugh before he could stop himself, startled and genuine. He turned his head just enough to glance sidelong at Hannibal. “Yeah, if you can even wake him up. Guy sleeps through hurricanes. Once, when I was fifteen, a tornado siren went off and he just kept snorin’.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed faintly in consideration, as though weighing the details for what it revealed about Beau Graham, and about Will. Then, with deliberate ease, he hummed, “Suppose you’ll have to find a substitute.”

The words were deceptively casual, but the pause afterward carried too much weight. It was bait—perfectly placed, perfectly timed. Will’s brain tripped over the implication a fraction too late, leaving his cheeks to blaze hot under the warm lamplight.

He opened his mouth, intending to fire back something biting, clever, sharp enough to slice through the trap Hannibal had laid.

Nothing came. His lips parted, closed again, helpless. He turned quickly, burying his face deeper into the pillow as though it might shield him from Hannibal’s gaze. The cotton muffled the sound of his own unsteady breath, but not the heat crawling shamelessly up his throat and into his ears.

Hannibal, naturally, noticed everything. He always did. His smile curved with satisfaction and patience that Will despised. As if Will’s blush, his silence, his inability to parry back, had confirmed some hidden suspicion.

The thumb that had been idly tracing circles at his waist continued its languid motion, steady and unhurried, each pass a reminder that Hannibal was perfectly comfortable here, perfectly in control, while Will fought the war inside his own chest.

The half-dark wrapped around them, heavy with warmth and something else Will refused to name. He huffed into the pillow, restless, and hoping he wasn’t opening a can of worms… he finally muttered, “Remember when I said you were old enough to be my dad’s age?”

For a moment, Hannibal went still, his chest rising against Will’s back. Then came the low, velvet hum of amusement, vibrating through him.

“Mhm. I recall. An observation you made with such conviction.” His hand traced an idle path along Will’s ribs, deliberate in its unhurriedness. “And here you are, curled in my bed. Such a telling development.”

Will flushed, tugging the blanket higher. “Don’t start.” His voice caught at the edges, unsure if it sounded more like a warning or a plea. “Did you… actually like that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Hannibal’s lips grazed the soft curl of hair behind Will’s ear, his breath warm.

“You offered me a role most men would shy from, but I relish in the responsibility. A mentor you can lean on. A guiding hand in the dark. Protector even in the darkest of times.” His tone dipped lower, savoring each word like a glass of wine. “Or perhaps…” he paused, the silence thick with promise, “…Daddy.”

Will groaned, shoving the blanket to his nose as though it could block the heat crawling down his neck. “You’re—god—you’re insufferable. Forget it.”

“On the contrary,” Hannibal murmured, voice steady as a hand at the small of his back, “I am observant. You wanted comfort. You wanted me. And somewhere, deep inside, you wanted someone who knows how to take control and wield it. You, my boy, require a Daddy.” The word lingered between them, teasing and weighted all at once.

Will’s breath stuttered, sharp and traitorous. He twisted, trying to glare, but Hannibal’s eyes gleamed beneath the lamplight—mischief layered over iron control.

“That’s—” Will’s voice cracked before he could stop it. He pressed his lips together, scowling at the pillow. “That’s not… don’t.”

“Ah,” Hannibal drawled, pleased. “Mnhm, but, do you really want me to stop, William?” He nuzzled the back of his neck, “Or are you deflecting again, denying yourself?”

Will swallowed hard, his pulse drumming against the very arm Hannibal had wrapped snug around him. When he refused to say anything, Hannibal drew him closer, chest to back, until the older man’s steady heartbeat reverberated through him, grounding and unyielding.

“You are safe,” Hannibal whispered, lips brushing his ear like the promise of a kiss. “Safe with me. Safe enough to call me whatever you wish.”

Will squeezed his eyes shut, his blush scalding. “…You’re such an ass,” he muttered into the dark.

“And yet,” Hannibal purred, his tone velvety again, “you’re still here.”

Will groaned and dragged the pillow over his face, as if fabric could shield him from Hannibal’s satisfaction. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Hannibal’s brow arched, mock offense laced with warmth. “You were the one to note my age, my experience. Old enough to be your father.” His lips curved dangerously close to Will’s ear. “Such a naughty thing to say to your therapist. Do you regret your accuracy now?”

Will peeked out from under the pillow, cheeks scarlet, glaring. “I was making a point.”

“And you made it well,” Hannibal murmured, entirely unfazed. “I am older. Wiser. More experienced. Qualities,” his mouth ghosted against Will’s temple, “a boy like you might find… reassuring.”

Will glared at the side wall, the blush on his face reaching his ears.. “God, you never let anything go, do you?”

“Not when it’s this entertaining.” Hannibal’s gaze slid down, patient and predatory. “You squirm so beautifully.”

“I am not squirming.” He was.

“You are,” Hannibal said smoothly. “Even now, fidgeting beneath the covers, avoiding my eyes. Afraid if you look too long, you’ll unravel.”

Will, annoyed at the silence that followed, risked a glance—and instantly regretted it. Hannibal’s faint smile was insufferable, his glasses slipping low on his nose, the very picture of smug composure.

“You’re smug. And creepy,” Will muttered, yanking the blanket to his chin.

“Smug, certainly. Creepy?” Hannibal’s chuckle was warm, infuriatingly so. “If I unsettled you so deeply, Will, why are you in my bed?”

Will opened his mouth, shut it again, and scowled upward. “…I hate you.”

“Mm.” Hannibal’s smile softened, a predator’s grin disguised as affection. “How tenderly you lace want into those words.” His arm tightened, pulling Will closer with quiet authority. “Repeat it. I’ll still hear ‘desire’.”

Will groaned, defeated, and pressed his face to Hannibal’s shoulder, voice muffled. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” Hannibal murmured, pressing a kiss to Will’s curls, “you came to me. Exactly what a Daddy is for.”

Will jerked back to glare, eyes wide. “Stop calling yourself that.”

“Then stop reacting that way.” Hannibal’s gaze glinted with wicked satisfaction as he chuckled.

Will groaned again, dragging the blanket over his head as though it could erase the words—and the way his chest betrayed him with the dangerous comfort of it.

“Good night, Will.” Hannibal hummed.

“...Night…” He said, a little too softly.

He refused to admit he slept more peacefully that night than he had in years.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was already alive by the time Will padded in. Barefoot and rumpled, rubbing at one bleary eye. He grumbled something unintelligible.

The hiss of protein scramble in the pan, the low hum of the coffeemaker still warming on the counter, the faint clink of Beau’s spoon against his mug—it all wrapped around him in the kind of familiarity that felt like childhood mornings, though there was a new element now:

Hannibal Lecter at the stove.

Will’s father sat at the table in his usual spot, paper folded wide across his hands.. His big frame looked almost relaxed, shoulders loose under the soft plaid shirt he’d pulled on. A mug of coffee steamed in front of him, his pipe waiting for him on the table, his ritual.

“’Bout time you crawled outta bed,” Beau grunted rather loudly when he spotted his son..

“Morning to you, too,” Will muttered, voice still rough with sleep as he made for the coffee pot. His hair was sticking up every which way, his T-shirt skewed off his shoulder, and he tried not to think about why that was.

Behind him, Hannibal moved with calm precision, spatula in hand, the sleeves of his crisp shirt rolled high on his forearms. The smell of the egg scramble and butter filled the room, thick and mouthwatering.

His voice when he spoke made Will nearly stumble.

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal drawled, turning just slightly, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. His eyes lingered on him a beat longer than necessary, glimmering with quiet amusement. “Did you sleep well, darling boy?”

Will’s fingers tightened on the handle of the coffee pot, nearly sloshing the liquid over his knuckles.

That velvet voice rang in his head, low and taunting from the night before: Precisely what a Daddy is for. His ears burned hot. He lifted his mug like a shield, sending Hannibal a glare over the rim.

If Hannibal noticed his look, he didn’t care. His mouth curved subtly, yet smugly, before he returned to the task.

Will sat heavily at the table, letting the newspaper rustle as he disturbed Beau’s space. He could feel Hannibal’s presence even with his back turned—could feel him watching, waiting, pulling at the edges of Will’s restraint.

When the scramble was done, Hannibal slid it neatly onto a platter and carried it to the table with a grace that seemed out of place for breakfast. He set the plate down between Will and Beau, then leaned close as he straightened, his voice dipping into a register meant for Will alone, gravel-soft and devastating.

“Not so restless when your Daddy held you, hm?”

The words seared. Will choked hard on his coffee, coughing into his mug as heat flared through his face.

Beau’s newspaper snapped down an inch, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t spill on the tablecloth. Your grandmother decorated that.”

Will waved him off, still sputtering, coughing into his sleeve. He shot Hannibal a look across the table—murderous and pleading all at once—still, Hannibal had already schooled his features into placid serenity, folding himself elegantly into a chair opposite Beau.

“Coffee?” Hannibal asked smoothly… Already reaching for the pot.

Will blinked. Hannibal said that rather loudly…

“Mm?” Beau grunted, distracted as he smoothed the corner of his paper down enough for Will to spot it.

His hearing aid sat charging on the counter, gleaming under the kitchen light.

Will’s eyes snapped to it, realization crashing down like cold water. His father hadn’t heard a damn word—relief warred with panic in his chest, leaving him clammy and cold.

Hannibal’s gaze followed his, precise as always. He took in the hearing aid, then flicked his eyes back to Will, the movement slow, deliberate. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, his expression serene but his eyes alight with private mischief.

Will shook his head sharply, mouthing, “Don’t you dare.”

Hannibal only leaned in, his voice pitched low, just under the hum of the fan. “Please, pass the butter, Will.” He waited till Will’s fingertips just brushed the butter dish. “Or must Daddy do everything for you?”

Will’s hand jerked, nearly sending the butter dish flying. He caught it at the last second and shoved it across the table with a glare. “You’re unbelievable.”

The rustling of a newspaper interrupted the tension. Beau’s voice came without looking up. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Will snapped too quickly.

Hannibal spread butter across a slice of toast with surgical calm, as though nothing at all were amiss. He laid the golden slice gently onto Will’s plate beside his egg scramble and grits, his expression almost saintly—save for the faintest curl at the edge of his mouth.

“Eat, Will,” he murmured smoothly. “You’ll need your strength for Daddy later.”

Heat crept up Will’s neck. He wanted the floorboards to split wide and take him down.

Beau lowered the newspaper finally, eyes narrowing as he studied the two of them. First Will, flushed and fidgeting. Then Hannibal, serene and unreadable.

He looked back at Will and nodded in his direction. “You’re actin’ strange,” he said flatly.

Will stiffened. “Strange how?”

“Like a pup caught with his nose in the pantry.” Beau’s gaze pinned him, the kind of look that had made Will squirm since childhood. He sipped his coffee, slow and measured. “Something you wanna come clean about?”

“Nope.” Will stuffed half a slice of toast into his mouth, chewing as though it might save him.

Hannibal, of course, met Beau’s stare without the faintest hint of guilt. “Everything is perfectly ordinary,” he said loud enough for Beau to hear..

“Ordinary?” Beau’s voice was thick with disbelief. He jabbed his fork toward Will. “Boy’s redder’n a crawfish. You sick?”

“I’m fine,” Will muttered, his grip on the fork white-knuckled.

Beau leaned back, chair creaking, eyes narrowing further. “You two up to somethin’?”

Will nearly choked on his toast. “What? No!”

Hannibal finished chewing, and he swallowed, smirking to himself.  “Will was restless last night. He came to me for comfort.”

Beau’s brow arched. “Comfort, huh?”

Will froze. His stomach dropped to his feet. “It’s not—Christ, it’s not like that,” he bit out, glaring daggers across the table at Hannibal.

But Hannibal leaned back, calm as ever, his eyes glinting with wicked amusement. “Quite like that, actually.” He let his gaze linger on Will, voice dropping to something lazy and dangerous. “He sleeps best when his Daddy is near.”

