Chapter Text
be·tray (b ɪˈtre ɪ)
1. To be false or disloyal to.
2. To divulge in a breach of confidence
3. To make known unintentionally
4. To reveal against one’s desire or will.
5. To lead astray; deceive.
At first glance, Hannibal Lecter’s home appears to be covered entirely in yellow bricks. In reality, it is only the front that receives such ambience; the sides and the back of the house have only plain red stone. Still, the house faces to the west and Will appreciates the color the brick achieves in the light of the setting sun.
“In the kitchen,” Hannibal calls when he opens the door. He removes his jacket, hanging it in the coat closet in the entrance because last time he dropped it on the floor Hannibal gave him that look. Just watch—I can be good.
When Will walks through the entrance to Hannibal’s workspace, the man’s back faces him. He can see the muscles going in the man’s shirt. Tense, un-tense, tense, un-tense. Is he cutting something?
When he turns, Will sees a piece of meat laid out on the cutting board. His untrained eyes are unable to discern it’s origin. A wet, greasy overly on Hannibal’s hands is the telltale sign of him working tenderness into the meat.
“Good evening, Will.”
“What are you making?” he asks, walking across the kitchen. They share a light kiss during which Hannibal keeps his hands raised in the air, away from Will’s clothes.
“Fegato alla Venzeiana,” he replies. The Italian pronunciation seems spot on, not that Will would know the difference. “Liver, Venetian style. Cooked in red wine.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Yes, actually, if you could chop the onions…”
“No problem. How was work?” Will picks up the chef’s knife, hoping desperately that he’ll remember to use it the way Hannibal taught him and won’t embarrass himself too terribly.
“Perpetually commonplace. How is Uncle Jack?”
Will wrinkles his nose, looks at Hannibal though he isn’t looking at him. He doesn’t mean to snap: “He’s fine. You should stop calling him that.”
Hannibal changes the subject, though the amusement in his voice is evident, to Will’s sustained chagrin. “How is the case?”
Will finishes the first half onion and pushes it aside with the sharp edge of the knife. If it were not so puerile, Will would grumble. “Fine.”
“I should take that to mean the opposite is true, yes?”
With a sigh, he says, “I don’t know. I feel like I should have figured it out by now. I’ve spent so much time on the Ripper—way more than any other—and I still have zero leads.” He sets down the knife because his hands are shaking. Hannibal materializes beside him.
“I think you should take a break.” Feather-light, the man’s thumb runs across the underside of his wrist to his palm, circling slowly. Will laughs and pulls his hand from the grip. It’s the case talking but he really can’t stand to be touched by Hannibal right then.
“Jack would love that,” he quips. The grin on his face is forced, painfully so, and it makes his face feel as if it will break in half. “Besides, the Ripper could strike again any day. I have to at least try and catch him.”
Will realizes a second too late the idea his tone brought forth.
“You do not believe you can catch the Ripper.” It is not a statement. The fake smile curls up and dies.
When he speaks, it takes every ounce of control he possesses to keep his voice from breaking, and it still quivers regardless. “How…How can I? The Ripper isn’t crazy, he’s intelligent. He knows exactly what he’s doing and he knows how to get away with it—“
“Sit down, Will. I will bring you a drink.” He obeys because he’s worried his legs will give out if he doesn’t. Hannibal methodically retrieves an unlabeled bottle of whiskey and pours Will a finger of it. Once received, he examines the crystal of the glass before setting it aside. Somehow he just doesn’t feel like drinking.
“Usually—” Will starts before dead air falls across his tongue. He tries again, “Usually, during cases it feels like I’m trying to get to know the killer. It’s like with Hobbs. I felt like I was becoming the Minnesota Shrike.”
“And the Ripper is different?” Hannibal sounds mildly surprised by Will’s statement. Sets the plate of liver aside and leans forward on the counter across from Will. He shakes his head back and forth to clear it. As if it could ever be clear.
