Chapter Text
"God cannot be tempted by evil,
nor does he tempt anyone;
but each person is tempted when they are
dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed." (James 1:13-14)
Why has his Master forsaken him?
Hasn't he any understanding of his creation? To Will, it seems He doesn't. To Will, it seems that his Lord hath cast him aside with the transgressors, which is peculiar because Will has never once doubted God. When his brain was on fire, he trusted Him. When his hands were coated in blood, he trusted Him. When his feet were bruised and aching, he trusted Him. Look where that has gotten him.
On the run.
Will digs in his duffle bag, retrieving a plastic bottle of Aspirin. He pours three into his right palm, shaking them before swallowing them dry. They slide down his throat in a way that reminds him of the sting of a half-chewed eucharist. Bitter and fulfilling. A sweet buzz of euphoria accompanying the ache. He sighs, resting his head against the velvet rest of his seat. He had to avoid planes, his debit card and passport having been marked. His face is all over the news.
He didn't mean to kill. He just got...carried away. He loved Abigail, loved her so deeply that he needed to hurt anybody who dared lay a hand on her. His Lord had whispered to him, warned him of the evil that followed her. She helped her father murder those girls. She was the lure, the worm on the spear and the hand that clutched the hunting knife. He had believed in her almost as wholly as he believed in God--believed in her innocence. Unfortunately, he was the only one.
Nicholas Boyle was going to murder her. In retribution. In revenge-- or rather to avenge his sister. Will couldn't just stand there and let it happen.
But Abigail wasn't who he thought she was. He thought she would have thanked him, worshipped him for his act of mercy-- But she didn't. Her eyes widened as she looked at the hand wrapped around the knife buried in Nicholas' stomach. She gagged as Will dragged it up, brows tensed in concentration and a fierce unbridled rage he had spent so long repressing.
The heat that spread through Will's fingertips was exquisite. The stickiness of the blood, the sharp scent of fear on Nicholas' person, all things he hadn't felt since Garrett. The intensity of the moment overtook him in an instant and before he knew it, he couldn't stop.
He had plunged the knife into Nicholas again, and again--so many times that he wasn't even sure how many wounds they might've found. He soaked in his blood, soaked in the righteousness of it, the sheer protection he had enacted over Abigail. It was like he was her father, her protector. He was all the things she needed but wouldn't admit to needing.
Her screams had been the thing to snap him out of his trance. High, guttural screeches that made his ears ring. He had immediately turned around from Nicholas' gurgling form and rushed to her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, trying to tell her she was safe--that it was all over, but she kneed him in the stomach and fled from his grip.
He knew she would tell. A mistake it had been. Not the murder, but exposing it to her without being sure of her reaction. So he ran.
He tossed all of his cards and stole a janky old Ford, driving up from Massachusettes into Canada. The nine grueling hours were sliced up into two parts; four and five. He lived off of sandwiches and sodas from the gas stations he could find. Once he made it into Quebec, he tossed the car and began rebuilding his life. First a few new sets of clothing, then shaving his beard, and lastly getting a fraudulent passport and identification card.
The weeks he spent in limbo were some of the most terrifying weeks of his life. Whenever somebody would look at him too long as he bought a pack of beer or waited for the crossing light, his mind would tell him he was done. Caught. That Jack and his coworkers would be lurking behind his left shoulder like the hand of Satan--the barrel of a pistol against the back of his head like a reckoning.
But thank God, it never happened. He saved up a hefty amount of cash working on boats and cars for people in the town, doing household chores for elderly women who only spoke French, mowing lawns and cleaning gutters. He actually valued the work. It took his mind off of things, let him forget. Forget his sins and forget his predicament.
After a few relocations and a lot of labor, he caught a boat ride into France by his employer. Spent a few weeks in Paris 'sightseeing' before catching a train into Italy.
Five hours into his ride now, he lets the grief roll over him like a tornado. With the help of some high-end cigarettes and a glass of Pinot noir, his eyes have begun to droop into his skull. His limbs buzz with a reluctance to shift, his mind as quiet as harsh waves unto shore (therefore, not nearly quiet enough.)
He mourns the loss of Abigail, of his puppies. Neither are dead--but he is. He is hopelessly deceased. His unforgiving curse being his continued life. He mutters a quick prayer for Abigail and for himself.
