Archive of Our Own

Understanding dawns on Will the moment he sees Budge’s broken body lying on the floor of Hannibal’s office.

Except that’s not quite right.

He sees the body, sees the pedestal and the stag statue lying on the ground beside it, and then he sees Hannibal. The doctor is sitting at his desk, rough and tousled in a way Will has never seen him before, and as Will steps closer he sees the blood starting to dry on his face and the fine sheen of tears in the man’s eyes. Hannibal looks every inch like he’s in shock, like he just killed a man for the first time and now he’s having to process that and he’s struggling.

Will doesn’t have to wait for the pendulum to swing to know the image Hannibal is projecting isn’t the truth. Jack wouldn’t ever be able to see it. Will’s not even sure Alana would be able to, not even given time and far more evidence than what Will has been presented with now. Hannibal is shaken up, sure, and perhaps there was even the slightest inkling of fear before Will walked into the office, but it’s gone now, because Hannibal wasn’t reacting to Budge or the attack.

His first words to Will, after all, are, “I was worried you were dead.”

And Will knows that’s why Tobias Budge is dead on the ground. He knows Hannibal could have disabled him, apprehended him and handed him over to the police, and he didn’t. Hannibal killed Budge because he thought Budge had killed Will. And he did it without remorse and without hesitation.

Will’s fairly certain he’s not supposed to feel flattered.

Jack asks Hannibal why Budge would make the doctor’s office his first stop after beginning what was gearing up to be his escape, and Will watches as Hannibal deflects, his voice shaking just enough to keep up the ruse. It’s impressive, and Will is also fairly certain he’s not supposed to think that.

When Jack walks away, Will thinks he should follow, thinks he should let the profiler in on his suspicions. That’s what Jack keeps him around for, after all.

And then he looks down at Hannibal, who is faking vulnerability so well that Will feels the need to wrap him up in a blanket, and instead of following after Jack, he sits down on the edge of Hannibal’s desk.

Softly, apologetically, he says, “I feel like I dragged you into my world.”

The standard response would be “It’s not your fault.” It’s what people are conditioned to say, meaningless platitudes trying to be passed off as reassurance.

But Hannibal, who Will doubts has ever been standard a day in his life, says, “I got here on my own.” And before Will can reply to that particular brand of responsibility, he adds, “But I appreciate the company.”

Hannibal ducks his head in a gesture that Will guesses is supposed to look demure, and Will just… looks at him. Really looks at him. Drops the guards he usually keeps up when conversing with someone and looks at Hannibal like he looks at a crime scene.

The pendulum swings, and Will’s stomach turns over.

He feels like he should be more surprised than he is.

It’s only a moment, the span of a breath or two, but coming back to himself is always hard. He jerks, one hand clenching into a fist on his thigh, and Hannibal looks up, the lines between his eyebrows creasing. “Are you all right?” he asks, and the concern there is genuine. Honest.

Hannibal just killed a man and he’s worried about Will’s headache.

“I’m fine,” Will assures him. “Just… shaken up. You got someone who can take you home?”

Hannibal straightens a little, and Will wonders if he’s ruffled at the thought of someone else driving his car. “I’m perfectly all right to…”

“No.”

The firmness in Will’s voice surprises Hannibal, going from the look that spreads over his face. It surprises Will, for all of a half-second. “No,” he repeats, a little gentler this time. “You’re covered in blood. You’re still shaking. You’re crying, Hannibal, for fuck’s sake. You’re not driving yourself home like this.”

And maybe it’s because he just got out of Hannibal’s head, and Hannibal is a manipulative bastard, but Will finds himself leaning into it, reaching up to brush away one of the drying tear tracks on the doctor’s face with his thumb. He finds himself saying Hannibal instead of Doctor Lecter and enjoying the way the older man’s breath hitches, just slightly, though whether it’s at the name or the touch he’s not entirely sure.

Still, Hannibal closes his eyes for a moment, and he leans ever so slightly into the touch. Will knows his palm is going to be bloody when he pulls it away, and he can’t find it in himself to care. “I’ll ask again. Do you have someone who can take you home?”

There’s a pause, and then, with his cheek still pressed against Will’s palm, Hannibal nods.

Will lets out a breath. “Okay, good. Call them. And call me when you get there.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “Worried about me, Will?”

Will drops his hand, taking a moment to look at his palm. Hannibal’s blood is tacky on it, and will have dried completely by the time he gets out to his car. “Seems only fair to return the favor,” he says. “Say you’ll do it.”

“I’m sorry?”

Will feels his mouth quirk into a soft smile. He doesn’t think Hannibal will have any more issue lying to him than he does to Jack, but… still. He hasn’t spent that much time in the man’s head. “Tell me you’ll call someone to take you home, and tell me that you’ll call me when you get there.

Hannibal looks up, meeting his eyes, and Will forces himself to hold the gaze. It’s intimate and unnerving, especially now. Moreso now.

“I will,” Hannibal says finally. “You have my word.”

And Will, for the moment, believes him.

The next day, Will drags himself to the fucking hospital.

He tries not to laugh when he finds out his brain is actually on fire.