Will’s fork clattered against the plate. “Jesus Christ—!”

Beau looked up sharply. “What was that?”

“NOTHING!” Will barked, far too fast. His face burned scarlet.

The silence stretched taut as a wire. Beau’s eyes moved between them, suspicion written plain. Hannibal only sipped his coffee, patient and serene, while Will huffed and started stabbing at his grits and eating them with grit himself.

Finally, Beau grunted and shook his head. “Mm. Long as you’re not touchin’ my bourbon, I don’t give a damn.” He snapped his paper back open, muttering under his breath.

Will sagged in his chair, dragging a hand down his face, pulse hammering in his throat.

Across the table, Hannibal’s lips curved in the smallest, most devilish smile. He lowered his voice, just for Will, tilting his head with a smile that showed teeth.

“Careful, Will. You wouldn’t want your father knowing you call me Daddy t—.”

Will’s foot shot out under the table, catching Hannibal’s shin with enough force to rock the dishes. Beau’s “BOY!” Rang out and. Hannibal didn’t so much as flinch. He only smiled wider, as if the sting were nothing more than another secret they shared.

After breakfast, Beau had taken his coffee and pipe out onto the porch, his boots creaking across the planks as he settled into his chair with a sigh that carried decades of routine. The screen door slapped shut behind him, leaving the kitchen to Hannibal and Will.

Will stood at the sink, stacking plates with unnecessary force. The ceramic plates clicked with every movement; his muttering was just loud enough to betray his irritation, but not his words. His shoulders were tight, jaw locked.

Behind him, Hannibal moved with languid ease, drying his hands on a towel before plucking Beau’s abandoned newspaper from the table. He unfolded it with practiced grace, scanning the headlines with polite disinterest until something small in the corner drew his eye.

“Ah,” Hannibal murmured, a quiet note of satisfaction under the word.

Will didn’t turn, just narrowed his eyes at the sudsy water. “What?”

“Nothing of consequence.” Hannibal’s tone was deliberately smooth, as if that might deflect Will’s suspicion. He tapped the advertisement once with a long finger before folding the paper neatly and setting it aside. “Merely an opportunity.”

Will finally glanced over, suspicion written across his face. “For what?”

“A gala,” Hannibal replied, as though it were self-evident. “Black tie. Champagne. Music and dancing. Proceeds go to the local children’s hospital.” He let the details unspool lazily, then tipped his head toward Will, a smile curving his lips. “I imagine you would look stunning in a suit.”

Will snorted, shaking water from his hands before jamming another dish into the sink. “Stunning? I look like a damn used car salesman when I put on a suit.”

“Not at all.” Hannibal stepped closer, his voice softening as if it were meant only for Will. “You would look devastating. Especially in my arms.”

Will froze mid-motion, then shot him a sharp glare over his shoulder. “Absolutely not. Don’t even start.”

Hannibal’s mouth quirked, unbothered. “No?” He spoke the word with mock innocence, though his eyes gleamed. “You dragged me into a pit of neon lights, cheap beer, and pounding bass. I survived. Now it is your turn. A proper evening, Will. Where you cannot disappear into the crowd or hide behind excuses.”

Will crossed his arms, water dripping from his fingers onto the floor. “I’m not ballroom dancing with you.”

“Mm,” Hannibal hummed, as though he hadn’t heard the refusal at all. His gaze lingered deliberately on Will’s flushed face. “I can see it already. You in a tuxedo, eyes catching the light, flushed from the music. My hand, steady at your back, guiding you through the steps…” He let the image hang, then added, slyly, “You’d behave, of course. After all, you’ll have to mind your Daddy in public.”

The dish towel slipped from Will’s hands as if it burned him. “Oh my God. Stop saying that.”

“Why?” Hannibal tilted his head, studying him with feline curiosity. “You react so beautifully. One might think you liked it.”

Will’s face heated, the color crawling back up his neck. “I don’t,” he bit out. But even to his own ears, the denial sounded thin.

“Then, why are you blushing?” Hannibal’s tone is velvety smooth and smoky now, teasing without mercy. 

Will swore under his breath and turned back to the sink, his grip on the counter too tight, his shoulders wound taut as wire. “You’re the worst.” He shot over his shoulder.

“I may be, but,” Hannibal murmured as he closed the space between them, his lips close enough that Will felt the whisper of his breath against his ear, “you’re already picturing it. The music, the suit, the dance… and me.” His hands slid down Will’s sides, firm and steady, before coming to rest on his hips, dragging Will closer.

Will’s breath hitched. His hand clenched around the edge of the counter so hard that the wood creaked. He didn’t look at Hannibal, couldn’t, because the truth of it was too plain in his chest. “…fuckin’ fine....”

“Good,” Hannibal said simply, stepping back with maddening calm. His smile lingered, slow and knowing, as he turned toward the dish rack as though nothing at all had been said. By the sink, Will stood rigid, cheeks hot, his pulse still hammering—and no matter how hard he tried, the image Hannibal had painted refused to leave his mind.

Late morning found Will standing in front of a tall three-way mirror like a man on trial at the only storefront Hannibal deemed worth their time.

The harsh lights above caused him to sweat yet made the charcoal suit gleam faintly, every crease and seam sharp enough to cut. He tugged irritably at the lapels, glowering at his own reflection as though sheer disdain might undo the tailor’s handiwork.

“I still don’t understand why I can’t just use one of my suits.”

Behind him, Hannibal was in his element—moving leisurely among racks of pressed jackets and silk ties as if walking through a gallery of fine art. One hand rested neatly at the small of his back, the other gliding over fabrics with a critic’s appreciation. His eyes flicked over to Will, “Stop fussing with it, and we are getting you a new suit because your old suits are not up to standard.”
Will rolled his eyes and once again shifted the collars and lapels. It just felt bizarre, like a second skin he didn’t ask for. A hand smoothed over his shoulder, calming him back down.

“It fits you beautifully,” Hannibal said at last. He removed his hand and circled him like a collector admiring a rare acquisition. “Clean lines, refined shoulders. It heightens your stature. Very distinguished.”

Will pulled a face at the mirror, tugging at his sleeve. “I look like I’m awkwardly posing for prom pictures.”

Hannibal stepped closer, his hand smoothing over Will’s shoulder with slow, deliberate care. The weight of his touch settled the fabric—and made Will’s pulse skip. “On the contrary. You look precisely where you belong.”

Will arched a brow at the reflection. “And where’s that supposed to be? At your arm like we’re in some melodramatic soap opera?”

“Mm,” Hannibal hummed, bending closer until Will could feel his breath warm against his ear. “Not melodrama. Truth. This suit… its restraint, its discipline—it calls to mind how well you respond to being instructed, led. How submissive you can be.”

Color rose fast in Will’s cheeks. He jerked away, stumbling into a display of ties that shivered on their rack. “Absolutely not. We are not doing this here.”

Hannibal only smiled, indulgent. He reached out, past Will’s face, and plucked a midnight-blue tie from the stand, holding it against Will’s chest, tilting his head as though completing a canvas. “Perfect. It deepens the blue of your eyes.”

Will batted his hand away. “I’m not letting you dress me up like some doll.”

“Not a doll,” Hannibal corrected, his voice honey-smooth. His gaze lingered on Will’s reflection, warm and intent. “My perfect boy.”

Will’s throat tightened. He swallowed hard, tugging at his cuff like the fabric might shield him from the words. “You can’t—God, you can’t just say that in public.”

“Why not?” Hannibal’s eyes glinted with quiet amusement. “The clerk has already retreated into a stupor of disinterest. We are perfectly safe from scandal, darling boy.”

Will muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. “Holy shit, Hannibal…”

In answer, Hannibal lifts his hand to brush a stray of curls away from Will’s forehead, “Mind your language. You promised to behave for your Daddy.”

Will’s hand shot up, catching Hannibal’s wrist, his pulse hammering at the contact. “Stop calling yourself that.”

The wicked curve of Hannibal’s mouth widened, pleased, predatory. “Sweet boy, I’ll stop the moment you stop getting flustered over it.”

Will groaned and pressed his palms to his eyes, as if he could blot Hannibal out entirely. “You’re just gunna keep at this, huh?”

“Perhaps.” Hannibal smoothed the tie against Will’s chest one last time, his tone rich with satisfaction. “Tell me right now, William, yes or no, do you want me to stop?”

Will sighed, exasperated, before shaking his head.

Hannibal smiled something dangerous. “Good boy.”

Will flipped him the bird in the mirror.

The look Hannibal gave him—arched brow, faintly scandalized, yet full of amusement—was so incongruously sharp that Will barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. 

The suit, mercifully bagged and boxed, was banished to the back seat of the Bentley, where Will hoped it might suffocate in its own pretension. He was already plotting a hundred ways to make sure it never touched his body again—forgetting it “by accident,” pawning it, tossing it into a bayou, letting the gators get it, setting it on fire. Any of those sounded better than wearing it.

But he wouldn’t be allowed to, not because he couldn’t, oh, he would.

But because Hannibal fucking bought it, before Will could even fish his wallet out, that arrogant bastard leaned over him at the terminal and paid for the damn suit, sealing Will in for the ride. 

Lunch, at least, was supposed to be neutral ground. The café Hannibal selected was airy and calm, sunlight filtering through tall windows onto pale wooden floors. Ferns dangled from beams above, the scent of roasted garlic and fresh bread drifting lazily through the space.

Will thought maybe—just maybe—the ridiculous flirting and mental manhandling would cease.

He should’ve known better.

Across from him, Hannibal held the menu like a prayer book, fingertips trailing thoughtfully down the page. “You require something substantial,” Hannibal murmured, as though Will hadn’t fed himself in weeks. “The mushroom bisque to start, followed by the trout. The house Riesling will accompany both nicely.”

Will blinked at him. “You’re ordering for me now?”

Hannibal lifted his gaze with the faintest smile, patient and infuriating. “Of course.” He let the pause breathe, his voice slipping into velvet intimacy, “It’s my role, Will. Daddy takes care of what’s his.”

Will sputtered on his damn water, half choking. “Shit—Hann—.”

Hannibal fixed him with a stare, “Will, are you going to keep up this misbehavior into the night?”

The server arrived before Will could mount a proper protest. Hannibal handed over both menus with impeccable grace, speaking for them both. He ordered confidently, even adding a tart “to share,” as though it had been a mutual decision.

By the time the server walked away, Will was gripping his glass like a weapon, slowly feeling heat creep up his neck again.

Hannibal only folded his hands on the table and looked at him with maddening serenity. “There. Now you’re taken care of.”

Will’s glare could’ve curdled the cream in Hannibal’s coffee. But somewhere in his simmering indignation, a spark of mischief lit. If Hannibal wanted to play this game, fine. Will could push it farther, make it ridiculous enough to turn the tables back on him.

The meal passed in a tug-of-war of silences and sideways glances. Hannibal spoke with practiced ease, discussing flavors and textures as if narrating a lecture. Will nodded, muttered, picked at his food, waiting.

Biding his time.

When the check finally came, Hannibal paid without hesitation, slipping his card onto the tray with a flourish, thanking the server with that impeccable, smooth charm that never cracked.

Will’s moment.

Before Hannibal could retrieve his wallet, Will stood abruptly and rounded the table in two strides. Hannibal glanced up, brows lifting—then Will’s hand pressed firm against his shoulder, leaning him slightly forward. He bent close enough that only Hannibal could hear. His voice, low and mocking:

“Thank you, Daddy.”

Playful. Sarcastic. Chew on that, he thought.

The killing blow.

Except it wasn’t.

Hannibal’s pupils dilated instantly, the mask slipping for just a breath. His lips parted in a sharp inhale, the faintest tremor of restraint flashing across his jaw, and even his hand on the table tightened, the veins beneath his skin drawing starkly.

For the first time, Will realized he hadn’t turned the tables at all. He’d set them ablaze.