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I beg you to heal the torments that cause undying tremors in my heart. I beg you, in specificity, to heal all which are the cause of sin. Blessed be the Virgin Mary, blessed be my soul, blessed be my mind, blessed be my heart.
"Amen." Will whispers, hearing tearfulness plague his throat. He drifts off to sleep as the hum of the train rocks him like Jesus in his Mother's sacred arms.
~~~
The heat of his fingertips against his forehead are like the touch of God. Sometimes he even believes he can feel Him. Behind his head, breathing life down his neck. Floating above him or sitting in his desk chair. To Hannibal, God is comfort--and comfort is indulgence. It is not God he believes in. Not exactly. There is no being higher than himself. It is the value of the rituals he worships, the placation, the familiarity.
And the disguise. The disguise is valuable as well.
Nobody would ever suspect a priest of murder, much less accuse one. That would be blasphemous, wouldn't it? Hannibal smiles to himself, completing the sign of the cross. His touch lingers on his chest, fingers perched between his ribs. He catches the thump, the pump of his elixir of life. The fountain he has drained so many times before. He exhales slowly. Left, right, lips, up. He thumbs the largest bead of his rosary, running his fingernail over the ridges as he utters the Our Father.
The words come so easily to him now. When he was a young man, they would trip over his tongue. Fumble with the peculiar mix of accents he had acquired throughout his years. But now, in his forty-eighth year, they flow from his tongue with sophisticated ease.
The mornings in the church are the calmest. The orphaned children lay deep in the throes of slumber, the nuns perform their prayers and gather the Blood and Body for morning Mass--subsequently leaving Father Lecter to himself until nine. He utilizes his time in many ways: sketching, working on his sculptures, journaling, and watching. He gazes out of his highest window and looks for any interesting subjects.
It is rare that he finds any in the morning, but it's always worth a shot. A knock echoes throughout his chambers, trusting him from his supplication.
"Father Lecter?" A deep feminine voice calls from the other side of the thick wooden door. He hums, eyes still shut.
"You may enter." His chest rumbles with the depth of his tone. The door creaks open, sounding much like a wounded pup in its straining. The sister lingers in the doorway, fingers clasped before her waist. Hannibal tilts his head in her direction, silently urging her to speak.
"It is nine twenty-five. Most of the congregation is seated."
Hannibal nods once, rising swiftly from his seat. His robes flow around his ankles as he fixes his rosary around his neck.
"Thank you, Sister Valarie. I will be right out, God willing." He smiles softly, eyes crinkling at the corners with remnants of age. She keeps her eyes fixed on the floor, nodding jerkily as she turns on her heel and rushes downstairs.
Hannibal has never been a stranger to desire. He can smell it on others--a sweet tang or a bitter sharpness. He first scented it on his aunt. A grapefruit zest and the scent of dark chocolate. It startled him as he cried into her bosom after a particularly troubling nightmare. She stroked his blonde hair and hummed in his ear. Even at thirteen, he knew that the way her slender hands lingered on his thighs wasn't right. Wasn't pure. But he didn't stop her--couldn't stop her.
He inhales deeply, willing the burn of humiliation to cool off of his skin. He doesn't like to think of Murasaki now, she's long gone. He just wishes her effect on him faded as easily as the light from her eyes did.
~~~
Will's first week in Florence was quite uneventful.
A quiet city, it is. Lots of chatter and sunshine and art. So much art. His hair has grown into a mop of curls that covers his eyes, and with his clean-shaven face he's a lot less worried about being recognized. He spends his afternoons on benches sipping coffee and reading. His evenings are quaint dinners and museum visits. He's rented an apartment with high ceilings and too much cobblestone to keep him warm. His bedroom is scarcely decorated--a bed, a dresser, a desk. He hasn't many belongings ever since that night, given he had to drop everything a drive, but he's never been much of a maximalist.
Even when he was safe at home in Wolftrap his belongings were few and far between. Multiples of the same articles of clothing, just enough dishes for himself and a guest, and no more than three pairs of shoes. Alana always teased him for it. Always tried to buy him things for secret Santa, but he never let her.
His days pass by slowly; awaken, pray, eat, walk, sleep, and over again. The news of his disappearance hasn't made it to Europe yet--at least not that he knows of so he takes his time acclimating to his new life after death.
The one thing he's been unable to leave behind though, is his faith. He misses his church back in Virginia, the sweet scent of sugarcane and old lady perfume. The southern twang of his priest, the warmth of the steady breeze. His prayers inside of his bedroom have stopped satisfying him. He needs to confess to his newest sin, to be absolved by the grace of God.