Half of him expects Hannibal to cancel their next appointment. Half of him expects to walk into the room to find something more than the psychiatrist waiting for him.

All of him is pleased to find everything exactly the same as the last time.

Almost exactly. Will’s world seems a little more stable around the edges. The antiviral drugs the hospital gave him are already doing their job in reducing the inflammation in his brain. Hannibal isn’t quite the same either. He’s hidden most of the evidence that he was ever in an altercation, but there’s still a nasty cut on the side of his mouth that’s in the process of healing, and Will knows that if he were to reach out and pull up the doctor’s sleeve, he would find the wound from the garrotte sitting just under the fabric.

Will feels giddy in a way he knows isn’t normal. It’s hard to keep the smile off his face, hard to keep the I know something you don’t know out of his tone when he greets Hannibal and takes his seat across from him. He’s not sure how well he does, because the doctor eyes him speculatively for a few moments, his expression hard to read.

“You look well,” Hannibal says finally, and Will finds himself smiling.

“I feel well,” he says. “I’m… better than I have been in a long time.”

Hannibal’s lip twitches. “I thought therapy didn’t work on you.”

“I wouldn’t say it does.” Will relaxes back in the chair, making himself comfortable. “Is this really therapy, though? You never really signed me on. I don’t think I’m even protected by doctor-patient confidentiality.”

Something sparks behind Hannibal’s eyes. “Have I done something to lose your trust, Will?”

Will shakes his head. “No,” he says, “but I also know why Jack introduced us. He wants you to keep tabs on me and tell him about it, which you can’t do if you’re actually my therapist.”

“Our conversations here haven’t made their way back to Jack Crawford.”

Will snorts his laughter. “I know,” he says. “Jack thinks I’m unstable. If he knew how unstable I was, I wouldn’t still be walking around. I just want to make sure things stay that way. I…” He pauses, taking a breath. “I want to talk about some things, and I don’t want them getting around.” He licks his lips, and then, reckless, takes the plunge. “I protected you from Jack. I’d appreciate the favor returned.”

Hannibal stiffens visibly, and Will suddenly feels the full weight of his gaze, heavy and cold and calculating. Will knows that look. He’s seen it in the mirror, more than once, when he’s come home and still been in someone else’s head.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Budge was unconscious when you killed him,” Will says, and before Hannibal can rise like Will can tell he wants to, before the man can cross the distance between them and silence Will, Will adds, “Thank you.”

Hannibal blinks. His body is one line of tension, poised to throw itself at Will at the first sign of aggression, at the first sign of weakness, and Will plans to show neither.

“He would have killed me, given the chance,” Will continues. “You thought he had. That’s what you said when I got here, isn’t it? ‘I was worried you were dead.’ That’s why you finished him off. Not because he came after you, or your patient, but because he came after me.”

“Will,” Hannibal begins, and Will wants to shiver at the sound of his voice, rough and ragged. He sounds like he’d looked that day, torn at the seams in the best of ways, and Will wonders for a moment what it says about him that seeing someone broken down is what makes him feel most alive.

“No one’s ever killed for me before,” Will says, almost absently, even though he’s starting to suspect that’s not true. The words have the intended effect, though. Hannibal trembles, a bodily thing, and somehow he manages to look vulnerable and predatory all at once, like if Will reached out to touch him he’d be just as likely to bite off Will’s fingers as he would be to allow the caress.

“Thank you,” Will says again. Hannibal turns his face away, and Will watches the way his throat bobs, the way his hands come to rest in his lap, not relaxed, but not quite ready to wrap themselves around Will’s throat anymore either.

It’s progress, of a sort.

Will pushes himself to his feet and crosses the short distance between them. Hannibal doesn’t look up. He doesn’t move away, either, though the tendons in his neck move to stand out in stark relief against his skin as Will comes to a stop directly in front of him.

“Hannibal,” Will says, gently, and, faster than he can really process, the older man’s hand darts out, closing around Will’s wrist. His grip is hard, just shy of painful, and Will knows that he’s going to have to explain away bruises for the next few days.

Still, he doesn’t try to pull away. Instead, he reaches out with his other hand and mimics his gesture from the last time they saw each other, putting his palm on Hannibal’s cheek and ever so gently turning his face up.

Once again, there’s a wet sheen to Hannibal’s eyes, though none of the tears have spilled over quite yet. Will wants to snap a picture and save it for the next time someone calls him fragile. This is fragility, this hesitance, this uncertainty.

The difference of course being that, if Hannibal breaks, Will suspects he’ll be collateral damage as well.

“When did you know?” Hannibal asks, and his voice sounds like… like something Will hasn’t heard in a while. He swallows, unable to help the way his eyes flick down to Hannibal’s throat. He’s human, after all. Sue him.

“As soon as you said it,” Will answers. “It was your justification. You told the police it was self-defense, but you told me the truth.”

Hannibal’s grip on his wrist loosens, but Will doesn’t pull his hand away. He’s not sure he’s ever going to be able to pull any of himself away. Hannibal is magnetic, a dying star, and Will is smart enough to know he’s falling and not smart enough to get himself out.