“With the Ripper, it’s the opposite. I feel like he’s getting to know me. I’m not crawling inside him, he’s crawling inside me.” Will doesn’t like talking to Hannibal about this; he doesn’t want him to worry. He’s spoken about it in a clinical sense, discussed coping mechanisms and techniques to set the nightmares aside (none particularly successful). Hannibal is smart, he must have guessed it, but this is the first time any of this is coming out, in its entirety. Will takes his head into his hands. His entire body is shaking.
“Normally, I can feel that they are evading capture. Hiding from me. But now… I’m the one hiding. How can I catch someone when I’m hiding from them?”
His lover begins to circle the counter, his intention to take Will into his arms as clear as day. It makes his entire composition seize up in nonsensical fear. He lashes out.
“No, no, don’t touch me, stay over there—“ Hannibal pauses at Will’s outburst, remaining at the corner of the counter with his eyes on his quaking form for a long moment. Then he continues walking to stand beside him. When Hannibal’s broad palm rests against Will’s back he worries he might vomit all over the counter.
“Drink your whiskey, please.” Gentle. This is safe. A safe place with a safe person, Will tells himself. His fingers grab at the tumbler but he loses his grip and the crystal crashes to the floor, whiskey and all.
“I—I’m so sorry—“ He flings himself from the seat and onto the floor, picking up the larger glass shards much too quickly. A sharp edge slices his ring finger open. A hiss falls from his mouth; Hannibal pulls him to his feet by his bicep. Presses him backwards against the counter, away from the glass. One hand brings the sliced open finger to his mouth so he can lap up the blood. Hannibal’s expression would seem curious, more than anything, if he had not done this before, innumerably. An arm falls on either side of his waist. Caging him like a rabid dog.
“Calm down. You have nothing to worry about,” lips whisper against his neck. He presses forward a bit harder and Will is really too apprehensive to be aroused, but, then again, it is Hannibal. “I want to take care of you. Do you want me to take care of you?”
The words themselves seem virtuous enough, but everything sounds a bit different when two men’s cocks are pressing against one another through trouser fabric. Will groans.
“Go upstairs. I will bring you another drink.”
“The mess—“
“I will clean it up.”
“But, dinner—“
“It can wait. This is of more importance. Go.”
Upstairs, in Hannibal’s room, Will removes his shirt and his shoes but nothing else. He doesn’t know what Hannibal has planned. When alone, the case comes back. The irony of the layout of the bodies, the subtlety of it, both satirical and genteel. His eyes close.
A tongue as a place holder in a bible. A man sitting across from himself on a bus. A woman gutted and hung from the rafters in her own studio. A wound man murdered upon his own surgery table.
“I see these things, but they are not my design.”
A hand brushes his crotch. His erection is fuller than it was downstairs, straining to be free. He opens his eyes slowly to look at Hannibal from heavy-lidded eyes. During his hallucination he fell backwards onto the bed. In addition, he realizes now that he had absently been writhing.
“Were you thinking of me, darling?” Will does not respond, doesn’t want to dwell on the reasons for his arousal when Hannibal is so physically here, available to him. He leans up to press his lips to the man’s. Winds his fingers in his hair. Moans.
Hannibal forcibly separates from him to take a sip from the glass of whiskey he brought with him. He transfers the liquid to Will’s mouth with a deep kiss and repeats the motion until the glass is empty. The alcohol, consumed quickly, creates a rush in Will’s gut that makes him instantly dizzy—he must be terribly dehydrated. Not enough to distract him from removing Hannibal’s trousers. The man is pliant, unbuttoning and removing his shirt with similar speed. He even rolls over when Will prods him, so he can climb atop and trail kisses from cheek to sternum then back again. His tongue brushes against the heat of his throat, his pulse point, in tiny licks. Hannibal catches his hips in his hands, circles the bare flesh above the waist of his trousers with his thumbs and scratches at it with dull nails. The pressure sends Will’s body ablaze.
Lifting off Hannibal slightly, Will pushes his pants and underwear down his hips and off his legs. They are both naked now, writhing atop one another.
“I want to ride you. Hard.”
Hannibal nods. “Whatever you want.” His fingers move from Will’s hips to circle his ass, prodding at his hole. The lubricant is ready on the bedside table and he moves to retrieve it.
“No.” He is practically whining. “I want it to hurt.”