On Friday afternoon, he takes a stroll through the streets of Florence. He walks the rocky concrete underneath the breeze, looking at tourists and natives just alike. He catches snippets of conversation, the simple words he can understand ringing in his ears. The people he sees provide him with less comfort than he had anticipated. Watching their bright smiles and boisterous laughter strikes an ache beneath his ribs that he hasn't felt in weeks.
Loneliness.
Loneliness is deadly. Will knows that. From the death of his parents to the struggle to find friends, loneliness has tormented him at every corner. He always feared that if those close to him knew him--knew him in his frightening entirety--that they would flee from him like deer from wolves. After Abigail, he knows that's true. Nobody will ever love him. Nobody can ever love him, not his generosity, not his rage, not his wrath.
He's come to the conclusion that it is better for him to stick to solitude, for the sake of everybody else. He knows himself better than anybody else, maybe even better than God. He knows he gets obsessed, gets tunnel vision. He feels the power of God in his veins like cheap heroin. He yearns to protect. To shield those he loves from harm the way God does.
But he's not God. No matter how badly he wishes he were.
Bells ring like an alarm in his mind. He perks up like a starving dog, moving his head to find the direction of the trumpet of rapture. His gaze lands on a large, large building. An architectural feat, old and beautiful and stunning. He feels something pulling him to it, like that church is his destiny. It is all he needs. Everything he's been praying for.
The first step into the church is blinding.
Will inhales deeply, shutting his eyes. When he opens them, the height of the ceilings and the light filtering through stained glass is almost enthralling. He walks slowly, feeling the weight of God beneath his feet. Right, left, right, left. He passes by a sister lighting a row of candles behind the last pew. He nods at her, smiling softly. She doesn't smile back.
The tile beneath his feet is beautiful in its simplicity. Beige squares that curl in perfect circles around a large circular tile. It's red, with a painting of a skeleton in prayer. Hands thrust upward in the gaze of God, begging for life. Or forgiveness.
A collection of voices erupts from the altar. Baritones and tenors first, then altos and sopranos. Will moves quickly, sitting in the third pew. His eyes drift downward to his hands which have instinctively clasped. He hums a long to the hymn, feeling the intensity of the moment seep into his skin. Being in church has always been an overwhelming event. Even when he was a child, the emotions of the troubled, of the hungry and righteous always dug ditches into his bones. He felt the sorrow of his neighbor, the guilt of his seatmate, the indifference of the child before him. His empathy is a blessing, his mother used to tell him--but it rarely felt that way.
It felt like a curse. Like a punishment from his Lord. The words of the priest would constrict his own vocal chords and make him choke. He'd sputter, hot tears rolling down his cheeks in what his mother would think was divinity when in reality it was searing pain.
She never brought him back to church after he pounded his fists against the seat until his hands bloomed purple. Their Priest said that the devil had roots in him, roots he wouldn't be able to expel with prayer. They tried to heal him, fix him with scripture reading and lashings, but the abundance of emotion never went away. It just buried itself deeper inside his chest.
He learned to hide it, to keep it locked behind a deep dungeon of repentance. Unfortunately, under the nightly cover of darkness it would always emerge. Bigger and deadlier than ever. His pain drew raised lines on his forearms and shoulders. He turned to flagellation as a way to let the pain out of its cage. It worked, thank God, but at what cost?
Will's eyes drift to the altar, carefully inspecting those standing. In his thought, he missed the entrance of the servers and deacon. He curses himself, sitting up straighter and averting his full attention to the man who shall exit next. His breath stutters as he lays eyes on him.
He's tall. Taller than any priest Will has seen before, and not nearly as old. Maybe a decade older than Will himself? The Father's cheekbones are sharp, eyes calculating and intelligent. Crows feet pull at the corners of his lashes, showcasing the deep mahogany shade of his irises. Will licks his lips, gaze trailing down the Father's form. Draped in the sacramental robes, he seems almost slender. His hands are clasped before his stomach, blue-ish veins bulging from the tan skin of his knuckles. His nails are long and white, well taken care of. Clean.
He raises his right hand to his chest, a sleek smile parting plump lips as he acknowledges those before him. Will leans forward, enraptured by his demeanor. He makes the sign of the cross, feeling his heart thunder beneath his fingertips as he lingers on his chest.