Hannibal tilted his head up, eyes catching Will’s, dark and consuming. When he finally spoke, his voice was thicker and fuller. “You are very welcome, my sweet boy.”

Will’s throat went dry. His pulse hammered, betraying him, and he tried to laugh it off, shaky, forced. “You’re—unbelievable.” He straightened, attempted to step back.

But Hannibal’s hand shot up, fingers curling around his wrist with just enough pressure to remind him of the strength behind the politeness and not restraining, but promising. The weight of it is like a warning.

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth curved, devastatingly slow. He released him with deliberate care, letting the touch linger just long enough to brand. “You’ve no idea what you’ve started, Will.”

Will snatched his hand back, heart pounding so violently he swore Hannibal could hear it. His face burned. His carefully laid sarcasm had crumbled to dust. And all at once, it struck him with a sinking, stomach-deep certainty:

He was in very, very deep shit.

Outside, the sunlight was too bright. Will jammed his hands deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched as if he could smother the restless heat still working through his skin.

Hannibal, by contrast, looked like the picture of calm elegance—his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his stride measured, his head turning here and there to study the shop windows as though their lunch had been nothing more than a quiet meal.

By the time they reached the park downtown, every muscle was taut with the effort of fending off Hannibal’s quiet persistence. He wasn’t sure whether the man wore him down with words or with silence, but the effect was the same—Will was exhausted, frayed at the edges, and every step seemed to pull him deeper into something he couldn’t shake.

The park itself stretched wide across the city, a vast expanse of green and winding paths.

Dogs chased frisbees and sticks across the grass, children’s laughter echoed near the playground and water sprinklers, and couples leaned into one another on benches under old oaks.

It should have been disarming, safe even, the kind of place where Will could dissolve into anonymity. Instead, the normalcy only sharpened the contrast of Hannibal’s presence beside him.

When Hannibal’s hand reached for his, Will was startled like a skittish animal—and then froze, caught between instinct and want. Hannibal’s palm was warm, his grip assured, and before Will even registered the choice, his fingers had laced with Hannibal’s. Naturally. Too naturally.

The simple pressure of Hannibal’s thumb sweeping across his knuckles made Will’s throat close, the small gesture somehow intimate, commanding, and devastating all at once.

“You see?” Hannibal’s voice was pitched low, velvet against the ambient noise of the park, meant for Will alone. “This suits you. Allowing yourself to be guided. Allowing yourself… to be cared for.”

Will shot him a look, meaning to scald with sarcasm, but the words slipped out rougher, weaker, than intended. “You mean bossed around?”

Hannibal’s answering smile was slight but sure, a glint of triumph barely restrained. His hand tightened around Will’s, not restraining—never that—but steady, grounding. “Protected,” he corrected gently. “There is no shame in being cherished, Will.”

The word landed heavier than Will wanted to admit. Cherished. He hated how it rooted under his skin, tugging something profound in his chest that he’d long since buried. For the briefest moment, he let himself imagine it—what it would mean to actually accept that, to lean into someone else’s strength instead of holding himself rigid against it. The thought was terrifying and very tempting.

They walked on under the filtered shade of the old oaks, their linked hands drawing the gaze of more than a few passersby. Will caught the stares, felt the burn of them against his skin, but to his own surprise, he didn’t pull away. Not this time.

At the fountain, Hannibal guided him closer, the pressure of his hand an unspoken command softened by grace. They stopped together before the spray of water, droplets catching the sunlight in fractured dashes of light. The rush of the fountain filled the space between them, cushioning the moment in a hush that felt far more private than it was.

Hannibal leaned in slightly, his shoulder brushing Will’s, the scent of his cologne cutting through the smell of wet stone and sun-warmed grass. Will exhaled, unsteady, and for the first time admitted—if only to himself—that he was in freefall.

They found a bench tucked beneath a massive oak, its branches arching like a canopy overhead. The shade was cool, the wood worn smooth by years of passersby.

Hannibal sat with the kind of poised elegance that made every gesture deliberate, while Will slouched beside him, hands worrying at the seam of his jeans. Their fingers were no longer linked, but Will still felt the warmth of Hannibal’s hand lingering against his skin.

For a long stretch, Will stared at the ground, chewing the inside of his cheek, thoughts circling like restless hounds. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—Hannibal never allowed silence to be—but it felt weighted, expectant. Finally, Will broke it, his voice sharp in the quiet.

“Why are you so into it?”

Hannibal tilted his head, not needing clarification. “Into what, precisely?”

Will gave a half-laugh, bitter and soft. “That whole ‘Daddy’ thing. You lean into it like it’s some… sacred title. What is it about that word that does it for you?”

A flicker crossed Hannibal’s expression—surprise, maybe, but so brief it was gone before Will could pin it down.

Hannibal folded his hands neatly in his lap, eyes catching the dappled light breaking through the oak leaves above. “Must I always explain pleasure, Will?”

Will huffed, shaking his head. “You don’t have to, no. But you’ve got a reason. You always do.” His voice softened, almost against his will. “And I don’t get it. Not yet.”

Hannibal glanced at him then, gaze sharp and unreadable. He didn’t answer, not directly. Instead, he studied Will as though the question itself revealed more than the answer ever could. “Perhaps in time,” Hannibal murmured. “When you are ready to hear it.”

Will was quiet, watching passersby as they lazily moved around the park. 

“I’m scared.” He finally whispered. 

Hannibal’s head turned fully now, focus narrowing in an instant. His eyes sharpened, but not with triumph—Will recognized that glint well. This was something else. Something that startled even Hannibal. “Scared?” he repeated softly.

Will nodded, not looking at him, staring instead at the cracks in the pavement beneath their feet. His knee bounced faster now. “I’ve had shitty relationships. Ones that… left scars. My last one—” He broke off, swallowing hard, his throat suddenly feeling tighter. “He took advantage of the fact that I follow orders to the letter, and I am very literal. It hurt. I’m scared of that happening again.”

The words hung there, heavier than the summer heat, and Will hated how small his voice sounded. Vulnerability had never sat comfortably on his tongue. He expected Hannibal to twist it, turn it back on him, make it something clinical.

But Hannibal did not.

He leaned back against the bench, posture still impeccable, though his gaze softened as it traced Will’s profile. The silence was long, but it was also careful.

“You speak of fear,” Hannibal said at last, his tone low, deliberate, “as though it diminishes you. Yet it reveals far more than you realize. Fear is honest. Fear admits where the heart is most tender.”

Will gave a shaky laugh, humorless. “Yeah, well, tender doesn’t usually end well for me.”

Hannibal’s lips curved faintly, but his voice was steady, anchored. “That may be so. But you’ve already allowed me closer than anyone else. Closer, perhaps, than you understand, that tells me fear has not ruined you. It has not prevented you from… reaching back.”

Will’s chest tightened at the truth of it. He hadn’t pulled away. Not from Hannibal’s hand, not from his gaze. Not even from this conversation. That realization both terrified him and sparked something hot in his chest, something he couldn’t name.

For once, he didn’t argue. He only sat there, shoulders tense, trying to ignore the way Hannibal’s words had curled around him like smoke.

Hannibal didn’t push further, though. He only let the silence return, his presence steady at Will’s side. Will sat rigidly, jaw tight, every part of him braced as if the words he’d already let slip might come back to strike him. Hannibal, for his part, remained composed beside him, the steady anchor he always was—silent, unreadable, waiting.

Will’s fingers twitched against his knee. The urge had been gnawing at him since he first laced their hands together as if it were the most natural thing in the world, when they were on the hammock. He told himself it was stupid, reckless, the kind of invitation that only tightened the trap he knew was already around him. And yet, beneath all the noise in his head, another voice whispered: just this once, just like back at the lake, diving into the unknown.

Slowly—hesitantly—he shifted. His hand hovered between them, hovering a second too long, before finally settling against Hannibal’s. Tentative at first, the touch was light as a question. Hannibal did not move, did not breathe differently, but when Will’s fingers began to curl, Hannibal answered—interlacing without hesitation, without doubt.

Will exhaled, sharp and shaky, the knot in his chest loosening even as another tightened in its place. “I’m not…” He faltered, lips pressing together, before forcing the words out. “I’m not entirely put off by it.”

Oh, Hannibal knew.

Will’s mouth tugged into the ghost of a grimace, flustered. “That name. The whole… Daddy thing. It’s…” He trailed off, words failing, hands tightening despite himself around Hannibal’s.

“It is?” Hannibal prompted gently, though his thumb traced the ridge of Will’s knuckles with a deliberate calm.

Will swallowed, throat working. “It’s new. Strange. And it stirs up… things I don’t know what to name yet.” His cheeks flushed hot, and he hated the way his voice dropped softer at the end, a lost lamb in its uncertainty. “It makes me feel… off-balance. Like I don’t know what the hell I want, or why it even… works.”

For a moment, Hannibal only regarded him, the faintest tilt of his head betraying his interest. Then, quietly, “Strangeness does not mean wrongness. Often, it means you are closer to the truth than you expect. Closer to the marrow of yourself.”

Will shook his head, trying for a laugh, though it came out broken. “Or closer to making a mess I can’t clean up.”

Hannibal’s grip remained steady, grounded. “Perhaps. But a mess born of honesty is preferable to the order of denial.”

Will glanced down at their joined hands, fingers still tight, still unwilling to let go. His chest ached with the admission, with the risk of it, but he didn’t pull away. Not this time. Not from Hannibal.

The cabin greeted them with its usual hush, the cicadas outside filling the silence in Beau’s absence. He was going to see if the guys at the oil rig needed any tuning up. Will set the suit bag on the dining room table. Will stared at it, as if it might lunge if he came too close. “I could just wear something I’ve got stuffed in my closet,” he muttered. “Funeral jacket, two sizes too big. It’d get the job done.”

“No,” Hannibal replied, his tone clipped, definitive, as he hung his coat neatly on a peg. He moved to the bag and drew the zipper down, exposing the fine wool within. His hand smoothed the fabric with reverence, as though unveiling a prize. “Tonight is not for compromises. You will look the part.” He sealed the suit once again, setting it down.

“Tonight is about control, Will, or lack of it.” Hannibal moved to grab one of his bags, carrying the conversation, and motioned for Will to follow. “You always seem to duck and hide away. Tonight I wish to nip that in the bud.”

“For just tonight, you will be leaving everything to me.” He continued until he found what he was looking for —a small black bag. He carried it to the guest bathroom.

“Follow directions, be polite—” He pulled out a shaving kit, polished leather bound with a metal clasp.

“—look the part.”

Will’s hands flew to his jaw before the gleam of the razor even caught the light. His thumb brushed over the scruff, as if guarding it.

“No. Absolutely not.” His voice had that defensive edge, like a dog growling just to hide that it was cornered. “This—this isn’t just hair. It’s me. I’ve had this since…since I started T” He trailed off, scowling, unable to find a reason that didn’t sound pathetic.

Hannibal only watched him, unhurried, the black kit resting in his palm. “You mean, since you decided it was safer to look unkempt. To make yourself smaller, rougher, harder to look at.” His tone was almost clinical, but softened with that undertone of indulgence. He set the kit down on the kitchen counter, then reached across the small gap between them to brush his fingers lightly along Will’s jawline. “It does not suit you anymore.”

Will flinched but didn’t move away. His mouth twisted. “I don’t need to suit anyone.”

“No,” Hannibal agreed smoothly, thumb pressing into the hollow beneath Will’s cheekbone, tilting his face into the light. “But tonight, you belong to me. And I do not accept half-measures.”

The words rooted Will to the floor. He tried to scoff, but it came out in a brittle tone. “You hear yourself? You sound like—”

“A Daddy Dom wanting to show his special boy a thrilling, life-changing experience?” Hannibal finished for him, quiet, pointed. The same flat tone when he said Will would be on his knees back at his office, back in Baltimore. His gaze lingered on Will’s, challenging, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.