“I scared you,” Will says, brushing his thumb over the ridge of Hannibal’s cheekbone. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”

Hannibal breathes a shaky laugh, and then shakes his head. “Already forgotten,” he says. “You are… quite remarkable, Will. Though I suppose I am not the first person to tell you that.”

Will smiles and drops his hand from Hannibal’s cheek, and tries not to dwell on the fact that a part of him wishes there was blood on his palm again. “You’re not,” he admits. “Can’t say I mind hearing it from you, though.”

Hannibal lets out another one of those breathy little laughs, and Will moves back to take his seat again, giving the other man a moment to collect himself. When Hannibal looks up again, his eyes are no longer shining, but his face hasn’t settled back into the impassive mask of before, either. Will likes it.

“Jack is never going to learn about your escapades from me,” Will says, and his phrasing is deliberate. He wonders if Hannibal will notice. “I’m just asking that you don’t tell him about the… fantasies, I guess you could call them, that I’m about to tell you.”

“I swear I won’t,” Hannibal replies, and as far as Will can tell, he means it. Good.

Closing his eyes, Will takes a deep breath, bracing himself.

“The longer this case goes on,” he says, “the more I find myself curious about the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Silence falls in the room. With his eyes closed, Will can’t see Hannibal’s expression. He can’t see if the man is looking towards his desk, calculating how long it will take him to grab the new letter opener that’s sitting there, if he’s looking at Will’s gun and wondering if it’s worth risking trying to overpower him.

Seconds pass. Will doesn’t count them. He just breathes, and waits, and finally, finally, Hannibal says, “Curious about catching him?”

Will smiles, a soft thing, and shakes his head. “Not quite.”

There’s a breath of air from across the room, hard and shaky. “I can’t say I’m particularly surprised,” Hannibal says, and Will sits up and opens his eyes.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence in my morality there,” he says, dryly, and Hannibal arches an eyebrow. Which, fair.

“What is it you’re curious about, Will?”

Hesitating, Will licks his lips. He knows what he wants to say. He’s done nothing but think about it since leaving Hannibal’s office the day of Budge’s murder. But he also wants to say it the right way, wants to lay the words out for Hannibal the same way the crime scenes have been laid out for him. Purposefully. With intent.

“The Ripper is painting a picture for someone,” Will says, slowly. His gaze is fixed on the wall somewhere behind Hannibal’s shoulder. Direct eye-contact isn’t going to work for this, as much as he wants to see what’s going on in the man’s head - he’ll get too caught up in it, and he won’t get his own message across. “Budge was serenading someone - Franklyn, you said - but the Ripper is building an entire gallery for someone.”

“An interesting theory,” Hannibal says, and Will laughs under his breath.

“Jack wouldn’t like it,” he replies. “Too romantic for the image of the Ripper he’s built up in his head.”

Hannibal’s lip twitches. “You haven’t told him this.”

Will shakes his head. “I don’t know if I’m going to,” he says. “I don’t know if I’m right. But I keep having these… these thoughts -”

“Go on,” Hannibal says, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that almost looks like excitement.

Will licks his lips. “If someone writes you a love letter,” he says, “you respond in kind. You write them a letter back.”

There’s no mistaking it this time. Hannibal’s eyes flash, and for a moment Will thinks of abandoning his plan, of coming out and saying it. But, no. He thinks of Hannibal’s fragility and how it will end with his own broken body, and he tamps down on the urge. He has to be slow. Sure.

“The person the Ripper is creating his gallery for,” he continues, “they could make him a masterpiece in return. But it’s risky. They’re putting themselves in danger, and they’re putting him in danger. If they don’t know what they’re doing, they could inadvertently lead Jack right to the Ripper’s door. And in any case, not everyone’s an artist. He’s presenting them with masterpieces. Giving anything less back would be… rude.”

Hannibal inclines his head ever so slightly. “You’ve given this some thought,” he says, neutrally, and Will has to resist the urge to laugh.

“A little,” he admits. “I catch killers by putting myself in their shoes. It wasn’t hard to put myself in the position of whoever has the Ripper’s attention.”

It wasn’t hard, because that’s who he is already.

Hannibal gestures for him to continue.

“So,” Will says, “I thought about it. About being courted by someone who’s obviously a master of their craft - because let’s be honest here: this is a courtship. The Ripper is wooing this person. He wants them to see him, wants them to appreciate him, for everything he is, even the parts the rest of the world would run screaming from.” Will pauses. “Maybe especially those parts.”

Hannibal looks like he’s stopped breathing.

“You draw, right?” Will asks, and Hannibal nods, tightly. Will smiles. “If I described something to you, a scene or a story, could you make it come to life on the page?”

“Most likely,” Hannibal says, and his voice is gravel once again. “Depending on the amount of detail you provided.”

Will nods. “That’s what I figured. So, if these installations were legal, if anything related to them wouldn’t be investigated with the full force of the law, I can see the Ripper’s intended taking out an ad in the Missed Connections section of the paper, or something along those lines, and describing a scene. Telling the artist exactly what they want to see. Exactly what kind of love letter they would write back, if they could. Designing the piece without making it themselves.”