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." The man utters, voice echoing through the chamber. Will exhales a breathy Amen. The priest's voice is smoky and smooth like the first sip of aged whiskey. An unplaceable accent that curls around his s-sounds and th-sounds. Something European, but not Italian. At least not entirely.
As he speaks, Will's knees feel weak. His skin is hot and tingling, shivering rolling through him as the Father recites the introductory rites. He fixes his shoulders, begging God for forgiveness. Why is he reacting like this? To a man--to a priest no less. He's always been good at separating his faith and his unholy desires, keeping his sins within the confines of his bedroom or motel-rooms. He's never felt like this in church. The ache, the longing, the need. The pressure beneath his black slacks threatens to double him over.
"Christ, have mercy." Will whispers, eyes shut. He shifts on his feet, desperate to relieve the ache between his thighs. The sound of the priest's voice has an effect on him he cannot ignore. A heat prickling at the back of his neck, a dryness of his mouth. If only his tongue tasting of wine and blood could hydrate him.
Will almost groans when the priest finishes the blessing, thanking God he can be once again seated with the rest of the congregation. He thanks God he is the only one in his row, keeping his hands over his thighs as the first volunteer reader begins.
His knee bounces incessantly. He cannot pay any attention to the scripture. All he can think of is him. His voice, his eyes, his lips. How his hands would feel on his chest and shoulders, how beautiful he'd look on his knees before Will--worshipping. The pressure between his thighs is unignorable--a painful straining he hasn't experienced in weeks. The leather of the bible is cool beneath his fingertips. It doesn't do much to disguise his predicament.
He gasps as he feels the leather of the spine press into his groin. The relief is immediate and so fucking sweet. A small whimper escapes his lips before he can stifle it as he instinctively grinds the corner of the book into his growing bulge. Will's eyes shoot open and he curses himself. His cock twitches in his slacks--what the fuck is wrong with him?
When he glances back up to the stage, a jolt of fear ripples through his body.
The priest is looking at him. Staring at him with knowing eyes that feel as though they burn into his skull. Their dark-chocolate brown is reminiscent of an abyss that Will cannot help but get lost in. The priest stares at him curiously--similar to how a teacher would a pupil. Or how an owner would a misbehaving dog. Condescending and intrigued. Will licks his lips, wishing he could see just how he looks in this moment. Flushed, no doubt. Sweaty and troubled, dripping with an unbridled need.
He keeps eye contact with the priest, watching as the other man's gaze drifts from his cerulean eyes down the slope of his neck. They rake over his adams apple before settling on the collar of his button-up. Will's own gaze follows, catching on the gold cross that swings over his collarbone. That must be what he's looking at, right? Certainly not the hairs that curl over the top button, or the way his pectorals look in his too-tight shirt. Right?
Will's not crazy. He's a lot of things, but delusional is not one of them. From the way they look at each other, it is clear that Will is not alone in this. Not alone in this fantasy, in this lust--this need that threatens to plummet them both into the throes of hellfire. The priest's tongue darts out against the pad of his bottom lip, swiping over the skin as his eyes linger on Will's. Will's breath stutters, a shiver rolling itself delightfully through his spine.
Will finally diverts his gaze from the peculiar priest in a futile attempt to pay attention to the scripture the Lector is reciting. After a few moments, Will realizes that the book of Job is being read. One of his favorites.
He's always felt like Job, like one of Gods experiments. He thinks God likes watching his creations like actors on a stage. He tilts them over, makes them trip just to see what would happen. God forgets though, that the director is not invisible. Even the worst of actors can lose faith in their director. The recitation is concluded and the volunteer moves to take his seat. Will watches the priest rise. His robes make it appear as though he is simply floating on the air. The ghastly complextion of his skin not helping the unsettling reverence his presence has.
The priest stands before the altar, making the sign of the cross. The congregation follows.
Will's fingers linger on his chest, feeling the rapid thumb of his heart. It is like a drum behind his ears, boisterous and loud and rhythmic.
"The Lord be with you." He mutters, a vaguely hedonistic smile quirks the corner of his lips. And with your spirit, the congregation replies in varying degrees of volume. Will's lips stay still, too enraptured by the man before him. The man clears his throat, pressing his hands to the corners of the altar. His throat works, bobbing like an apple in water as he recites the Gospel according to Matthew in a deep, rumbling tone that all but shakes the chamber. Will shuts his eyes, swaying with conviction. His brows are tensed in concentration and he bites his lip so hard that the taste of iron blooms on his tongue.