Will’s throat tightened. So that was fucking it, he had a hunch, but holy shit… holy shit. His hand stayed stubbornly at his chin, but the heat rising under his skin betrayed him. “You’re really leaning into that,” he muttered.

“Because I see the way it stirs you.” Hannibal’s voice was firm and confident, yet without cruelty. He leaned closer, so close that Will felt his breath feather across his lips. “You’ve already admitted as much, William. You are unsettled by it, but not opposed. So let me give you something to latch it to—discipline, ritual, care. Let me take this from you.”

Will’s pulse hammered. His first instinct was to snarl, to shove back, but his fingers faltered at his chin. It wasn’t just about the beard. It was about the surrender of it—of allowing Hannibal to strip something away, something that had felt like armor, even if it was only scruff and stubbornness.

“You want to shave me?” Will asked finally, his voice low, almost hoarse. “Like I can’t be trusted with my own face?”

“Like, I want to see you clearly and wish to be the one to unravel you,” Hannibal corrected. He unrolled the kit with precision, the gleam of steel catching in the afternoon light. “You hide behind many things, Will. Tonight, you will not hide behind this.” Hannibal smoothly lifted his hand to brush along Will’s stubble. “But only if you allow me to.”

Will stared, his jaw tight. His chest ached with the warring instincts to bolt or to step forward. Hannibal’s composure only made it worse—the assurance, the certainty that he would take no offense if Will said no, and yet… Will could already feel the gravity of him pulling, pulling, pulling.

The scruff was hardly anything, uneven and patchy at best, but it was his. A wall he’d kept without really thinking about it. His eyes flicked from the razor gleaming in the kit back to Hannibal’s face.

“What do you get out of this?” Will asked, the words quieter than he intended, but sharp. “You… controlling me like this. Telling me how to dress, how to look, what to do. What’s in it for you?”

Hannibal stilled, though only for a moment. His hand hovered at Will’s cheek before he withdrew it, folding it calmly against the other in front of him. The movement was measured and deliberate, but his gaze softened as it rested on Will.

“Many things,” Hannibal said. His voice had lost its playful edge; it was lower now, steady, each word carefully laid, brick by brick. “I get the pleasure of your trust. The sight of you not hiding behind dishevelment but stepping into your own elegance. The knowledge that you’ve allowed me to guide you where you would not go alone.”

Will’s jaw flexed, but he stayed quiet, listening.

“And most of all,” Hannibal went on, his tone dipping gentler, “I gain the privilege of giving you support. Of holding you steady when your instinct is always to retreat, to isolate. This—” his hand returned, brushing over Will’s jaw once more, the touch respectful instead of demanding “—is not simply about aesthetics. It is about care. About me showing you that you are not alone, and proving that you don’t need to bear every weight by yourself.”

He smiled softly, “It’s about you allowing me to take care of you, Will. Cherish you, as well as elevating you.”

Will’s chest tightened, his fingers curling against his palm. It should’ve sounded manipulative, maybe even ridiculous, but instead it struck something raw, something fragile.

“So it’s not just about control?” he asked, searching Hannibal’s eyes for the hook, the trap.

“Control has its pleasures,” Hannibal admitted, the faintest smile tugging at his lips, “but only when it is met with surrender freely given. What I want, Will, is not obedience. It is closeness. To see you. To be permitted to care for you in ways you have denied yourself for far too long.”

Will swallowed hard, gaze dropping briefly to the open kit, the silver glint of the razor. His laugh was soft, ragged. “You make shaving sound like a goddamn therapy session.”

Hannibal leaned closer, closing the distance and whispering, “Perhaps it is.”

Will shivered, his hand twitching once more at his jaw before falling uselessly to his side.

Will’s eyes narrowed, his voice low but steady. “And if I want it to stop?”

The question hung in the cabin’s kitchen, heavier than the humidity outside. Hannibal didn’t falter. He set the razor down with a quiet click, then reached for the small shaving brush, holding it lightly as if it were an instrument rather than a tool.

“Then it stops,” Hannibal said, his gaze unwavering. “Immediately, without hesitation, without question.”

“I don’t like the idea of…” Will gestured vaguely, as though trying to pluck the correct word from the air, “…being boxed in. Trapped.”

“You won’t be.” Hannibal stepped closer, his hand settling gently on Will’s shoulder. “You will not lose your agency. On the contrary, you will sharpen it. You decide the limits, Will. I will not cross them.” His eyes softened. “But I do ask one thing of you: clarity. A word we both understand as final.”

Will hesitated, his throat tight. “A… safeword.”

“Yes,” Hannibal said simply. “A signal word that means stop, you need space, that the experiment ends. It gives you security, and me direction.”Will glanced toward the window, as if the answer might be written in the summer sky beyond the glass. Finally, his gaze returned to Hannibal. “…Raven,” he said, the word sticking in his mouth like something foreign. “That’s it. If I say Raven, it’s over.”

Hannibal’s lips curved in the faintest, approving smile. “Raven, it is. Dark, sharp, watchful. Very fitting.”

Will huffed out a laugh that was more nerves than humor, rubbing at his jaw again. “You’re really gonna make me do this, huh?”

“No,” Hannibal replied, quiet but firm. “You are going to choose to do this. Or not. That is the point of the safeword.”

And though Will wanted to scoff, to deflect, he couldn’t shake the strange warmth creeping through his chest—an anchor in Hannibal’s words that felt less like control and more like a lifeline.

Chapter Text

The mirror was still fogged from the shower. Will wiped a hand across it and froze.

The man staring back looked unfamiliar. His beard—the scruffy, half-hearted shield he’d worn for years—was gone. In its place was bare skin, pale and raw, the faintest nick near his jawline a reminder of Hannibal’s blade—his fault, he moved before Hannibal told him to do so, and it was a lesson in patience again.

He looked younger, almost disarmingly so, stripped of the roughness he’d grown used to hiding behind. He swallowed hard, fingertips brushing the smooth line of his cheek, as though testing whether it was really him.

“I look…” He trailed off, words sticking in his throat. Vulnerable was the first that came to mind. Exposed.

“Beautiful,” Hannibal supplied from behind him, busy drying his hair off. He stepped close enough that Will could feel the warmth radiating from him through the steam, his reflection a steady presence at Will’s back. “Raw. Unmasked. Exactly as you are meant to be seen.”

Will gave a faint, humorless laugh. “I look like a damn teenager.”

Hannibal’s lips curved, faint but deliberate. “You look like yourself. Not hiding behind bristles and shadows, but revealed. There is a certain… brutality in honesty. And you wear it well.”

Will shook his head, not trusting himself to answer. The heat pulled him apart, leaving him uneasy with how much Hannibal seemed to see.

Hannibal let him linger a moment longer before turning and leaving. The suit bag lay out across the bed waiting. With the care of a priest handling sacred vestments, he unfastened the zipper, spreading the fine charcoal wool out for Will to see. “Come,” he said softly. “It is time.”

Will sighed, running a hand over his jaw once more before stepping out of the bathroom.

Hannibal was insistent on dressing him, and Will had worn the whole ensemble, including sock garters.

Hannibal guided him into the shirt first, lifting the fabric from the hanger and holding it open with quiet efficiency. Will slipped his arms into the sleeves; it brushed his face when Hannibal pulled the collar forward—he suspected that was deliberate—feeling the cool cotton settle against his freshly shaven skin.

“Button,” Hannibal instructed, his own hands already moving with deft precision. He had fastened the lower ones before Will could manage the top. There was something oddly intimate in the act of being dressed by someone who knew every inch of him, every hesitation.

When they reached the cuffs, Hannibal brushed Will’s wrist lightly as he secured the buttons, the brief touch lingering longer than necessary. Will shifted, throat tight. “I could do that myself.”

“Yes,” Hannibal murmured, sliding the last button into place. “But tonight, you won’t.”

Will exhaled, watching the older man reach for the tie. The silk pooled in Hannibal’s hands, dark and gleaming. He stepped closer, looping it around Will’s neck with practiced ease. The brush of his knuckles against Will’s throat made him shiver.

Hannibal’s eyes flicked up, holding him there as he tightened the knot. “Lift your chin.”

Reluctantly, Will obeyed. The knot slid snug into place, Hannibal’s fingers adjusting the line until it was perfectly centered.

He fetched the slacks, having Will use him for balance as he stepped inside them, Hannibal took his time slipping a thin belt between each loop. He grabbed the jacket and placed it on Will, smoothing the lapels of Will’s jacket. When he had Will put on his shoes, it was with Will using Hannibal’s shoulder as a rest for the unoccupied leg, something that had Will feeling spoiled for some reason. Hannibal stepped back only once he was satisfied.

Will glanced at his reflection again—unfamiliar, polished, the kind of man who might belong in a ballroom. His stomach knotted. “I don’t recognize myself.”

“Good,” Hannibal said, his hand brushing down Will’s shoulder as though claiming the transformation.

The drive into the city was quiet, save for the hum of tires on pavement and the faint strains of some unplaceable symphony Hannibal had chosen for the evening. Will sat stiff in the passenger seat, adjusting his cuffs as though they were choking him, pulling at the tie Hannibal had so carefully set in place. At a red light, Hannibal swatted his hands away and fixed him with a warning.

“I expect you to be on your best behavior.”

Each mile closer to the gala tightened the knot in his chest.

By the time they arrived, the venue glowed like some palace from another world. Chandeliers spilled golden light through tall windows, and elegant cars lined the curb, each passenger stepping out as though from a catalogue. Will hesitated when Hannibal opened his door, his pulse skipping with the realization that he did not—could not—belong here.

Hannibal offered his hand, unhurried and patient. “Will,” he said in a tone low enough to settle under Will’s ribs, “this evening is mine to orchestrate. All you must do is follow.”

Will swallowed and accepted the hand, feeling that familiar, startling steadiness in Hannibal’s grip as he stepped out onto the marble steps. Hannibal’s palm lingered against his back. Something about that gave Will pause, as Hannibal was steering him forward with quiet confidence, and Will realized he wasn’t going to be given room to slip away—not tonight.

Inside, the room swelled with laughter, the clink of crystal, the soft swell of strings. Hannibal greeted people as he went about; some actually recognized him. He’d do it with a nod, a smile, sometimes a murmured word in a language Will didn’t know.

Will barely managed a stiff incline of his head in return, feeling every inch the outsider in his carefully tailored suit. Thank God Hannibal wasn’t forcing him to do anything other than absently listen, nod when introduced (which Hannibal also handled), and hover near Hannibal. Easy peasy.

But something bothered Will… caused heat to prickle.

Hannibal never let him drift. His hand brushed the small of Will’s back when guiding him through a crowd, curled around his wrist when pausing to shake someone else’s, pressed to his shoulder when leaning down to murmur some context about food, music, or even a guest he recognizes.

Will found himself focusing less on the endless swirl of unfamiliar faces and more on Hannibal’s hands. The weight of them—steady, firm, never asking permission but never shoving either—anchoring him.

Each touch was precise, almost clinical, yet it warmed Will in a way that made his chest flutter uneasily. Hannibal’s hand ghosted across his lower back again as they paused near a table of hors d’oeuvres, and Will felt his breath catch for no reason he wanted to name.

It wasn’t just guidance—it was possession—a tether.

The longer the night stretched on, the more Will found himself anticipating each touch. Hannibal would reach for his elbow to guide him left, and Will would already be leaning into it. Fingers would brush across his wrist when Hannibal took a glass from a waiter, and Will’s skin would burn with the echo of it. He hated how quickly he was becoming aware of those hands—elegant, long-fingered, always moving with intention. They steadied him, yes, but they also unsettled him, made heat coil low in his stomach until he shifted on his feet, restless, uncomfortable in ways that had nothing to do with his suit.

By the time the orchestra began playing the first strains of a waltz, Will’s nerves had become something altogether different—uneasy, simmering, and charged.

Hannibal turned toward him, amber eyes catching in the golden light. His hand extended once again, palm open, expectant. “Dance with me.”