Will’s eyes flick over to Hannibal’s, and he watches as the man puts together what he’s saying. Watches as his pupils dilate and his Adam’s apple bobs, as the gears start turning in his mind as he realizes the game Will is playing, the response he’s expecting.

“Describing a murder scene in the paper would be problematic,” Hannibal says after a moment. “Have you thought about an alternative?”

Will hums. “It’s a hard one,” he admits. “If this person knows who the Ripper is, then they could bring it up face-to-face. But that’s dangerous in its own right. They could be wrong. They could have misinterpreted the Ripper’s intentions. They could come across as threatening when they meant the exact opposite.” He pauses. “I don’t think I’ve decided how they would do it.”

Hannibal, ever perceptive, catches his phrasing. “And how would you do it, Will?”

“If I knew who it was,” Will says, “I’d risk it in person. Put a pretense around the conversation if I could. Plausible deniability and all that. Maybe describe the scene as something I could see the Ripper doing in the future, or structure it as a dream I’d had.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Then again, I’m not known for being very cautious.”

Hannibal leans forward slightly, clasping his hands together in front of him on his knees. His eyes are still dark, and the lines of his body are still tense, though the undercurrent of it has changed, going from unease to anticipation.

“Have you had any dreams lately?” Hannibal asks, and Will smiles slowly.

Four days later, Will gets called out to a potential Ripper scene.

Jack is there when he arrives, looking grim and agitated. Normal. He starts throwing details in Will’s direction, names and times, and Will lets them wash over him, hearing without listening. He’s too busy looking, taking in the scene around him.

For the first time, it truly is his design.

The body on display is bent backwards over a wire dog cage in the Ripper’s classic style. Even from a few feet away, Will can tell organs are missing - the heart is gone, and the abdominal cavity looks suspiciously empty, like it’s missing a few feet of intestines.

Will wonders, absently, if it’ll be roast or sausage for dinner later.

The body has been mutilated (sculpted, Will thinks) in accordance with the other Ripper victims, ripped open from neck to groin and impaled multiple times. The implements are new - most of the time, the Ripper uses a variety of sharp, pointy objects to spear his victims, but this time, they’re all the same.

“What do you see, Will?” Jack asks.

Will follows the chains from where they’re anchored to the ceiling to where they pierce the body, to where they anchor in the floor. They’re solid, thick chains, meant to hold things in place.

Will knows that, yesterday, they were holding fighting dogs. Today, they’re holding their master.

“It’s the Ripper,” Will says, and he has to fight to keep the longing, the excitement, out of his voice.

“You’re sure?”

Will nods, closing his eyes. To the casual observer, it might look like he’s overwhelmed, like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. In reality, he’s thinking about Hannibal painting a picture for him, of the trust and love and devotion that’s been poured into the scene before him.

“Jack,” Will says, and he lets his voice crack, lets his curls fall into his face when he turns to look at the profiler. Jack thinks him delicate; far be it from Will to correct him.

Jack reaches up and pats his shoulder. “I’ll call you if I need anything else,” he says, and it’s the same kind of deflection Hannibal gives, the tone of an apology without the words, but Will finds that he doesn’t care.

He packs himself into his car and makes himself breathe, makes himself calm the rabbit-fast beating of his heart. He hadn’t been sure. He’d seen it in his mind’s eye, so clearly, but he hadn’t been sure.

And now?

Will’s brain is no longer on fire, but the truth burns within him all the same.

Will doesn’t knock when he arrives at Hannibal’s home. He tries the handle, finds the door unlocked, and then pushes it open.

It stands to reason that, if Hannibal didn’t want Will invading his space, he would have put some effort into keeping him out, instead of practically rolling out the red carpet.

He sees Hannibal almost as soon as the door closes behind him. He might have come from the kitchen, or from his office, Will’s not sure, but he’s clad in trousers and a button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and socked feet, and he’s holding a butcher’s knife in one hand. His arms are crossed delicately across his chest, and he’s leaning in the doorway that separates the kitchen from the entry - mock-casual, like the line of his jaw isn’t tighter than Will has ever seen it.

For a moment, they just stand there, looking at each other. Hannibal’s grip on the knife is white-knuckled and desperate, and Will’s not sure who he means to turn it on if the conversation goes sour. He’s not sure he wants to know. This thing has been dangled far too seductively in front of him for it to be taken away now, for Hannibal to take it away now.

Fragile, Will thinks, and he thinks of the way Hannibal leaned into the hand on his cheek and the blood that decorated his palm afterward, and he thinks about Hannibal killing for him.

He knows he has to speak first, has to offer to cross the bridge, because Hannibal has already made his offering. He’s put himself on display, and he’s given Will the opportunity to reject him. Will’s certain he wouldn’t live long afterwards if he did, but it’s still his choice.

“Next time,” Will says, “I’ll write the love letter myself.”

The knife clatters to the ground next to Hannibal’s feet, and Will forgets about it as soon as he steps over it, pushing himself into Hannibal’s space. It takes a moment - Hannibal is shaky, and his head is hung low, and Will suspects his eyes are either closed or blurry enough that they might as well be.

Hannibal’s face is wet when he presses it into the crook of Will’s neck, but his arms are firm around Will’s waist, and his breaths, while ragged, come evenly enough that Will isn’t worried.