"The Gospel of the Lord." The priest rasps in purity. Praise to you, Will utters, leaving out the last three words that have been branded into the flesh of his brain since he was nine. He's not exactly sure who he's praising in this moment--certainly his object of worship has shifted ever since locking eyes with the priest.
"I thank and bless everybody who has attended today. If you have risen unto the heels of your feet and stepped in the path of our Lord, verily you will be rewarded in the hereafter. Most of you are familiar with me, but I see some new faces so I will reintroduce myself."
Will leans forward, listening intently.
"I am Father Hannibal Lecter. I serve our God. I aid our people in finding faith."
Lecter. Father Lecter. Will whispers the name, both syllables catching on his tongue like sour candy. It almost ties a knot around his heart, squeezing and forcing blood to swim down between his thighs. Father Lecter clears his throat, before beginning his sermon.
"Sin cannot be forgiven unless our sorrow is perfected by the love for God who has first loved us. In personal prayer we might wonder whether our motives for confessing our sins are the best. Part of the Act of Contrition I learned as a child stated “I detest all my sins because of the loss of heaven and the pains of hell.”" Hannibal chuckles softly, as if in remembrance of his youth.
"Fear of God’s judgment motivates us to sorrow. Unfortunately, that’s not enough reason to be forgiven. We are required to make a perfect Act of Contrition. Only perfect love can cast out the fear of God’s judgment and remove sin." Will notices the way Father Lecter's gaze lingers on his throughout his homily. A very easily denied fact, but a fact nonetheless. It's as though they are the only ones in the church. They are having a conversation with each other. Everybody else--even God-- is irrelevant and subsequently ignored.
It's just Will and Lecter. Lecter and Will.
After the slow, enticing utterance of the Eucharistic prayer, the congregation rises. Will stands tall, rolling his shoulders back and sighing.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name
thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread
and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,
and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
Will whispers, eyes shut and moving wildly beneath the lids. The prayer on his lips has a familiar taste--milky and sweet, almost stale.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: grant us peace.
It is almost in sync that they all kneel, heads bowed and backs curved in a deep arch. Father Hannibal steps down the side staircase, walking from the left of the pews to the right. Will fights the urge to lift his head and watch. He hears the procedure take place for others, the body and the blood that Father Lecter provides on behalf of the Lord. The first three rows are completed after what feels like eternity and Lecter stops before Will.
Will inhales shakily, slowly rising from his kneeling position. The height difference is even more jarring up close. Father Lecter must be over six-feet. Will himself is anything but short--above average even. But he has to tilt his head up to meet the other mans eyes in a demeaning act of supplication. Hannibal gazes down his nose at him, eyes sparkling with recognition of something.
A cool finger presses against the underside of Will's jaw. Will's eyes widen, jaw instinctively falling open. Hannibal's eyes tug at the sight of his pink tongue. Will inhales through his nose, shifting on his feet. He clasps his hands behind his back, the muscles of his shoulders bulging in the action. His tongue tentatively rests on his bottom lip, covering his row of teeth. Hannibal hums almost indistinctly, placing the small dry circle of bread onto Will's flattened tongue.
Will looks up, eyelashes brushing his lids as he moves to shut his mouth. The only issue is, Hannibal hasn't removed his fingers. Will stands there, mouth agape in waiting. Hannibal applies pressure to his tongue, making his uvula bob up and his eyes begin to water.
"The body of Christ." Lecter whispers, a strained tone plaguing his voice. He finally removes his fingers, letting Will chew and swallow slowly.
"Amen." Will breathes, licking his lips.
Hannibal passes him a small paper cup of cherry red wine, fingertips lingering against his palm. "The blood of Christ."
Will wets his lips with the wine, blinking at the bittersweet familiarity. He swallows. "Amen."
Hannibal smiles softly, nodding once before moving to the next pew. Will sighs deeply, mind still reeling from the moment. He feels almost dizzy, like his head is in the clouds. His gaze follows Hannibal's form as he zig-zags throughout the communicants. He doesn't linger on anybody else, doesn't leave his fingers in their mouths, doesn't treat them the way he treated Will. Will is special.