Will blinked, pulse leaping. “I don’t dance.”

A faint smile tugged at Hannibal’s mouth. “You follow well enough.” His tone held the quiet confidence of a man who had already decided the outcome. “Trust me, Will. That is all it requires.”

Will hesitated, then glanced at the outstretched hand—those hands that had been on him all evening, guiding, directing, claiming. His throat went dry as he reached out, slipping his own into Hannibal’s. The warmth of it was immediate, grounding, terrifying.

As Hannibal led him toward the floor, Will’s senses were immediately assaulted, the lights too bright, too open a space, ruffling sounds somehow audible over the music, too many eyes…

The orchestra swelled, violins sweeping the air into a gilded haze. Couples were already drifting toward the polished dance floor, satin gowns and crisp suits moving like a tide under chandeliers. Will lingered at the edge, stiff in his own skin, watching feet glide effortlessly as though they had been born rehearsing these steps.

Hannibal didn’t wait. He guided one of Will’s hands to his shoulder and took Will’s free hand. Folding it neatly into his own, he then placed the other at the small of his back. “One step at a time,” he murmured, voice warm against Will’s temple. “You don’t need to think about anyone else. Only me.”

Will swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I told you—I don’t dance.”

“You don’t need to,” Hannibal replied smoothly, guiding him into the first turn with a subtle press of his palm. “You follow.”

The floor seemed too bright, too open, but Hannibal’s hand at his back was steady, firm without being forceful. His other hand curled around Will’s, leading with such precision that Will found himself moving despite every protest caught in his head. He glanced down at their feet, trying to make sense of the rhythm, but Hannibal tugged gently at his hand.

“Eyes up,” Hannibal chided softly, amusement threading his words. “Do you trust me?”

Will exhaled through his nose, fighting the heat already creeping across his cheeks. “That’s a dangerous question.”

Hannibal’s hand pressed lightly against his spine, pulling him closer. “You’ll find I lead very well.”

That hand—that impossible, steady hand. It wasn’t just guiding him through steps; it was searing its presence into Will’s skin. Every time Hannibal shifted his grip, Will felt the ghost of it echo up his arm, down his back, settling low in his belly until he wanted to squirm. He realized belatedly that his blush wasn’t from embarrassment at stumbling through the dance—it was from Hannibal’s hands, always on him, always claiming some part of him as if they were meant to.

Hannibal noticed. Of course he did. His smile tilted slyly, eyes catching Will’s in a glance that lingered a little too long. He leaned closer, voice pitched so only Will could hear. “You’re flushed,” he observed. “Do you know why?”

Will stiffened, refusing to answer.

Hannibal’s thumb stroked across the ridge of his knuckles, deceptively tender. “It’s my hands, isn’t it? The way I hold you. The way I guide you. You like it.”

Will’s breath caught, his denial withering in his throat. “That’s—”

“Shh,” Hannibal interrupted, a dark lilt curling through his words. “Don’t bother lying to me. You’ve been responding to every touch all evening.” His palm slid lower against Will’s back, pressing just enough to remind him of the contact. “It isn’t shameful, Will. It’s natural to want someone to take control when you cannot.”

Will faltered in the step, almost stumbling, but Hannibal held him steady, firm as stone. The music seemed to swell around them, closing the world into the tight circle of Hannibal’s arms.

Then, with a deliberate murmur close to his ear, Hannibal dropped the word with a purr that made Will’s stomach flip: “Daddy always takes care of you, doesn’t he?”

Will’s face burned hot, his pulse stuttering in his throat. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Hannibal pressed, fingers tightening fractionally at his waist. “Don’t remind you how safe you feel when you let me lead? Or don’t remind you that you are enjoying this more than you realize or are willing to admit?”

Bastard

The music shifted seamlessly into another piece, violins spilling a ribbon of melody across the dance floor.

Hannibal didn’t pause, didn’t release him, only tightened his hand at the small of Will’s back and guided him deeper into the rhythm. Will moved with him—haltingly at first, but with every step he surrendered more, letting Hannibal’s body dictate his own.

It was fine until Hannibal’s touch began to change. Subtle at first: his palm drifting lower than propriety allowed, his fingers pressing into Will’s hip, his thumb brushing just under the edge of his jacket.

No one else could see, no one else would notice—but Will felt everything, every press of skin through fabric like a brand. Each pass of Hannibal’s hand was deliberate, claiming, a reminder that Will was entirely within his orbit.

Will’s breath stuttered, and his face was hot and flushed. The room blurred, glitter and movement dissolving into a fuzzy haze.

Hannibal’s gaze stayed locked on him, that faint, knowing smile carved across his mouth. Will couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t stop imagining that hand against his bare skin, that voice low and commanding—he tripped a step, and Hannibal caught him easily, pulling him flush for a moment too long.

By the end of the song, Will felt strung tight, every nerve thrumming. He needed out—needed space. The second the music faded into applause, he broke from Hannibal’s hold, muttering something half-formed about needing a drink, and slipped into the press of bodies.

He found the bar like a lifeline. The bartender, amused by his urgency, lined up a glass and filled it with liquid fire. Will downed it in one swallow, the burn searing down his throat and into his chest. Another followed, quick, then another. Each one dulled the heat in his face but not the memory of Hannibal’s hands. He gripped the bar edge as if it could anchor him in place.

“Rough night already?” the bartender teased, arching a brow as he refilled Will’s glass.

Will gave a crooked grin, cheeks flushed, words slightly slurred. “You have no idea.” He tipped the shot back, slamming it down with a bit too much force, earning a chuckle from the man behind the counter.

But the amusement died when a shadow stretched over the bar. Hannibal’s presence was immediate, heavy. He appeared at Will’s side without sound, impeccably composed while Will sat slouched, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed from dragging a hand through it too many times.

Will wetted his lips, he didn’t need to turn around to tell who it was, seeing the scared shitless expression on the bartender was enough of a confirmation. He swallowed thickly and looked up at Hannibal.

Hannibal’s expression was not kind.

“Enough,” Hannibal said softly, though the ice in his voice brooked no argument. His hand closed around the rim of Will’s next shot glass right before it could be lifted. The bartender glanced between them, hesitated, then busied himself with another guest down the line.

Will looked up, glass still captured under Hannibal’s hand, eyes hazy from liquor but sharp with defiance. “It’s just a drink.”

“You’ve had four,” Hannibal replied, tone quiet but dangerous. “And you are already flushed, disheveled, and about to embarrass yourself in front of an entire room of people who will remember it.” His fingers tightened on the glass, then slid it away, out of Will’s reach.

Will pushed his hair back again, huffing out a half-bitter, half-self-deprecating laugh. “So what? I don’t belong here anyway.”

Hannibal’s jaw shifted, his gaze cool but piercing. He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only Will could hear. “You belong because I say you do. Because I brought you here. And I will not let you unravel yourself to spite me—or yourself.”

Will opened his mouth, then shut it; his words caught somewhere between anger and shame. His chest rose and fell too quickly, liquor mixing with heat and confusion.

Hannibal’s hand found his wrist, firm, inescapable. “Come with me,” he said, hushed but no less commanding. “Before you forget why you belong here, and whose hands you belong to tonight

And despite every protest forming on his tongue, Will lets himself be led away from the bar.

Hannibal guided Will from the bar with an ease that made it seem less like an escape and more like a return to order. His hand never faltered on Will’s wrist, then shifted—deliberately, possessively—to Will’s lower back once again. The crowd parted without question for him, the picture of control, while Will trailed along, still trying to blink the haze from his eyes.

They didn’t head back to the dance floor. Hannibal maneuvered him instead toward a quieter wing of the hall. It was cooler here, calmer, though Will could still feel his pulse thrumming at his throat, every nerve alight with leftover adrenaline and alcohol.

When they stopped, Hannibal turned him so they stood face to face. One of Hannibal’s hands slid up, unhurried, to straighten Will’s loosened tie, brushing against the sensitive skin of his throat. The small, meticulous gesture made Will shiver.

“You are undone,” Hannibal murmured, his voice low enough to vibrate through Will’s chest. “Not from drink alone.” His thumb lingered against Will’s collarbone, pressing gently as though measuring the beat beneath.

Will swallowed, his throat tight. “Maybe I like being undone.”

Hannibal smiled, amused and sharp. “You like it when you get to decide the terms. When you get to choose the moment.” His hand shifted higher, cupping the line of Will’s jaw, tilting his face up just slightly. “But you are not here to choose, Will. Not tonight.”

Will’s chest ached, some deep ache, and the truth behind Hannibal’s words sank its claws into him. He remembered the way those hands had guided him across the floor, the way they never seemed to let him go, and how, somehow, he hadn’t wanted them to.

“Is that why you keep doing it?” Will asked, voice rough. “The hands. You don’t stop touching me. Everywhere I turn, you’re there. And—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated at his own lack of control. “And it’s getting to me.”

Hannibal’s eyes warmed with something perilously close to satisfaction. His hand left Will’s jaw only to rest against his cheek in full, thumb brushing over skin still baby-smooth from the shave. “Then I am succeeding.”

Will huffed out a laugh, shaky and halfhearted. “You’re impossible.”

“On the contrary,” Hannibal countered smoothly, leaning closer, his words a ghost across Will’s ear. “I am exactly what you need, even if it unsettles you. Especially then. No more running away, not from me.”

Will shut his eyes for a moment, trying to center himself against the press of Hannibal’s presence. He was aware of everything—the weight of that hand, the scent of him, the heat building low in his stomach that no amount of whiskey could mute.

“Say it,” Hannibal coaxed softly, his breath grazing Will’s temple. “Say what you’re afraid to admit that my hands do not frighten you. They steady you. They anchor you.”

Will’s eyes opened, sharp blue locking with dark maroon, and for a heartbeat, he didn’t resist. The words hovered on his tongue, dangerously close to spilling. Instead, what came out was a whisper, raw and unguarded:

“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing to me.”

Hannibal smiled faintly, satisfied but patient. His hand left Will’s cheek only to settle once again at his back, warm and steady. “Then let me show you,” he said, guiding him forward again, toward the music resuming in the distance.

Hannibal had fetched some water for Will, having him drink slowly, making it easy enough to start the process of flushing out toxins.

The orchestra struck a new waltz, smooth and deliberate, and Hannibal led Will back out under the chandeliers. The light gleamed across the polished floor, across glittering jewels and pressed tuxedos, but Will was focusing on the steady grip at his waist, leading him.

His steps faltered almost immediately. The whiskey still burned in his veins, and though the air was cool, his cheeks flushed hot. He stumbled once, twice, the rhythm eluding him, until Hannibal murmured, “One, two, three. Trust me, Will. Just let go.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command. Will gave in, if only because resistance was impossible with Hannibal’s body pressed close, steering him through the motions. The world swayed in time with the music, and he realized with a rush of mortification that he wasn’t dancing so much as being carried, pushed into a drunken waltz where Hannibal bore most of the weight.

One song ended, another round of water, then another song began, and it was back to the floor.

He never felt sick; Hannibal kept him steady. Steadier than he should.

But Will ended up clinging tighter to Hannibal as the man started to sway and spin him around. The alcohol was causing his world to be a bit dizzy. After a few more minutes, Will was bubbling out an apology, “I‘m s-sorry, I’m sorry, Hannibal.”

“Shh, Will. You’re okay, nothing to apologize for,” Hannibal soothed him, his hand rubbing up and down his back. “Focus on me, close your eyes, breathe.”

Will did, he closed his eyes, and soon enough, the dizzy haze turned into a relaxed, floaty trance. He didn’t have to pay attention to the music or the dance itself; he just gave up and let Hannibal lead. Let his hands guide him.

That touch was a tether.

Will hated it.

Needed it.

As the steps continued, his embarrassment thickened. The alcohol haze began to lift, leaving behind raw clarity: he was wrapped around Hannibal in full view of the gala. He was acting out like a child, unsteady, and undone. Hannibal was trying to keep him steady and upright.