He’s not sure how long they stand there in the doorway. He knows that, after a few moments, his fingers find their way up into Hannibal’s hair, and he knows that as soon as they do the man in his arms shivers, his lips parting against the skin of Will’s neck.

Will cards his fingers through the silver-blond strands, the fingers of his other hand fisted firmly in the back of Hannibal’s shirt. As much as Hannibal needs to cling to him, needs to feel him, Will suspects he needs to be clung to just as much. And the gesture isn’t entirely unselfish. They’re treading new waters together. Hannibal isn’t the only one feeling unmoored.

After a little while, Will turns his head, gently dragging his lips up Hannibal’s cheek. “You have me,” he murmurs. “I’m here.”

Hannibal makes a soft sound, and then he turns his head as well and they’re kissing, gently, nothing more than the sweet drag of lips. The moment is tenuous, but Hannibal smells of salt and scotch and Will has been resisting since he got Jack’s call, and Hannibal may be used to waiting, might have grown accustomed to the ache that Will has started to feel just behind his breastbone, but Will is not. And he doesn’t plan on becoming accustomed to it.

He curls Hannibal’s hair around his fingers just tightly enough to keep him in place, and then licks into his mouth, chasing the taste of tears and alcohol. He swallows Hannibal’s gasp of surprise, takes it inside himself and then goes dizzy with the thought as all the blood in his body abruptly redirects to his cock.

“Fuck,” he whispers, the hand fisted in Hannibal’s shirt moving to brace against the wall. The urge isn’t new - he felt it in the office that day, though he didn’t let himself name it then, still too uncertain in the thing that was between them. But now? Now, he’s fairly certain he’s lost every reservation he’s ever had.

He tugs lightly at the circle of Hannibal’s arms, unsurprised when they don’t loosen around him. He can’t help but smile against the other man’s mouth, can’t help but kiss him again, the knowledge that Hannibal wants to keep him close doing nothing to quell the fire that’s building low in his gut.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says after a moment. “The knife’s on the ground. I’m just picking it up.”

He feels Hannibal stiffen against him, and, slowly, the other man lifts his head so that he can meet Will’s eyes.

“Why do you want the knife, Will?” Hannibal asks, and Will sees no point in lying to him, but now that Hannibal is talking again, Will is hesitant to do anything to make him stop.

“Why did you have it in the first place?” he retorts, but softens the sting by dragging his fingers through Hannibal’s hair. It stirs something in him, watching the way the man has to fight the urge to push into the touch, unwilling to lose the laser focus he has on Will.

“I was… uncertain how you would react to my interpretation of your love letter,” Hannibal says, and Will wonders if it’s the first time Hannibal has ever admitted to being uncertain about anything. “It seemed prudent to prepare for all scenarios.”

Will smiles. “You asked me if you’d done something to lose my trust. Do you remember?” At Hannibal’s nod, he continues. “So I’ll ask the same thing. Have I lost your trust, Hannibal?”

It’s a question Will’s not sure he knows the answer to. He knows he has Hannibal’s attention, his devotion - his love if he’s feeling romantic about it - but trust is a different animal entirely, easily abused and difficult to regain once it’s been lost.

For a long moment, Hannibal just looks at him. Will wonders what he’s thinking, if he’s weighing the pros and cons in his head, trying to calculate the likelihood of this all being a scheme. It seems like the prudent thing to do, and Hannibal hasn’t survived as long as he has by doing rash things.

Will thinks he can tip the scales.

“I was being honest during that hypothetical, in your office,” he says, and he feels the pads of Hannibal’s fingers dig into the small of his back. “Giving you back anything less than a masterpiece in return would have been… unfair. It’s another reason I’m glad you killed Budge.”

Hannibal’s curiosity gets the better of him. “Oh?” he asks, and Will can feel the breath from his words on his skin, warm and powder-soft. “And how does Mr. Budge’s demise affect your… design?”

Will smiles. “Well,” he says, “if you hadn’t killed him, I would have had to. It wouldn’t have been ideal, but I would have done it.”

Hannibal doesn’t ask, but he lifts an eyebrow, and his eyes are fixed on Will’s with unblinking ferocity.

Will sighs. “He made you bleed, Hannibal. He was serenading you, but you weren’t his. He shouldn’t have fucking touched you.”

Fire flares behind Hannibal’s eyes, and it takes Will a moment to realize it’s just a reflection of what he’s feeling, his own anger and possessiveness reflected back at him.

Hannibal licks his lips, and then he takes a breath. “I suppose you’re the only one allowed to touch me?” he asks, and then, softer, “The only one allowed to make me bleed?”

It’s exactly what Will had been thinking, but hearing it said aloud is… different. He swallows, nodding. “Exactly that.”

Hannibal’s arms fall from around Will’s waist, and Will has a whole second to feel bereft before the man crouches down and picks up the knife. He stands and presses it into Will’s hand, handle first, all in the same motion, and Will becomes very suddenly aware of the tightness in his pants.