The service concludes shortly after the final prayers. Hannibal says parting prayers to women and children who linger in the church. Kind-eyed and sweet-sounding. The perfect lamb of God. Will's limbs buzz and he cannot help but tremble. His hairline is dotted with sweat, eyes shifting from side to side as he sits in the wooden bench. He takes a few staggered breaths, hoping to regain some semblance of composure.
"Pardon my interruption, Sir." That unmistakable voice rumbles behind him. Will jolts, turning to look over his right shoulder. "I've never seen you here before. Are you new, and will you continue to attend our mass?"
Will swallows, squinting up at him before scooting farther into the pew. Hannibal tucks his robes beneath himself before sitting.
"Yes- I mean, I'm not sure." Will sputters, laughing softly. He inhales deeply, nodding. "I've just recently moved here." Hannibal hums, leaning back into the wood. He scratches his left wrist, revealing a large ovalish scar in the middle of his palm. Will glances down, inspecting it closer. Hannibal pauses in his movement, gazing at Will with an emotion Will cannot exactly place. He clears his throat.
"Sorry."
Hannibal shakes his head, silvery blonde strands of hair shimmering in the candlelight. "No need. Would you like to look closer?"
Will pauses, eyes widening as he looks at Hannibal. He nods jerkily. Hannibal holds out his hand, palm up, letting Will peer down at it in something akin to awe. Will curses beneath his breath, taking Hannibal's fingers between his own. Hannibal stiffens just slightly, a huff of air ruffling Will's hair. Will runs his fingertips over the scar. He's heard of stigmata before--of course--but he's never seen it on anybody. The scarring just makes Will even more intrigued.
"What is your name, child?" Hannibal inquires. Will tries to ignore how peculiar the way Hannibal refers to him makes him feel.
"Will. William." Hannibal hums.
"I presume you already know my name." He chuckles. Will huffs, looking off to the side.
"Yes. I know your name, Father Lecter." Will is surprised at how smoothly the title rolls off of his tongue. Hannibal's eyes seem to darken as he looks at Will, taking on a quality that can only be described as debauched. Hannibal licks his lips slowly, gaze flickering from Will to the Bible on Will's lap. Will's fingers are white-knuckling it at this point, desperate to hide the humilation that stains his pants.
"I sense that you are troubled, William. I believe you would benefit greatly from confession." Will coughs, echoing throughout the almost desolate church. The nuns have retired to their chambers, the congregants shuffled back home. Hannibal tilts his head at Will, eyes locking onto his. He nods softly, eyes fluttering shut in the moment of vulnerability
"Very well." Hannibal whispers, standing from his seat. He nods towards the booth. "I'll be waiting for you."
Will nods, mouth dry as he watches the man walk away.
~~~
Hannibal had smelt it on Will immediately. The citrusy scent of longing, of a desire hot enough to burn down the church in one fell swoop. It had tickled his nostrils, forced his eyes to follow the trail until their eyes met. And met, they did.
The broad shoulders tucked beneath a dark long-sleeve button-up, the top button left undone and providing the smallest glimpse into the heavenly body that lay below. His eyes like the middle of a tsunami wave, so light and so dark. There was something undeniable in them. A violence, an escape route. Hannibal has spent years sharpening his perception. Perception is an extremely valuable tool for someone like him. He needs to be able to decipher the eyes he gazes into. Needs to find suitable victims.
Though occasionally, he finds eyes that look scarily similar to his. Will is a reckoning. One that Hannibal himself has been chasing for the better part of three decades. Somebody like him, somebody who will drop everything to worship, to serve, to understand. So when Will caught his gaze and held it in his palm during the service, his heart stuttered. His gaze didn't falter, it pierced.
Will has something to confess to. A multitude of things, would be the better description. From the unbridled lust that wafted into Hannibal's nostrils from across the alter, from the way his tongue darted out to taste him to the minuscule whimpers that slipped past chapped lips when he sipped the blood of Christ. He's a transgressor. He needs to be absolved (or maybe encouraged.)
Hannibal fingers the fabric of his robe that drapes over his right knee. The heat of the confession booth makes sweat collect on his hairline. He exhales slowly, leaning back against the seat and resting his head against the wall. His eyes open swiftly when he hears the sound of the door on the other side of the divider open and shut. Hannibal sits up straight, touching the cool tips of his fingers to his forehead, then chest, then shoulders. A thick, shaking voice whispers from the other side.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." Will croaks, exhaling. "It has been...eleven months since my last confession."
Hannibal interlocks his fingers over his lap, listening intently to the barely discernible shuffling beside him.