He couldn’t blame the drink for everything—not when every stolen heartbeat came from Hannibal’s hands on him, the sure press at his back, the strength in the arm guiding him through turns.

Hannibal’s control had flustered him from the start. That was the truth. The hand at his waist, the brush of fingers at his throat, the infuriating calmness of it all. And beneath that fluster, beneath the struggle, lay the thing Will had tried so hard not to face: he was enjoying this, enjoying Hannibal’s control, enjoying being in his arms like this.

He has fallen for this man—

—he just keeps running the other way.

The final notes of the waltz lingered, and Hannibal, with elegant grace, shifted Will into a dip.

Will’s breath caught as gravity took him, chandeliers spinning in his vision as the room blurred. His body bent back, but was safely anchored by the strength holding him. Keeping him close.

I have you

I won’t let go

For a suspended moment, the world hushed—no laughter, no clinking glasses, only Hannibal’s steady gaze above him.

He searched those eyes and found the answer already, by the way he looked down at Will—adoration, yearning, compassion, desire, but most of all, tenderness.

Maroon met blue, filled with nothing but endearment.

Years led up to this, years of longing.

Years of ‘knowing’ each other but never actually getting to know each other.

Never taking the time to see the world from each other’s point of view.

Why, why haven’t we done this sooner?

Will’s throat closed tight. His heart pounded painfully hard against his ribs. He felt young, bare, foolish—and more himself than he had in years.

The words clawed their way out before he could stop them. Fragile, needy, broken, honest

“I love you.”

It wasn’t smooth, wasn’t clever. It was raw and terrifying, dragged from somewhere deep he had kept locked away for too long. His eyes burned, tears blurring the edges of Hannibal’s face, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t.

The music faded into applause, but for Will, there was nothing else. Only the weight of Hannibal’s hands holding him steady, the terrifying relief of the truth out in the open, and the silence waiting for an answer.

Hannibal held Will in the dip, not moving to right him immediately, almost as if the rest of the gala no longer existed.

Damn the rules.

Damn polite society.

His gaze burned down into Will’s, fixed, unflinching, the faintest curl of his mouth caught somewhere between reverence and exasperation.

“Do you have any notion,” Hannibal began, his voice low, sharp with strain, “what sort of ‘little’ adventure you’ve set me upon?”

Will blinked, startled by the tone—like Hannibal was scolding and worshipping him in the same breath.

“First, you leave Virginia. You leave me, without so much as a pause, to run home to Louisiana, to your father. You vanished into the heat and humid air and expected me to endure the silence you left behind.”

Hannibal’s hold tightened as he drew Will up from the dip, keeping him flush against him, his mouth near Will’s ear now, his words for him alone.

“Do you know what that did to me, Will? How I found myself checking the old memories of where we stood together, searching faces for yours, even while knowing you were hundreds of miles away?”

Will’s chest heaved, caught between shame and the unbearable warmth flooding through him.

“And then,” Hannibal continued, almost laughing though there was no humor in it, “I came to you. I braved the stifling sun, the insects, your father’s wrath—and a club, with music so loud it rattled bone...”

His hand slid down Will’s back, resting at the base of his spine with a possessive press.

“And tonight, you put me through every torment. Your defiance, your beauty you fail to see, your sudden drunken chaotic retreat… I have suffered you, Will Graham, in ways no sane man would ever choose.”

Will’s eyes darted away, throat dry, but Hannibal’s hand came up, catching his chin, forcing him back into the searing weight of that gaze.

“However, you horrible boy—” Hannibal’s tone broke into something rougher, unguarded, the cultivated veneer slipping. “I would do it all over again and again. Every mile of road to Louisiana, every glare from your father, every moment of hunger at your side—if it led me back here. To this moment. To your words.”

Will’s breath caught; his knees might have given out if not for Hannibal’s hand firm at his waist.

“I love you,” Hannibal said, not soft but absolute, a vow that landed with the gravity of stone. His thumb brushed over the tear tracks at Will’s cheek, his own voice lowering until it was a growl meant for no one else. “You think me mad? Then I am. You have driven me there. And I welcome it.”

For the first time that evening, Will let himself press into Hannibal’s chest, clinging as he had before, but this time it was to be closer to the man who kept him steady. His heart raced, his body hot and trembling, but the terror of the words he’d spoken began to ease under the weight of Hannibal’s answer. He clung to Hannibal as another song swelled. They swayed rather than joined the fray.

Hannibal bent, brushing his lips over the crown of Will’s hair, lingering there. “Do you understand now?” Hannibal moved his head, pressing their foreheads together. “Sweet boy, I was waiting until you understood your own feelings. I never wanted to lose you again by pushing you away.”

Hannibal pulled away and placed his hands on Will’s cheeks, cupping his face.

Will’s eyes widened seeing a rare sight, tears in Hannibal’s eyes.

“I was so scared, scared I lost you forever. I’ve realized I’ve loved you since our trip up to Canada following that pathetic lead Jak gave you; you were such a brat the whole way.” He chuckled, and Will huffed a laugh, remembering how pissed he was. But Hannibal had made the trip more bearable.

“You never let me stop for fast food. I was so hungry.” Will whispered. Hannibal’s eyes darkened at that.

His boy will never go hungry, not with him. Not anymore.

“I should feed you more,” Hannibal whispered back.

The music had barely reached its swell when Hannibal closed the space between them, one hand firm at the back of Will’s neck, the other still splayed at his waist. There was no hesitation, no soft testing of boundaries—Hannibal kissed him, full and deliberate, in the center of the gala floor.

Polite society be damned indeed. 

Gasps rippled across the room. A murmur darted through the onlookers like a spark; some cheered, but no one dared move closer.

Will froze for a heartbeat, panic flaring—they’re all watching, they’re all—but then Hannibal deepened the kiss just enough, steady and relentless, and the noise around them blurred into nothing. The warmth of his mouth, the press of his hand, the iron certainty of the gesture—Will’s fear cracked wide open, replaced by something raw and reckless. He kissed back, tentative at first, then firmer, grounding himself in Hannibal’s certainty.

By the time Hannibal pulled away, the chatter had dwindled to a respectful hush. Like a predator after a kill, Hannibal’s gaze swept the room with cold authority, daring anyone to utter a word. The set of his jaw, the glint in his eyes—no one wanted to test him. The crowd quickly busied itself with their partners, the music resuming as if nothing had happened.

Hannibal turned back to Will, softer now, his thumb brushing at Will’s reddened cheek. “I love you, Will, and will always remember this moment,” he murmured. “Not just because of the confession, but because you stood at my side and claimed what is ours.”

Will swallowed hard, his pulse thundering in his throat, every nerve alight. “You—you didn’t even hesitate.”

“I never will,” Hannibal said simply, as if it were a fact, eternal and immovable. He smoothed down Will’s lapel, eyes lingering with a rare tenderness. “Let them stare. Let them whisper. None of it will ever touch you while you are mine.”

Will exhaled, shaky, a laugh breaking through despite the tears still threatening to spill down his face. “God, you’re so terrifying.”

“Yes,” Hannibal replied, hand slipped back into Will’s, guiding him off the floor. “And you love me for it.”

Hannibal’s hand shifted to the small of Will’s back, guiding him neatly through the crowd and toward the bar. The music behind them swelled again, couples already back on the floor, but Hannibal moved with deliberate calm, as though the world itself bent around his pace. His chest still felt tight, the echo of Will’s declaration pressing against his ribs, but he needed something sharp, grounding—something to keep him from spiraling too far into the madness that boy inspired. A drink. He needed one.

The bartender’s smile faltered the instant he saw Hannibal approaching, Will in tow. A glance passed between them, then the man straightened, posture stiffening as though facing down a predator. His hands fumbled with a rag, polishing glasses that were already clean.

“I’ll order for us both,” Hannibal murmured to Will, not unkindly, but with the clipped authority that brooked no argument. He leaned on the bar, tone precise. “A neat scotch for myself. And for him—” Hannibal’s eyes flicked to Will, softening just enough. “One more whiskey, small. No more after this.”

The bartender nodded too quickly, eager to oblige, and nearly dropped the glass when pouring. Will caught it—steadied it—then gave him a sympathetic half-smile. But Hannibal’s presence loomed, patient and immovable, until the drinks were set down with a clink.

Will picked his shot glass up, the amber liquid catching the light, and turned to Hannibal’s side as if seeking refuge. The warmth of the man’s body, the smell of scotch and pressed wool and smoky cologne, the steady hand guiding his own—it all hit at once, dizzying. And before he could stop himself, reckless and stupid with affection and nerves, he leaned up just enough so Hannibal could hear him over the hum of the room.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he breathed. Playful. Teasing.

The effect was immediate. Hannibal didn’t flinch, didn’t allow even the most minor betrayal of surprise to crack his mask. But his eyes—God, those eyes—darkened with an unmistakable heat.

Without hesitation, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone, and made sure Will could see it. With a few swift taps, he began searching for a nearby hotel.

Will blinked, his drink halfway to his lips. “Wait—you’re not—are you—?”

“Hannibal didn’t answer; he just looked down at Will, making direct eye contact as he took a long sip of his scotch, before saying, “Finish your drink, Will.”

The next hour, Hannibal socialized for leisure, but there was a change.

He didn’t touch Will…

Not once.

The Bentley growled like some sort of living beast as it clawed its way through highways and exits. Hannibal drove with the same precision he wielded in every other aspect of his life—deliberate, controlled, smooth in a way that made the world outside blur into insignificance. Every motion, every measured shift of gears was elegant, fluid.

Will sat in the passenger seat, shoulders pressed against the leather, eyes drawn again and again to Hannibal’s hands. The hands that had dressed him earlier, fastening buttons, smoothing fabric, tugging the knot of his tie tight against his throat. The same hands that had guided him across the dance floor, palms firm at his waist, fingers pressing too meaningfully along the curve of his back. The same hands that had pulled his glass closer at the bar when he’d been too reckless.

Now those hands rested on the wheel and gear shift, long fingers curled in command, knuckles catching the faint glow of passing streetlights. The left would steady, the right would shift, smooth and with audible clicks that kept sending tingles down Will’s spine. It was hypnotic—the way Hannibal controlled the car with the same effortless authority he commanded over Will himself.

The silence filled in the rest. No music, no small talk, not even the hum of city life as they slipped farther from the bright gala and into the dark arteries of the night. The absence pressed on Will’s chest, leaving too much space for his mind to spin. Every brush of Hannibal’s fingers over polished leather seemed louder, every controlled inhale an echo.

He shifted in his seat, legs tense, palms damp against his thighs. He told himself it was just the whiskey still burning faintly in his system, but the truth sat heavy and hot in his gut: he was flushed, flustered, wanting. The silence didn’t soothe him—it wound him tighter, strung him like a bow.

His eyes slid to Hannibal again, taking in his features. The sharp cut of his jaw in the passing light, the set of his mouth, the absolute serenity of a man fully in command of himself and everything within reach. There was no strain in him, no hesitation: just that calm, impenetrable presence—and those hands.

Will swallowed hard, biting back the urge to fidget. The leather creaked when he shifted, and Hannibal’s gaze flicked to him for only a heartbeat before returning to the road. A glance, sharp enough to catch the truth in Will’s flush, his parted lips, the restless way his knees pressed together.

“You’re quiet,” Hannibal observed, voice calm, smooth, the faintest trace of amusement woven into the syllables. He adjusted the gear again, and the car responded like an obedient creature, causing Will’s pulse to spike.

“I—” Will coughed into his fist, looking out the window, refusing to admit how his chest tightened at nothing more than a shift of gears. “Just… thinking.”

Hannibal’s hand left the gear stick briefly, only to settle with measured weight on Will’s thigh. Not possessive—not yet—didn’t have to be, after an hour of not touching it was enough to burn through the fine wool of his trousers, enough to remind Will that silence would never save him.