All it takes is rocking his knee forward to tell him he’s not the only one. Hannibal keens at the pressure, his hips bucking forward as he grinds against Will’s thigh, and Will thinks about forgoing the knife, about forgoing everything, and just watching Hannibal rub off against his leg. He wonders if Hannibal would, if Will would have to convince him, urge him, guide his hips with steady hands until he made a mess of those stupid tailored trousers.

“Is there a piece of furniture in this house you won’t kill me for ruining?” Will asks, and Hannibal just blinks at him for a moment, his pupils blown wide, his lips slightly parted.

“The mattresses are most easily replaceable,” he replies, finally, and Will feels himself grin, just a little too sharply for it to come across as anything but predatory.

Will grabs two things on their journey to Hannibal’s bedroom: the bottle of scotch Hannibal had been drinking before Will arrived, and a stack of dishcloths from the drawer by the sink. The cloths are brand new, white and pristine, and Will has the feeling that they’re going to have to burn them after they’re through.

He’s not sure he cares.

When they walk into the spare bedroom, Will tosses the half-full bottle and the cloths onto the bed, and then turns to face Hannibal, the knife still in his hand. It’s not one he’s intimately familiar with - the knives he uses for gutting fish are thinner, smaller, made for finer, more delicate cuts. He wishes he had one with him, but there’s a certain poetry to using Hannibal’s own tools for this, and while Will’s love letter might have been complete at the crime scene, there’s no reason he can’t include a post-script.

Will hefts the knife in his hand. “Pull the sheets back,” he says. “And lay down. Get comfortable. Once I start, I don’t want you to move.”

Hannibal arches an eyebrow, but he complies, folding the comforter and the top sheet halfway down the bed. He hesitates, glances back at Will, and then pulls them the rest of the way off so that they pool at the foot of the bed. “There are ways to keep me still, if you foresee it being an issue,” Hannibal says, and the words are flirty, but there’s something about the tone that isn’t.

“I’m not tying you down,” Will says, and knows it’s the right thing to say because tension he hadn’t even noticed gathering bleeds out of Hannibal’s shoulders.

“Lay down,” Will says, and Hannibal spares a glance for his clothes and for the deep blue satin sheet that still covers the mattress, but he does it, laying himself down on his back. He shifts, making himself comfortable, and finally comes to rest with his hands at his sides and his legs spread just enough that Will could comfortably fit a knee between his thighs. Perfect, in other words, for what Will has in mind.

He takes Hannibal’s socks off with his hands, because he feels like he might have tempted fate enough for one day, and it gives him the excuse to press soft kisses to the insides of Hannibal’s ankles, delicate little things that make the older man’s breath hitch and make his fingers twitch against the sheets.

Will smiles. “Be still,” he warns, and then he sets the blade of the knife against the hem of the right leg of Hannibal’s pants.

“Will,” Hannibal begins, but he doesn’t move, so Will drags the knife upwards. It slices through the material cleanly, leaving the two halves to fall open on either side of Hannibal’s leg, baring his skin to the open air.

Will keeps the sharp edge of the blade away from Hannibal’s skin, but he lets the dull edge drag against it the closer he gets to Hannibal’s hip. At the first touch of the cool metal, Hannibal shivers, and Will stops completely, the tip of the blade a few inches away from the thicker waistband.

“Be still,” he repeats. “I don’t want to cut you accidently.”

“Just on purpose, then?” Hannibal asks, a little breathlessly, and Will offers him a smile.

“You of all people should appreciate the value of good knifework,” he says. “Be good for me, Hannibal, and I’ll make it good for you.”

It’s impossible to miss the way Hannibal’s cock twitches in his trousers at Will’s words, or the way he swallows, like his mouth has suddenly gone dry.

“I’ll be still,” he says, and settles.

Slicing up the length of the trouser leg is easy. The material isn’t thin, but it parts well enough for the knife. The waistband is harder. It requires the smallest sawing motion, a little extra pressure, and then the knife slips clean through, finishing the line that began at the hem.

“Other leg,” Will says, keeping his voice pleasant, and Hannibal lets out a slow, shaky breath.

By the time Hannibal’s pants are fully cut away, he’s hard enough to be leaking in his black silk boxers. Will can see the small wet patch forming at the front, and he almost diverts course, ignoring Hannibal’s shirt in favor of stripping him down to the skin below the waist. Almost. Instead, he reaches out with the knife, dragging the blunt edge of the handle over the prominent bulge in the silk.

Hannibal, to his credit, barely twitches. He does moan, though, low and ragged, and Will has to wonder how close he is, if Will could tip him over the edge just by letting him rut up against his own knife.

“You keep giving me ideas,” he says, turning the knife in his hand. He slips the blade under the last button of the shirt, and then uses his other hand to pin the fabric firmly against Hannibal’s belly. “More things I want to do to you. More ways I want to see you.”

He shifts the knife, and the button pops right off.

“If you expect me to complain,” Hannibal says, the muscles in his stomach tensing as Will cuts off the next button, “I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”

Will snorts his laughter, and takes two more of the buttons in quick succession. Hannibal’s breath catches on an inhale, and Will finishes the last set before responding. “I don’t think I could ever be disappointed with you,” he says, spreading his free hand across the plane of Hannibal’s stomach. It’s not quite flat, middle-age and luxurious living adding a layer of padding, but Will likes it, likes the way Hannibal goes completely, absolutely still when Will’s fingers dip dangerously close to the waistband of his boxers.

