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1.
Will had meant to send Hannibal home half an hour ago. He was too tired to talk, too drained to listen, and yet Hannibal had lingered with that endearing yet painful patience of his, setting a steaming container of food on the table, asking small questions that required only the smallest of answers.
The warmth from the food filled the room, though Will hadn’t touched it. He sat on the edge of the couch, head bent, eyes weary from the case. Another missing woman, another bloodstained ruin of a house, and another set of nightmares he wasn’t ready to sleep through.
“You should eat,” Hannibal said, not unkindly. He didn’t move closer, but his presence had already spread into the room the way scent clings to fabric.
Intoxicating.
“I’m not hungry,” Will muttered.
His words slurred at the edges; exhaustion tugged at him like undertow. He closed his eyes for what he told himself would be a moment.
The next thing he was aware of was weight. Not heavy and yet not invasive, just the solid assurance of someone beside him. The presence was weighted. It tug down his walls of anxiety and fear. His shoulder had found Hannibal’s without permission. The realization should have jolted him upright, but it didn’t. It was late, and he was too tired to manage indignation. Hannibal hadn’t moved away, either.
Will let out a breath, long and shaky. The hum of the refrigerator and the distant croak of frogs outside blurred together, and for a brief, reckless moment he allowed himself a time of reconciliation and peace.
With none other than Hannibal Lecter himself. A scary thought to think, he shuddered.
A knock at the door snapped him back.
Will jerked, eyes flying open, and found himself half-collapsed against Hannibal’s side. His cheek had been near Hannibal’s shoulder, closer than it should have been, close enough that his own warmth lingered against wool and cologne.
And Hannibal must’ve smelled his unpleasant aftershave.
Another knock, firmer this time. “Will? You awake?” Jack Crawford’s voice carried through the door.
Panic surged. Will shot upright so fast he nearly stumbled off the couch. Hannibal didn’t flinch. He remained seated, composed, one hand resting easily on the armrest as though nothing at all were amiss.
Something not only comprising but inappropriate between a therapist and patient. Even between friends. Will had enough knowledge in his mind to understand friends didn’t engage in such physical contact.
“Jack,” Will croaked, throat dry. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to wipe away both sleep and the flush creeping up his neck.
Hannibal rose smoothly and crossed to the door, opening it before Will could form a protest.
Jack stepped in with a manila folder tucked under his arm. His gaze flicked from Will, who is disheveled, blinking in the lamplight. Then, to Hannibal, unruffled and composed in his tailored suit. Then his eyes cut back to the couch, where the impression of two people sitting too close still dented the cushions.
One eyebrow arched.
Will’s stomach dropped. For reasons that he did not want to think about nor understand.
“I brought the tox reports,” Jack said after a beat too long, tone deliberately neutral. He set the folder down on the table but didn’t bother hiding the way his mouth curved at the edges, as if he’d stumbled on something amusing. Something in his eyes was knowing in self assurance. Will wasn’t sure if he was self aware or self conscious.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” Will said quickly. Rather too quickly. He felt the heat crawling higher under his collar. “I was just—resting. We were talking about the case.”
Jack hummed. He didn’t look convinced.
Meanwhile, Hannibal, perfectly at ease, had already moved toward the kitchen. His form polite and content such a look you would see from a happy cat. If you could ever find a cat near Will that would be happy.
“Would you care for a glass of wine, Jack? I opened a bottle earlier.”
Jack gave a short laugh. “Not on the job.” He gave Will another look, pointed and amused, before heading for the door. “Get some sleep, Graham. You look half-dead.”
The door shut behind him, leaving silence in its wake.
Will turned toward Hannibal, who was returning from the kitchen with two glasses anyway. His expression was maddeningly mild, as though the entire encounter had played out exactly as he expected.
Had he? Had he not? That was the question.
“That wasn’t—” Will began, then broke off, words colliding with the sharp edge of embarrassment. He forced them out anyway. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”
“Of course not,” Hannibal said smoothly. He handed Will a glass. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, deliberate or accidental—Will couldn’t tell.
And he didn’t to use his empathy for something as embarrassing as this.
Will set the wine aside untouched. His pulse was still uneven, his skin prickling with the memory of how easily he had leaned into Hannibal without thinking. He wanted to argue, to assert some boundary, but Hannibal only sat back down in his original place, hands folded, gaze patient.
And he smiled.
2.