“Good,” Hannibal said, eyes fixed on the road. His thumb pressed the faintest circle against Will’s leg. “You’ll need to be thinking very carefully about what comes next.”

Will’s breath hitched. The hum of the Bentley swallowed the sound, but Hannibal’s hand tightened just slightly in response, as though he’d heard it all the same.

Chapter Text

The Bentley slid to a purring halt inside the vast parking garage of the connected hotel. Hannibal killed the engine with one deft turn of the key. The only sound heard was the hiss and pop of cooling metal from the Bentley. At first, neither man moved. Will was left to sit and think in that silence, his heart rate increasing by the moment..

Hannibal finally moved to open his door, unhurried. His shoes clicked lightly as he rounded the car to open Will’s door. Will’s breath still, not because Hannibal reached for him—because he didn’t even so much as touch him.

Hannibal only leaned down to open the passenger door's handle and swing it open with a wide gesture that implied both courtesy and command. No gentle coaxing, no hand extended, only a look that fixed Will, inviting him to climb out and walk on his own.

Will did, knees feeling unsteady as he climbed from the car. Hannibal fell into step behind him, his presence a weight just at his shoulder.

The hotel staff greeted them. Will hesitated at the door, caught off guard by the sudden service offered.

Hannibal acknowledged them with the barest tilt of his head. He still didn’t touch Will, not to guide him nor even to hold his hand. He simply walked ahead to open the glass door, its shiny brass handle gleaming in his palm. He simply held it, eyes never leaving Will, waiting until he crossed the threshold first.

The silence deepened in the lobby’s expanse. Will’s never stayed at a hotel this fancy before—marble floors, glittering chandeliers, the soft murmur of late-night guests drifting in and out at an open bar. But the biggest thing, the one thing causing him to feel prickly, is a vast open space. To anyone else, it was a display of refinement.

To Will, it was a game of nerves, each step magnifying the absence of Hannibal’s hands. His skin prickled, his chest tight, as though he were leaning into a phantom touch that never came. He was too obedient to seek touch… obedient, that’s a funny word…

Even as they ascended the elevator, Hannibal stood just beside him, gaze fixed on the glowing numbers above the door. But this time, instead of being behind him, his hands were folded neatly in front of him. He was flexing and popping his joints idly.

Will’s heart pounded harder with every floor that passed. By the time the soft chime signaled their stop, he felt as though he’d been wound like a spring, anticipation eating at his composure.

The hallway stretched infinitely and was silent, so bizarrely liminal. Hannibal’s hotel key slid easily into Will’s open hand. A single tilt of Hannibal’s head urged him forward—to lead. The carpet muffled their footsteps. The moment felt monumental; even his fingers trembled slightly as he fit the key into the lock, turning it until the heavy door swung open.

The room was spacious, painted in muted golds and reds, with a king-sized bed resting behind a wall. It had a minibar and curtains drawn against the night. Will lingered by the door as Hannibal entered after him, neither rushing nor looming.

Instead, he moved with a ritualistic calm—sliding his jacket from his shoulders, smoothing the fabric once before hanging it on the provided hanger; his vest followed, then he removed his shoes and placed them along the wall. Each gesture deliberate, as though he were composing himself, preparing.

When at last Hannibal turned, he fixed Will with a gaze that rooted him where he stood.

“William,” Hannibal began, his voice low, studied, carrying the weight of iron beneath the usual velvet tone, “should you choose to call me Daddy again, you will be submitting to more than wordplay. You will not speak the word carelessly anymore. It will carry consequences.”

Will’s throat tightened. The air between them seemed to crackle.

“You still have your safeword,” Hannibal continued, stepping closer. His hands clasped loosely behind his back. “Raven.” He smiled, “You may use it whenever you wish. I expect you to use it when you need me to stop.” Will slowly nodded, and Hannibal continued.

“There is also a color system, green for good, yellow for slow down, and red means stop.” He stopped just out of Will's reach. “Then there is tapping, for if and when you are unable to speak. Tap me twice, anywhere, and we’ll stop.” He tilted his head, examining. “Should you need a break or you need me to stop, you have many ways… You’d do well to remember and use them.”

His voice dripped like sticky hot honey, “Because until then…” His eyes flicked briefly over Will—his stance, the tension in his shoulders, the way he gripped the hem of his jacket like it might anchor him. “… I won’t take no for an answer.”

Hannibal’s pause was unbearable, stretched tight with silence until the only sound Will could hear was the pulse of his heart in his ears.

“Everything,” Hannibal finished, voice dipping lower, “will be at my mercy.”

He still didn’t reach for him. He didn’t have to.

Will may have been intimidated, shaking even, but for some reason, his more defiant side wanted to come out to play. The fear melted away into smooth yet shaky confidence as he tilted his head back and produced the title like smoke on water.

“Daddy.”

It wasn’t timid. It wasn’t flippant. It was a provocation, purred from the back of his throat, daring Hannibal to finally close the distance, daring him to make good on the threat he’d laid so carefully at Will’s feet. Come on, come at me, take your prize.

For the first time since they entered the room, Hannibal’s composure did not waver, save for the corner of his mouth twitching —a not-quite smile, but something darker, something dangerous. And Will’s stomach flipped with anticipation, with the thrill of having waded into fire and deciding to stay.

Hannibal did not move. Not a single twitch of muscle. Will’s heart raced, expecting some kind of reaction, but all he received was the weight of Hannibal’s stare.

The smirk faltered, just a touch, when the response he’d wanted—no, needed—didn’t come. Will had pushed the word out like a weapon, and Hannibal had refused to let it land.

Instead, that gaze of his only deepened, quiet and unwavering, as though he could peel back every layer of Will’s bravado to see what lay trembling beneath.

“You expected fire,” Hannibal finally murmured, his voice soft enough to make the stillness ring louder. “Punishment. Immediate consequence. You thought one word would provoke me into giving you what you crave.”

Will swallowed, his pulse hammering at the astonishing precision in Hannibal’s tone.

“That,” Hannibal continued, stepping closer by the slightest degree—a single measured stride—“is why I cannot indulge you yet. You are too eager to surrender without truly understanding what it means. I do not respond to bait, Will. I respond to surrender, trust, and honesty. If we lack those, we have no foundation.”

Another long, quiet pause. Hannibal didn’t advance again, didn’t reach for him. The distance between them remained like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with the tension of what might come if Will dared to keep pressing.

And Will—trembling, heated, his body alive with the ache of it—realized Hannibal had been right from the start. The control, the silence, the restraint… he craved it. But he wasn’t done putting up a fight.

Will’s lips twitched, the smirk returning like a shield he was desperate to cling to. He shifted against the doorframe, arms folding loosely, his eyes tracking Hannibal’s every still and deliberate move.

“So this is it, huh?” he drawled, the sarcasm a little too sharp, a little too defensive. “All that control, all that mystery. And I’m supposed just to stand here and… what? Wait for the lecture? Do you even have the stamina for what you’re proposing, old man?”

The words landed in the air like a tossed match. For a fraction of a second, Will felt proud of himself—snide, sassy, a boy biting at the hand that fed him. He even tilted his chin, daring Hannibal to snap back, to finally crack that composure and give him the fire he’d been itching for.

But Hannibal stayed still, unwavering, unblinking; his gaze was unbearable. 

There was no raised voice, no violence, no sharp retort. Only those eyes—dark, fathomless, patient in the way a predator is patient, the way the ocean is patient with a drowning man. Will’s tongue stalled against his teeth, the smirk fading as the reality of who he was standing against crashed into him like ice water.

His breath hitched. The quip, the bravado—it crumbled in an instant. The silence wasn’t empty; it was damning. Hannibal didn’t need to correct him with words. His gaze alone could do that.

Will’s pulse thudded against his throat, and for once, he couldn’t meet Hannibal’s gaze. His chin dropped abruptly, eyes fixed on the floor immediately, his shoulders tightening inward.

“...I’m sorry, Daddy,” he murmured, the words pulled out of him raw and unpolished. Not rehearsed. Not meant to deflect, just stripped bare.

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, studying the shift—the humility that had broken through Will’s veneer. The faintest curve tugged at his mouth, not quite a smile, but a glimmer of satisfaction.

“That,” he said quietly, voice low enough to settle beneath Will’s skin, “is the man I expect to hear from. Not the child who tries to cheapen himself with little quips and petty rebellion.”

Will swallowed hard, wanting to still hold onto whatever pride he had left, but finding no room left to argue. His apology hung heavy in the air, genuine and trembling.

Hannibal let the moment linger just long enough to burn it into him before stepping back, giving him space again.

The distance was a relief granted. But it was also a reminder: Hannibal didn’t need to raise his voice, didn’t need to lift a hand. Control was not in punishment—it was in presence.

And Will, breath still unsteady, realized that he’d just been reminded of exactly why he wanted it so badly.

Hannibal let the silence stretch a heartbeat longer, watching Will wrestle with his own apology. Then, with deliberate calm, he spoke—his tone velvet over steel.

“Remove your jacket.”

Will blinked, startled at the sudden shift, but his body moved before his mind caught up. His fingers tugged at the buttons, the soft fabric sliding from his shoulders. Hannibal’s gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften.

“Your shoes. Set them beside the wall next to mine. And your slacks—fold them. Hang them neatly with the jacket, along with your vest.”

The clinical precision in his voice left no room for interpretation, no space for clumsy rebellion. Will obeyed, almost on instinct, each movement a strange mixture of obedience and exposure. The jacket was smoothed onto a hanger, along with his vest, the shoes were aligned carefully, and his slacks were folded with care and hung up gently. He caught his reflection in the mirror across the room—half-dressed, stripped down under Hannibal’s command—and something inside him quaked. Not just fear. Anticipation.

When he turned back, Hannibal’s eyes flicked to the open space in the center of the room.

“Go there,” he said. “Kneel. Hands behind your head. Keep them there until I say you may move them.”

Will’s breath stuck in his throat, but he obeyed. He crossed the carpet, every step measured, until he reached the middle. Lowering himself onto his knees, he laced his fingers behind his head. Vulnerable, exposed, but—strangely—steady. The carpet was soft beneath his knees, the air between them charged.

Hannibal finally moved, taking his time to cross the room. He did not loom, did not pace, but stopped a few feet in front of him, studying him with that same predator’s stillness.

“Good,” Hannibal murmured, the word landing with the gravity of a verdict. His tone held no warmth, only precision. “Now listen carefully.”

He began to circle Will, slow and deliberate, the sound of his shoes brushing against the carpet cutting through the heavy quiet.

Will stayed still, hands laced behind his head, but his posture faltered—his shoulders curved forward, his elbows beginning to collapse inward. Hannibal noticed immediately.

“Straighten your spine,” he said, sharp but quiet, like a scalpel grazing flesh.
Will obeyed, lifting his chest, shoulders rolling back into place. His breath came in shallow, effortful gasps, as though the act of aligning himself made the air harder to draw.

“Chin up,” Hannibal added, stepping closer behind him. “Do not bow your head unless I command it. I wish to see your face while you struggle.”

The correction stung, but Will lifted his chin. His neck felt exposed, vulnerable to the air. Every inch of him burned with the strain of trying to hold himself properly, to be the picture Hannibal demanded.

“You treat surrender as a game,” Hannibal’s voice cut through, calm and exact. “But here, kneeling like this, there is no game. Only discipline. Posture is not for my amusement—it is a lesson in control. Do not think you may only half-offer yourself and be rewarded. If you kneel before me, you will kneel with intent.”

Will’s elbows wavered again, fingers tightening against his scalp as his arms began to ache. Hannibal’s eyes narrowed.

“Higher,” he ordered, moving until he stood directly in front of him now. “Lace your fingers properly. Push your elbows back. Do not let your body collapse. You will endure.”

Will exhaled shakily, adjusting again, every correction making him feel more naked, more flayed than the removal of clothing ever had. His thighs trembled from holding steady, but he didn’t dare shift. Hannibal’s presence was too commanding, his silence too heavy.