He sets the knife down on the bed, shifting back. “Sit up,” he says. “I’m not cutting through your sleeves like that, and I don’t think either of us have the patience for me to sit here and unroll them.”

Hannibal swallows, and then he sits up, moving his arms just enough to make it easy for Will to push the shirt from his shoulders. When it falls, Will tosses it aside, and then plants a hand in the middle of Hannibal’s bare chest and pushes him back down, just hard enough that he bounces a little when he lands.

It’s a nice mattress, so the knife doesn’t move from where Will left it. He picks it back up, and then reaches for the bottle of scotch. The label isn’t one he recognizes, which means it’s probably ridiculously expensive, but it’s fitting. Will can’t see using bottom-shelf vodka for this.

He eases the stopper out, and then holds the knife out over Hannibal’s stomach. The older man realizes what he’s about to do a moment before he does, and Will gets to see outrage cloud his face, gets to see him prop himself up on one elbow, like that’s going to make a difference.

“Will,” he says, and Will pours.

He doesn’t waste a lot. It’s no more than a shot, poured out over the blade to disinfect it, but the bottle has been sitting out and the scotch is cold. Hannibal jerks when it hits his skin, the muscles in his stomach coiling tight as the amber liquid splashes over them. The scotch pools in Hannibal’s belly button and soaks into his boxers, dripping off the sides of his abdomen to sink into the mattress.

Will thinks he may be starting to see the appeal of some of the decadence Hannibal allows himself.

Tilting the blade, Will lets the rest of the scotch drip off the knife onto Hannibal’s body, before he corks the bottle again and sets it aside. “Lay back,” he says, and Hannibal shoots him a look before he complies and lays back, tension back in the set of his jaw and the strain of his neck.

Will licks his lips, and then ducks his head, dipping his tongue into the little pool of scotch collected in Hannibal’s belly button. “Relax,” he murmurs, licking at stray droplets and reveling in the way Hannibal shudders at every little touch, his hold on himself wavering without the knife to enforce it. “Let me do this right.”

Hannibal does relax, in degrees, until he’s loose and lax underneath Will’s body, and it’s only then that Will draws back and reaches for one of the clothes. He uses it to gently dab away the excess liquid, including that which soaked into Hannibal’s boxers, and he doesn’t skirt around Hannibal’s cock.

Hannibal doesn't whine, but it’s a close thing.

“Be still again,” Will says, and sets the tip of the knife against the outside of Hannibal’s thigh, just below the edge of the silk.

Hannibal’s breath catches in his throat, and Will drags the knife up in a slow, sure motion. The silk parts easily under the tip of the knife, much easier than the trousers had - but so does Hannibal’s skin. The cut is shallow, just more than a scratch, but blood still wells up in the knife’s wake. It’s not enough to drip, but it’s enough to draw Will’s attention.

When he’s done on that side, and the silk has fallen away, he reaches up and brushes his thumb through the scratch, smearing the blood. Hannibal hisses under his breath, his fingers flexing against the sheet, and Will feels a smile tugging at his lips.

The other side of silk fares the same, and soon, Will is able to nudge the scraps aside and leave Hannibal completely bare from head to toe. He takes a moment to just look, really look, and commit the sight to memory. He can’t draw, and he’ll never have Hannibal’s talent in the other arts, but Will’s memory is unparalleled, and he doesn’t want to forget a moment of this.

He wants to say something about art and how it reflects the artist, and how Hannibal’s creations, despite their brilliance, could never do him justice. He wants to tell Hannibal that he’s imagined him before, before and after he knew who, exactly, the Ripper was, and nothing he imagined could compare to this reality in front of him.

What comes out of his mouth is, “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” and Hannibal makes a sound like Will sunk the knife between his ribs.

It’s easy, after that, to spill the rest of the scotch over Hannibal’s chest. The older man doesn’t complain, even when Will takes the extra moment to dab up the extra with one of the dishcloths. He just watches Will with dark, wanting eyes, and he keeps still, and Will thinks it’s unfair that he can’t carve the still-beating heart out of his own chest and offer it up to the man below him.

When he sets the blade against Hannibal’s skin, he doesn’t have to tell him to be still. Hannibal freezes, so that when Will drags the knife across the skin of his pectoral in four quick strokes, there’s not even the soft rise and fall of his chest to disrupt Will’s design.

The crude W won’t scar, not unless Hannibal picks at it and allows it to, but it still twists something in Will to see it on his skin, to see blood welling up in the shape of his initial.

Hannibal curses under his breath, but before Will can turn his attention to the next patch of skin he wants to mark up, the older man reaches for his free hand, grabbing it and jerking it upwards. Will’s confused until his palm settles on wet, sticky skin.

“It’s going to scar,” Will says, even as he presses his thumb into the wound, spreading the edges of it and drawing more blood to the surface. Hannibal arches his back with a sharp sound, and Will has to shift to straddle his hips to avoid getting jostled off. “Fuck, Hannibal, I was going to leave this one alone.”