The forest was damp and soggy, the night was one where sound carried strangely. Every snap of a twig seemed magnified, every breath harsher in Will’s ears. His flashlight swept through the trees in a thin arc, catching pale bark and nothing else.
He hated field operations. Not the evidence gathering afterward that was methodical, ordered but the hunt itself, the way the woods seemed to swallow sound, the way every shadow could contain a man with a gun.
Who was a fool to not fear the unknown?
His dogs would have barked their warnings, but out here he had only Hannibal’s footfalls at his back. Steady, unhurried.
The dogs seemed to be rather fond of Hannibal and he couldn’t quite place where or when it begun.
“He’s close,” Will murmured.
Hannibal’s reply was quick to come. “Yes. He’s been watching us.”
The certainty in his voice made Will’s skin crawl. He knew Hannibal was probably right. He usually was.
A branch cracked somewhere to their right. Will swung his flashlight, catching only the glint of wet leaves. He felt the hair rise on his arms.
So, the gunshot came.
The sound ripped through the silence, piercing the air with its violence. It was enough to jolt Will’s pulse into his throat. He didn’t have time to think Hannibal’s hand closed around his shoulder and shoved him down, hard, just as another shot barked. They hit the ground together, Will’s back colliding with damp earth, Hannibal’s weight driving the air from his lungs.
The world narrowed to mud, breath, and the press of Hannibal’s body against his. Hips sewn to hips and head to neck.
“Stay still,” Hannibal whispered, his mouth far too close to Will’s ear.
Will froze.
He could hear the suspect crashing through the underbrush, moving quick and sloppy, firing another shot blind. Bark exploded from a nearby tree. Hannibal’s weight shifted slightly, his body angled over Will’s in a way that shielded more than restrained. His coat smelled of cedar and smoke and something sharper, clean and metallic, that Will didn’t want to name.
He could feel the rhythm of Hannibal’s breathing against his chest, steady as ever. Will’s own lungs dragged at the air, shallow and frantic, every inhale filled with damp earth and Hannibal’s cologne.
The footsteps grew fainter, stumbling deeper into the trees.
Will didn’t move. He told himself it was because the shooter might circle back. But Hannibal hadn’t moved either.
It felt like forever before the forest settled again. Before his heart had the same rhythm of a drum to match the man’s above him.
Finally, Hannibal lifted his head, though not enough to create any real distance. His gaze searched Will’s face, unreadable in the half-light.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was low, intimate by necessity.
Will shook his head, unable to find words. His heartbeat thundered so loudly it drowned out everything else.
And still Hannibal didn’t move away.
They remained tangled there, pressed chest to chest behind the cover of the fallen log, until the sound of approaching voices broke the spell.
“…you hear that? Shots fired!” Zeller’s voice, obnoxious as ever carrying across the trees.
“Oh, God,” Will muttered. He shoved weakly at Hannibal’s shoulder, but Hannibal only eased off him with measured grace, as though nothing at all were unusual about the position they’d been in.
Price’s flashlight beam cut through the trees and swung toward them. He froze mid-step, eyes widening as he took in the scene: Hannibal crouched beside Will, close enough to touch, both of them spattered with mud and panting.
“Oh,” Price said, and grinned. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Zeller came up behind him and stopped dead. His eyebrows went up. “Wow. Okay. Should we… come back later?”
Will’s face burned hot enough to outmatch the chill in the air. He scrambled upright, brushing dirt from his jacket with frantic hands. “It’s not—it’s not what it looks like,” he snapped.
Words he seemed to be repeating as of late.
Price smirked. “Pretty sure it looked like you two were about to—”
“Shut up,” Will barked, sharper than intended.
Zeller held up both hands, trying not to laugh. “Hey, man, you don’t have to explain it to us. Stressful job, adrenaline, stuff happens in the field.”
“Nothing happened in the field,” Will said, enunciating each word like a weapon. His pulse was still thrumming, part mortification, part leftover terror from the gunfire, but he couldn’t seem to slow it.
Price elbowed Zeller. “Come on, let’s go sweep the east trail. Give them a minute.”
Will’s mortification grew claws. “You’re not giving us a minute! You’re supposed to be securing the perimeter!”
But the two of them were already moving off, chuckling under their breath. Like schoolgirls giggling and making crude remarks about their positions and Hannibal’s kinks of whatever kind they were coming up with.
Their lights bobbed away into the trees, leaving only darkness and silence again.
Will exhaled shakily, dragging both hands down his face.