At last, after what seemed like ages, Hannibal reached for him—not with haste, not with indulgence, but with studied control. His hand lifted, fingers sliding into Will’s curls, pressing firmly. Not a caress, not comfort, but possession. The weight of it made Will’s breath hitch. The back of his neck tingled with delight at finally feeling the contact.

“There,” Hannibal said quietly, his gaze smoldering. “Now you understand the difference between being a naughty brat and obedience. This”—his fingers tightened slightly, grounding him, holding him in place—“is not punishment. It is a reprieve. A tether. You may lean into it only when you have earned stillness.”

Will’s chest shuddered with the force of holding position, his hands beginning to ache from their own tension. Hannibal studied him for a long moment, then, with a deliberate curl of his mouth, added:

“You may place your hands upon my thighs.”

The command startled him—reprieve granted where he expected more denial. Slowly, cautiously, Will obeyed. He released his fingers from behind his head and lowered them, palms trembling as they came to rest on Hannibal’s thighs. The warmth beneath the fabric was grounding, solid, as though he had finally found something tangible to anchor himself to.

“Better,” Hannibal murmured, hand still firm on the back of his head, guiding his posture without forcing it. “Feel what it is to be steady, to be contained. This is discipline, William—not fire, not spectacle. Patience is your trial. Posture is your test. And when you falter, I will decide how you rise again.”

Will’s pulse pounded in his ears, the contact searing through him. Kneeling there, his hands on Hannibal’s thighs, his head anchored beneath that steady touch, he understood: Hannibal would not break him with rage or violence. He would break him with silence, with stillness, with the demand to hold himself perfectly until every defense he had burned away.

And Will—aching, trembling, overwhelmed—realized that part of him craved exactly that.

“Undo my belt.” He heard Hannibal speak above him. Will swallowed dryly, his hands hesitating for just a moment before he reached up and began to undo Hannibal’s belt. Suddenly, a firm hand grabbed one of his wrists. Will’s breath hitched. “Slowly, everything you do tonight will be slow. Tonight is about patience, William.”

Hannibal released his wrist, letting it hover in the air for a moment before straightening back up. His dark slacks shifted as he moved, making the strained bulge he was packing all the more easily visible. Will breathed out slowly.

“Proceed…” Hannibal said, and Will reached for the belt again, this time slowly. He gently undid the silver buckle and eased the warmed, aged black leather out for Hannibal’s belt loops, one at a time. “Good, now the pants.” He continued. Will felt warmth spreading through him as he slowly unbuttoned Hannibal’s slacks. His nimble fingers reached for the zipper, dragging it slowly along the teeth. He was trembling from the sight as he slid Hannibal’s slacks off.

Hannibal stepped outside of them, “Fold them, with the belt, place them on the floor next to you.” And Will did so. Folding the slacks gently before laying the belt on top of them.

“Continue with my shirt.” Will moved to feel under Hannibal’s shirt, but stopped, lifting his hands instead to start unbuttoning it. “Well done, you’re learning. You’ll take only what I give you, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Yes, sir,” Will said of his own volition. Hannibal’s chest swelled with pride—such an obedient boy he has, at least for tonight. 

“Good boy,” Hannibal replied, smooth like silk, the praise immediately going to Will’s senses and flooding him with a fuzzy static warmth. He liked being a good boy. He stood only to finish unbuttoning the shirt.

“Daddy?” Will asked in such a soft, sweet way as he sank back to his knees.

Hannibal had to suppress a noise. “Speak.”

“Wanna be a good boy. But I also want to touch you more, please, Daddy?”

How could he say no?

Hannibal turned, faced the bed, and with elegance, he moved towards it, sitting down. He pointed to the spot between his knees and said, “Crawl.”

Will swallowed dryly, and on unsteady hands and knees, he crawled over to join the older man, slotting himself between his thighs.

“Good boy. Come here.” He said, his hand reaching out gently to card through his curls. Guiding Will’s head closer until his lips were only a few inches away from his still clothed bulge.

“Use that clever mouth, I want to see if you understand restraint,” Hannibal murmured.

Will was unsure what to do, so he leaned forward tentatively after a few moments and kissed where he believed the head of Hannibal’s cock was, at least where the damp spot was. It was salty, musky, and overwhelming even through the soft cotton fabric.

When he leaned in again, he kissed a different place, longer still, to feel the weight and warmth of Hannibal’s cock pressed against his lips. The taste of musk and salt lingered, a heady reminder of the control he was surrendering, piece by trembling piece.

Hannibal’s hand remained on the back of Will’s neck, fingers firm but not cruel, guiding without forcing. His touch was a constant, grounding Will in the moment, reminding him of the rules—slow and steady. Hannibal’s briefs were stretched taut, the outline of his cock was thick, the damp spot spreading where Will’s lips had worked.

Hannibal’s breathing was controlled, but there was a faint hitch—a subtle crack in his composure—that sent a thrill through Will’s veins. He wanted to unravel that control, to see how far he could push before Hannibal broke—or before he himself shattered completely.

He mouthed over the bulge and sucked lightly at the fabric, causing Hannibal’s hips to jolt, the hand in his hair tugging him back. “Enough. William.” He warned, “Come, stand up.” Will followed the instruction, “Now, remove these, just these… Then come up onto my lap.” His hand brushed against Will’s briefs. He began to slowly remove them, watching as Hannibal in turn removed his before sitting back down. Will climbed into his lap, whimpering when he felt the thick arousal of Hannibal press against his thigh.

Hannibal wasted no time in running his hands down along Will’s body, mapping every inch and fondling where he could grip, especially Will’s ass and thighs. “So soft…” Hannibal murmured. Will keened when he felt those large hands manhandle him into a better position. God, he was so easy to lift for Hannibal.

His hands continued, one moving towards his dick only to start tracing bruising circles on Will’s dick. His speed and pressure were a bit intense, but the burn and tingle were worth the experience. “I’d like to make sure you are nice and dripping for me, darling. How about you come for me, just like this sweet boy?”

Hannibal continued, Will spread his thighs obediently, leaning deliciously into the touch, relishing how it both burned and felt blissful.

Eventually, the burn gave way to coiled pleasure, and Will dipped over the edge, fresh slick leaked from his hole as he convulsed and whined aloud, “Ah! H-Hannibal! Shit—ah y-yellow!” He called when the stimulation became too much. Hannibal kissed him on the forehead and nuzzled his neck.

“Good boy, using your colors. Let me know if you wish to continue.” Hannibal hummed as he ran a soothing hand through Will’s curls and rubbed his back with the other. He was so proud.

After a few minutes, Will nodded, “Wish to continue,” he mimicked. Hannibal smiled fondly. His boy was beautiful. He patted his thigh.

“Get further on the bed, on all fours. I want you to present yourself to me. No more defiance tonight, Will. I wish to claim you fully, in my own way.” Will smiled and complied, walking over to the bed and climbing onto it. He knew exactly what to do, pressing his chest to the bed and raising his ass in the air. Hannibal’s breath caught a bit at the sight. Will Graham, willing and able to take whatever he’d dish out.

Will could feel the dip in the mattress as Hannibal climbed up, then he felt a sharp sting on his ass along with a loud crack. He lurched forward and hissed at the pain; it wasn’t unbearable, but it smarted. “Apologies, darling, I couldn’t resist.” Hannibal chuckled, running a hand along the tender flesh to soothe the ache.

“Fuck me, you can uh… do it mo—OH!” The sound was ripped out of him as the other cheek was swatted with the same force. He fisted the blankets as he trembled under Hannibal.

“Language,” Hannibal chided in his ear before straightening up and landing another blow on his reddening ass. Will felt his dick twitching as a couple of more smacks landed before he felt strong hands knead his sore ass, causing him to gasp out a strangled cry.

“Such a good boy, and already so wet for me. It would almost be a shame to waste it.” He felt the drag of Hannibal’s cock head between his folds before settling against his hole, oh fuck… was he planning on? Yup! 

Will felt a cry punched out of him as Hannibal seated himself inside Will, deep in one slow thrust. “God, Will. You’re perfect. So warm and tight.” Hannibal grunted as he began to move. Will didn’t even have time to recuperate; his mind was dizzy with the fact that he realized what was going on. Tonight wasn’t about him; it was about Hannibal. That made his dick twitch; he was just a hole to use, a toy. Fuck that was doing things to his brain.

The moment Hannibal felt the slick glide of his cock, he started setting a brutal pace, yanking Will’s hips back to force him to meet him thrust for thrust.

“OH! Oh shit! D-Daddy! Daddy!” Will whimpered into the sheets as he was jostled into them; he could only hang on for the ride, feeling the deep, filling movements of Hannibal’s cock within him, feeling the slide and drag of it. He felt more reactionary tears fill his eyes; it felt so fucking good being torn apart like this.

Upon hearing Will call him ‘Daddy’, Hannibal changed tactics and lifted Will back over his lap so that he could fuck up into him. A hand found his dick again. Will shook his head; there was no way he could come again. “Daddy! Hurts!” He cried out.

“What’s your color, darling?” Hannibal asked, Will whined. “Color?” Hannibal asked again, slowing his thrusts and pulling his hand away.

“Green! It’s green, please don’t stop.” Will begged. Hannibal smiled and continued his pace. He pinched and flicked at Will’s dick before rubbing it between his fingers, stroking him. Will’s mind went blank as he came again with a cry, his eyes screwing shut. The clench Hannibal felt during Will’s climax nearly spilled him over.

“Such a good boy. Taking me so damn well. Such a good boy for Daddy.” He growled into Will’s ear as he plowed into him, holding him in place by his hip and stomach. Hearing Will’s moans and gasps increasing in volume. Paired with how absolutely adorable and hot he looked in nothing but a shirt, garters, and socks, his new tie bouncing against his chest, it was too much. Soon after another round of powerful thrusts, Hannibal sank in deep and stilled, coming harder than he had in ages in thick hot ropes. “Shit, Will, oh, fuck…” Hannibal groaned as he thrusted lazily into Will to ride out the sensation, feeling the cum and slick leak out of his boy and onto his thighs. The blush that spread to Will’s face as he looked down to watch that cock slowly pump in and out of him, cum dribbling down, made Will’s brain feel foggy. 

“Fuck, Daddy…” He whined. Hannibal finally stilled, leaving a trail of kisses along Will’s neck. Then he giggled after a mock gasp, “Language, Doctor.”

Hannibal chuckled, the sound vibrating through Will’s spine. He nuzzled the back of Will’s neck and sighed as he rested his forehead against the back of Will's neck. “That was marvelous, you did wonderfully, darling boy.” He lay back against the pillows, holding Will close, allowing his cock to remain buried in his boy for just a bit longer. “I love you.” He murmured, placing kisses along Will’s back where he could reach.

Will smiled and leaned back to catch his lips in a passionate kiss. “I love you too.”

After a while of pillow talk and aftercare, mostly Hannibal massaging over sore spots, he pulled out slowly and gingerly helped Will clean up. Hannibal would forgo a shower if it meant cuddling with his boy; he tugged the covers back for his boy, who was looking hazy and flushed.

“Are you alright, Will?” Hannibal asked. Will nodded sluggishly, and that told him all he needed to know. He smiled and climbed into bed with Will, pulling him close so he could feel his presence, ground him. ”You’re drifting, darling boy, stay with me.”

“I feel fuzzy.” Will yawned.

“Mn, Good, you should feel safe and sound under my care. Be able to slip into a fuzzy little headspace and just be.” Hannibal tucked Will in some more before placing a tender kiss on his temple. “You did so well for me. Thank you, Will.”

Will smiled and yawned again, feeling sleep starting to drift in like the morning fog. “I love you, Hannibal.”

“I love you, Will,” Hannibal replied, switching off the lamplight and steadying his breathing to match Will’s, drifting off to sleep easier than ever.