Will has never asked for this before, but Hannibal doesn’t seem put off in the least. The first finger presses past his rim. He hisses.
“Just go faster, I need you, I need you.”
“Patience is a virtue, William,” and he knows that Hannibal is enjoying this. Still, he wastes no further time, adding the next two fingers at the same time. Will forces himself to ignore how much pain he is in.
“Ok, ok.” He lifts himself off Hannibal’s fingers after a long moment of scissoring and finds the man’s erection with his hand. It is easy to press the head inside himself, that much is already open and gaping thanks to Hannibal’s fingers. The rest is more difficult. Will cannot deceive himself into thinking the pain isn’t real. Every movement sends a surge up his spine, sends tears to his eyes. Hannibal wipes one away with his thumb and takes one hand in his to aid in balance. Will’s knees are already aching, muscles cramping and is gratified when Hannibal thrusts up into him, paving the way for him. It takes three more thrusts for Will’s hips to meet Hannibal’s. He shifts slightly, looking for his prostate. Gasps when it hits and lights explode across his vision.
Hannibal kisses, bites at his wrist. “Good—find your pleasure,” he murmurs.
Orgasm reaches Will much too quickly. It’s the mix of Hannibal’s voice and his emotional discrepancy, he thinks, brought alive by this man comforting him. But he’s cumming, spurting all over himself and Hannibal before all the strength leaves him.
“You didn’t cum,” he realizes through the exhaustion. Tries to roll them over so Hannibal can rut into him and finish, but Hannibal places a hand on his lower back, restricting movement.
“Stay like this,” he says. “For a time, dear William.”
They lay dozing for at least an hour, Will’s seed splayed between them. When Hannibal finally rolls Will onto his side and withdraws, he only barely wakes up. A handkerchief against his chest cleans the majority of the mess, leaving only a sticky trails in the path.
“I will finish preparing dinner. Please come down when you are ready.” Will thinks Hannibal places a kiss upon his forehead, but he is already too deep in sleep to know for sure.
When the man screams, blood comes flying out of his mouth. If he did not sidestep the crimson sludge would easily stain his clothing. That would be unbearable.
With his surgical scalpel he carves at the man’s lips. Patient. When he opens his mouth again, wide so as to beg for his life, or perhaps for a painless death, he presses two latex-gloved fingers between his teeth. Holding the mouth wide at the jaw. The blade delves inside, carves across—
“You have to honestly confront your limitations with what you can do,” Hannibal says, approaching him at the ladder. “And how it affects you.”
—the back of the tongue with careful ease. Now the man cannot even beg. The muscle continues to bleed onto his hand, carefully covered by plastic so as to not leave any traces.
“I see these things, but they are not my design.”
He wakes up to the sound of his own scream. Despite what it is born from, the fact that he can feel his tongue, still intact and quivering against his teeth, is assuring. He can still feel the warmth of the blood on his hands, as if separated by a layer aside from the gloves the Ripper uses.
After managing to silence himself, he listens carefully. In his hysteria he was unable to ascertain how loud the scream was, whether or not Hannibal would have been able to hear. There are no sounds warning him of approaching movement, luckily.
A glance at the clock tells him that he only slept for an hour or so, depending on how long he and Hannibal were engaged. The dream was explicitly vivid, more so than any other dream or hallucination he’s had about the Ripper.
Too bad it didn’t help figure out who he is…
He’s still exhausted, but when he closes his eyes for too long he sees a tongue placed prudently between the pages of a bible. When he shifts, he is horrified to feel that his erection is back.
It doesn’t make sense. It would be one thing if the Ripper murdered for sexual reasons. Then, at least Will dreaming of the kills and waking with a raging hard-on would make sense. But the murders couldn’t be any less sexualized. He doesn’t rape them, doesn’t so much as stick his cock down their throats. This time, Hannibal is not here to distract him from the impending question: why is Will aroused?
His mind is making some distant connection, like an association formed between a Rorschach test and blood splatter patterns. There’s something about the Ripper that’s making him feel this way.
Whatever it is, he can’t figure it out half asleep with hunger distracting him. He stands to bathe before descending the stairs for dinner.
Hannibal is waiting.