“Don’t,” Hannibal grits out as Will drags his finger down the length of one of the cuts. He looks a little wild, with sweat beading on his forehead and his eyes dark and wide, and Will wants to rein him in and cut him loose all at the same time.

“Christ,” Will mutters, and then they’re kissing, and Will’s not sure whose lip splits, but there’s suddenly the taste of iron between them and it stokes the fire in him higher, until it feels like he’s the one that might burst at the seams.

He fumbles at his pants with slick, bloody fingers, pushing them down just far enough to take his cock out. He’s hard, throbbing at his own touch, and it’s easy to grind down against Hannibal’s hips, to rock against him in short, sharp motions that send them both spiraling high fast enough that it should be embarrassing.

Hannibal is taught like a bowstring underneath him, every inch of him coiled tight, and it’s easy for Will to slip a hand between them, to curl blood-red fingers around his own cock and stroke himself, hot and slow. The sound Hannibal lets out when he realizes what Will is doing is all sex and gravel, all desperation and need, and his arms come up to wrap around Will’s shoulders, pulling him in close.

“On me,” Hannibal says, rocking his own hips up to chase some of the friction Will is denying. “Come on me. Mark me. Make me yours.”

It’s possessive, the kind of possessive Will has never allowed himself to be before, because it’s not the healthy kind, but it twists inside him and shoots sparks up his spine, and then he’s spilling into the space between them while his teeth sink firmly into the meat of Hannibal’s shoulder.

Will tastes blood, and Hannibal jerks underneath him, cries out, and comes.

Will has just enough presence of mind to twist his hand around and stroke him through it, until Hannibal is shaking from overstimulation, until his hips are twitching away from Will’s touch instead of up into it. Then, more than a little shaky himself, Will forces himself to unclench his jaw.

There’s no gush of blood, just a slow trickle from the spots where his teeth dug in the deepest. He doesn’t bother to resist the urge to lick over the mark, taking note of the way Hannibal trembles in his arms as Will laps at the lazy drops of blood trying to spill down Hannibal’s back.

He doesn’t apologize.

He does sit back, though, and look Hannibal over. Despite there being only two sources of blood, Hannibal looks like he’s covered in it. It’s smeared down his chest and belly, between his legs, up over his neck and shoulder. The come that’s cooling on his stomach adds to the debauched look, and Will has to admit, even if it’s just in the privacy of his own head, that it’s a good look on him.

Hannibal shifts, trying to get an arm underneath himself, and Will reaches out a hand to stop him. “Let me,” he says, and grabs one of the clean dishcloths to take to the bathroom. He runs the water until it’s hot, and then soaks the cloth before returning to the bedroom, pleased to find Hannibal still spread out in the middle of the bed.

The cleanup job is haphazard at best, but Will cleans up their come before it can dry and go tacky, and he manages to wipe away the majority of the blood from Hannibal’s skin. As far as his own goes - he suspects he’s going to need a shower before he’s ready for the world. But that can be a problem for them in the morning.

Reaching for Hannibal’s hand, he gently tugs him up to a sitting position. “Come on,” he says, gently, mindful of the sleepy, half-dazed look in the man’s eyes. “Gonna get you tucked into bed. We’ll clean everything up in the morning, all right?”

Slowly, Hannibal nods, and Will spares him a single, concerned glance before sliding his arm around Hannibal’s waist.

The master bedroom is just down the hall. Hannibal seems able to walk all right, but he’s definitely not all there. Will thinks about teacups and broken bones and wishes he had the opportunity to watch the life fade out of Budge’s eyes.

Will gets Hannibal into bed, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, he puts himself on the other side. He wasn’t going to leave in the first place, but now he feels compelled to stay as close to Hannibal as possible.

As soon as he’s under the blankets, he shifts over and holds his arms out a little. “C’mere, darlin’,” he murmurs, more of the south slipping into his voice as sleep starts to pull at him.

For a moment, Hannibal doesn't move, and Will wonders if he’s already fallen asleep. And then, slowly, the man turns over and shuffles into Will’s arms, tucking his larger frame in tightly against Will’s smaller body.

“You needn’t stay,” he says, in a small, quiet voice, and Will is immediately certain that the last person who heard Hannibal speak like that is dead.

Will hums softly. “Do you want me to stay?” he asks, and he braces himself for Hannibal to say no.

In response, Hannibal curls against him a little tighter and lets out a soft, dry sound. “I’m afraid I never want you to leave,” he says, and it’s clear from the way he says it that he thinks it’s a problem.

Shifting, Will slides one hand up Hannibal’s back, until his fingers can touch the very edge of the bite mark. “Hannibal,” he says, his voice as soft as he can make it. “I don’t want to leave.”

Hannibal shifts, and Will feels the warm wetness of his face where it’s pressed in against Will’s neck. Instinctively, he draws Hannibal in closer, pretending he can’t feel the fine tremors that wrack the other man’s body.

“Shhh,” he says, nuzzling into the mess he made of Hannibal’s hair. “Sleep now. I just got you, darlin’. I’m not about to let you go.”