Behind him, Hannibal dusted his coat with poise motions, as if he hadn’t just tackled Will into the mud, as if the weight of his body hadn’t been pressed full against him for a long, breathless stretch of time.
“They’re insufferable,” Will muttered.
“They were amused,” Hannibal corrected gently. He stepped closer, voice dropping again into that infuriatingly calm register. “But then, people so often are when they catch a glimpse of what they do not understand.”
Will glared at him. “There was nothing to understand. You were covering me from gunfire.”
“Yes,” Hannibal said. He inclined his head slightly, the faintest suggestion of a smile playing at his mouth. “I do like to keep you safe.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. Hannibal didn’t say them casually, and Will couldn’t dismiss them casually. He opened his mouth to argue, to shove the sentiment back where it belonged, but nothing came out.
Instead he turned away, staring into the trees where the shooter had vanished, trying to focus on the job, on anything other than the phantom memory of Hannibal’s breath at his ear, the weight of him pressed close, the strange calm that had held Will in place longer than it should have.
It lingered with him long after the suspect was caught.
Long after they left the forest.
3.
Will hadn’t planned on coming. He rarely did.
Plans suggested forethought, intention, and the way he showed up at Hannibal’s office was usually closer to impulse, an instinct, half surrender. Tonight was no different. He’d driven here without really deciding to, headlights carving the familiar streets, his mind spiraling tighter and tighter until he ended up at Hannibal’s door.
The waiting room was empty. Beverly must have left hours ago, and the patient scheduled after hadn’t shown. Hannibal himself opened the office door when Will knocked, a faint look of surprise flickering across his face before smoothing into his usual warm civility.
“Will,” Hannibal said. “How fortunate. I find myself with an unexpected gap in my evening.”
Will almost turned around then. Almost. But Hannibal stepped back, gesturing him inside with the ease of someone who always knew Will would come in, and Will’s resistance faltered. He entered, shrugging out of his jacket like he was being shepherded into a place that wasn’t really his but always felt too much like it.
He didn’t sit. Instead he paced.
The office was warm, the light was low and golden, shadows pooling in corners. Hannibal’s presence filled the space the way expensive cologne clings to fabric subtle, but inescapable. Will’s nerves sparked and sputtered, restless as a live wire.
“You’re agitated,” Hannibal observed, closing the door softly behind them. “Is it the case?”
“Always the case,” Will muttered. His hands flexed at his sides. He couldn’t keep still; his legs carried him back and forth across the rug, eyes drawn again and again to the leather chair he usually sat in but unwilling to surrender to it tonight.
“Sit, Will,” Hannibal said gently.
Will stopped pacing but didn’t move toward the chair. “I don’t want to sit.”
Hannibal considered him for a moment, head tilted, as though studying a specimen in motion. Then he moved to the side table and poured water into a glass. Not wine, water. He offered it out.
“Your body is telling you it needs grounding,” Hannibal said. “Would you let me help you?”
Will accepted the glass reluctantly, fingers brushing Hannibal’s briefly in the exchange. The cool water did nothing to ease the knot between his ribs. He desperately wanted the knot to be undone or, at the very least wrapped around Hannibal’s neck.
He set it aside, unable to swallow past the tightness in his throat.
“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly.
“You are not fine.” Hannibal’s voice softened, but it was unyielding in its certainty. He stepped closer, closing the distance with his body and with a confidence that always made Will’s pulse tick upward. Will didn’t retreat, but his shoulders stiffened. Hannibal reached out, not abruptly but with care, fingers brushing Will’s wrist where it hung at his side.
“May I?”
The question caught Will off guard. He nodded before he could stop himself.
Hannibal’s fingers circled his wrist lightly, guiding his arm upward, palm facing inward. His other hand rose to Will’s chest, not touching but hovering a breath away.
“Breathe with me,” Hannibal instructed. His tone was clinical and soothing, the same way he might calm a distressed patient but there was an undercurrent in it too, something heavier that Will refused to name.
Refused to acknowledge as well.
Will tried.
He inhaled shakily, felt his chest rise under Hannibal’s watchful eye. Hannibal’s thumb pressed faintly against his pulse point, measuring the rhythm, steadying it by sheer force of presence. The room felt closed in. Will’s heart hammered against Hannibal’s fingertips even as he tried to slow it.
That was the moment the door opened.
Alana’s voice broke the fragile silence. “Hannibal? I—”
She stopped dead on the threshold. Will tensed, Hannibal’s hand still at his wrist, their bodies angled too near one another to explain away quickly. The silence stretched, thick with implication. Alana’s expression shifted from confusion, then dawning understanding, and then something unreadable that made Will’s stomach twist. She stood rooted in the doorway for a long quite unnecessary time.