"Why haven't you confessed in such time?" Hannibal inquires. Will inhales sharply, crossing his ankles. Silence permeates the chamber. Hannibal tilts his head, waiting.
"I haven't exactly been stationary. I stood in limbo, in a complicated predicament that threatened my freedom." Will admits, rubbing his hand over his forehead.
"Is that 'predicament' connected to your sin?"
Will nods before remembering that Father Lecter cannot see him. "Yes." He breathes. Hannibal senses hesitation. He clicks his tongue.
"Anything and everything you say in this booth is between us and God. Without judgement, except that of the Lord. You could admit to murder and I wouldn't be able to utter a word." Hannibal pauses. "Have you murdered anyone, Will?"
Will's heart pounds in his chest, eyes searching the booth for anything to cling to. This question should be taken as a mood lightener, to highlight the unreasonable tip-toeing he's doing around the subject. Unfortunately, Hannibal's question makes him feel caught. He almost cries out at the words but he bites his lip, holding his tongue.
"Yes." He whispers with shut eyes.
Hannibal practically preens. If Will could see him--Oh, if Will could see him. "I'm sorry?"
Will raises his voice. "I killed someone."
Hannibal feels his spine tingle beneath his garments, curiosity making his fingers shake. "Tell me more, Will."
The words seem to spill from him like a fountain. Like vomit that stings his esophagus, or an orgasm that forces his abdomen to ripple. "I was a Federal Bureau special agent," He starts. "I've always been...different. Emotional. I get obsessed and carried away. I have this straining need to protect. Like my hand is that of God, like I hold the power over life and death.
"I murdered a man--a boy. He had broken into me and my dau-" Will halts. "Me and a child's home. He wanted to talk to her. I couldn't let him."
Hannibal hums, crossing his legs in an attempt to ignore the stirring of his erection. "What did you do?" He rasps. "How did you do it?"
Will gasps, feeling hot tears prickle his eyes. "I stabbed him. Gutted him. There was-" He chokes. "Blood everywhere. Hot and sticky and so bright. Never-ending."
The sound of stifled sobs in the booth next to Hannibal only riles him up more. He wants to hear him. He presses his nails into his own sternum, imagining what it would feel like to have Will bury a knife in him and drag it up--no, down-- to his...
"I thought she would thank me. Accept me, accept my offering. But she didn't. She just...screamed. Screamed until it was pounding in my temples like a hammer. She didn't understand. I miscalculated our bond."
Hannibal gasps softly, head feeling hot. "Do you feel remorse?"
Will stills, a wracked sob tearing itself through his throat. For a moment, Hannibal almost thinks he'll say yes.
"No. No. I don't feel remorse. She was wrong. She didn't-" he exhales, voice taking on a more rageful quality. "Didn't know what I sacrificed for her. I forgive her for it. She was just a kid."
"Is she alive?"
Will's head jerks, eyes tracing over the small circles of the divider. Hannibal's sillouhette seems to have metamorphacized. Will squints, watching the flutter of dark lashes in the dim lighting. And then Will sees it-- sees Him.
God. God is staring back at him. God is who he's sitting next to.
"Are you asking if I murdered her, Father?"
Hannibal takes a deep breath, chest expanding before he sighs. "Yes."
"No." Will spits. "I didn't kill her."
Damn it. Hannibal would have killed her. Misunderstanding is a grave crime in his eyes, especially if it would jeopradize his life. Will must get better at that. He has potential, but he's sloppy.
"Well, child," Hannibal whispers, allowing the degrading tone to seep into his words. He watches Will's shoulders stiffen, and then something else.
Oh. Oh.
A grin splits Hannibal's lips. Child. Father. It has an effect on Will. The scent of lemon and lust accentuates, wafting through the pinholes of the divider. Hannibal will keep that in mind.
"If you do not feel remorse, I fear I will be unable to absolve you of your sins." Not that I want to. Not that you want me to. "Though, something tells me absolution is not what you came here for."
Will pauses, running his tongue over his top lip. He leans back, knocking against the wooden seat. "That was not the only sin I would like to confess to."
Hannibal smiles. "Isn't it?" Will shakes his head.
"I've been uh- having troubling thoughts. Reactions that I can't control." Hannibal inhales slowly, resting his ear against the divider. Will's mind runs to the sound of Hannibal's voice, the sultry tone that makes him want to curse himself and God. He bites his lip, feeling the heat of Hannibal's presence all over again.
"Thoughts about whom?" Hannibal whispers breathily, a needy sound erupting from his throat.
"About a man." Will admits, hand drifting from its place on his knee up his thigh. "I've always had thoughts about men. Their hands, their eyes, their voices."
"Have you ever acted upon them?"
Will's hand stills. "What do you mean?"
Hannibal clears his throat. "Have you engaged in sexual relations with a man? Or have you simply steadied yourself with a warm hand and a racing mind?"
Will groans, lurching forward. His erection protrudes his slacks, unignorable now. He adjusts the fabric of his pants, breath coming faster and less even.
"Will?" Hannibal teases. "Are you having such thoughts right now?" He pours, condescending in just the right way.
"Yes." Will moans, shutting his eyes.
"Yes, whom?"
"Yes, Father."
Hannibal's eyes flutter shut as he takes a steeling breath.
At this point, Will can no longer resist. He unbuttons his pants, pulling the zipper down and rubbing himself through the fabric of his boxers. He gasps at the pressure, grinding the heel of his hand into himself again and again until his thighs begin to tremble. Hannibal simply listens, ear to the divider and hand resting on his stomach. He wishes he could see him, that he could be the one to erupt those pretty little sighs and whimpers from Will's lips.
"How absolutely naughty you are, child." Hannibal mutters, brow quirking up. The degradation only makes Will leak more profusely into his boxers. "The act of pleasuring ones self is already a mortal sin. But doing so in church, in the confession booth no less." Hannibal tuts. "God shall unleash his wrath upon you."
Will moans loudly before slapping a hand over his lips. He pants, hand moving faster as small grunts echo throughout the chamber.
"Slower, Will. Show the Lord just how desperate you are." Hannibal whispers, voice cutting.
Will exhales, wrapping his hand around himself. He squeezes his base, watching pre-cum ooze from his slit. He dips his fingers in it before slicking himself up. He strokes slowly, squirming at the intimacy. He hears Hannibal's even breaths beside him. He swears he can almost feel the air against the shell of his ear.
"Good. It appears you have more self-control than I originally presumed."
"Is that- a good thing?"
Hannibal hums, tilting his head. "I doubt anything that has occurred in this booth would be classified as a good thing. Let's dig deeper into your first confession, shall we?"
Will groans, head swimming in the haze of desire.
"Taking life is a mortal sin. You knew of its consequences in the hereafter, of the grave violation it is underneath the Lord's law, and yet you do not feel remorse. Your repentance is surface level. Without true reflection, you will be subjected to eternal damnation. Despite your...unique predicament, I am able to provide you with an understanding that nobody else can. Killing in the name of salvation, killing one corrupted by evil comes with a peculiar ecstasy. A feeling of righteousness, of necessity. Isn't that right, Will?"
Will shudders, rubbing his palm over his tip. Shocks of pleasure ripples through his spine like electro-convulsants. He bites his lip, tasting the sweet tang of blood bloom on his tongue as his thighs tense and jerk. He whimpers softly, tears of pent-up need wetting his cheeks.
"Killing must feel good to God too. He does it all the time." Hannibal husks, tilting his head. "And aren't we created in His image?"
Will cries out as white-hot ropes paint his palm. He trembles through his final strokes, breath catching as he shakes. Hannibal groans with a soft smile, listening to Will on the other side of the divider. His own boxers are growing cold as pre-cum cools on the fabric. His erection twitches, desperate for relief but he forbids himself.
His head is dazed, a dizzying feeling reminiscent of the effects of sweet wine on his tongue forces him to white-knuckle the bench below him. He presses himself into it, finding himself desperate for something hard beneath him. He's never wanted to be on something like this before--never ached for the embrace of another. He deemed himself above it. He has never believed anybody to be worthy of his body, of his pleasure, of the soft noises that fall from his lips when his hips stutter, but Will-- Will threatens to bring down his perception of intimacy.
He wants him. Wants to feel him beneath him, on top of him, inside of him and around him. Anything, he thinks. He'll take anything as long as it's from Will.
Hannibal is thrust out of the depths of his thoughts when he hears the door to the confession booth creak open and slam. It shakes him, leaves him breathless. He sighs, rubbing his hand over the cusp of his eyelids. There is no way in Hell that Will won't come back. He's already gotten a taste, a sip of what they both share. All Hannibal has to do is wait.
~~~