“I didn’t realize you had a… session,” she said finally, her voice careful. “I’ll come back another time.”
Before Will could find words, before he could wrench his wrist away and blurt out the truth, she had already stepped back, pulling the door closed behind her with gentle finality.
The silence that followed was worse than the interruption.
Will yanked his hand free as though Hannibal’s touch had burned him. “You should’ve told her what was happening.”
Hannibal’s gaze remained calm, but Will thought he was being tested. “What would you have liked me to tell her?”
“That it wasn’t—” Will broke off, heat creeping up his neck. His skin still tingled where Hannibal’s thumb had rested, as though his pulse hadn’t yet stopped beating there. He gestured wildly, frustrated. “That it wasn’t what she thought.”
“And what did she think?” Hannibal asked, almost mildly.
Will stared at him. “You know what she thought.”
Hannibal did not smile, not exactly, but his eyes held the faintest glimmer of amusement—or satisfaction. “Then it seems I should respect her interpretation.”
Will’s chest tightened. He hated the way Hannibal could make him feel both transparent and opaque at once, as if every defensive word only confirmed something unspoken between them.
“This isn’t funny,” Will said harshly. He turned away, raking a hand through his hair, restless as ever. “You put me in a position—”
“You put yourself here,” Hannibal corrected, still calm. His voice followed Will across the room, even, deliberate. “You sought me out, Will. You came because you knew I could steady you.”
Will’s breath hitched. He wanted to deny it, but the words stuck. He had come. He always came.
The weight of that realization pressed heavier than any physical closeness.
He stood beside the ladder, his pulse still thrumming where Hannibal had touched him, and he couldn’t shake the image of Alana’s expression how easily she had assumed, how quickly she had excused herself. Did it really seem that way to others? And the worst part was that for one unguarded second, Will had believed it too.
Will rubbed his face with both hands, pressing his palms into his eyes and temples as if he could physically erase the tight coil of tension that had wound itself around his chest. The heat from Hannibal’s touch still lingered faintly, a ghost against his skin that refused to be ignored. He exhaled sharply, the sound half-sigh, half-grumble, though his shoulders sagged with exhaustion.
Hannibal remained still for a moment, watching him, eyes calm and unblinking. Then he stepped closer, voice soft, measured. “Will, perhaps we should take a small walk. The air might do you good.”
Will blinked at him, half-surprised, half-irritated. He wanted to protest, to claim he had no need of a stroll, that he could manage on his own but his body was still taut, his mind spinning. And, yes, somewhere in the back of his consciousness, part of him welcomed the excuse to leave the room, to move, and to reset.
He sighed again, longer this time, a surrender disguised as resignation. “Fine,” he muttered, letting Hannibal guide him toward the door. His voice sounded weaker than intended, carrying an undercurrent of tiredness he didn’t bother hiding.
As they stepped into the hall, Will’s cheek brushed against his palm as he rubbed it again, noticing a faint tint of pink that he couldn’t quite suppress. Hannibal’s presence was close at his side, easy and steady, and Will kept his gaze averted, pretending not to notice how the warmth of it seemed to trail along his arm.
“You’re tense,” Hannibal said quietly, almost conversationally, as they moved down the corridor.
Will scoffed softly, but it came out as more of a grunt than a denial. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Hannibal’s hand brushed lightly against the small of his back—not pushing, just guiding—and Will’s pulse quickened slightly despite himself. He drew a slow breath, resigned to the fact that even in a simple walk, Hannibal had a way of making proximity feel unavoidable.
Will exhaled once more, letting the tension seep a little out of his shoulders, his cheek still tinged as they stepped out into the cool evening air.
+ 1
Will had not expected an invitation tonight. Hannibal’s text had been brief, polite, almost casual: “Would you care to assist me in the kitchen this evening?”
The phrasing suggested civility, civility that never came without an edge. Will knew better than to assume it was a mere offer to share food. And yet, when he arrived, coat damp from the spring drizzle, he found the kitchen smelling faintly of herbs and something rich he couldn’t immediately name.
Hannibal stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, knives arranged meticulously beside a cutting board. His outfit was another of those silly suit he wore and still he admired Hannibal’s figure through the cloth. Will’s eyes seemed to be entranced to man above him.
“Will,” Hannibal spoke with a slight smile. His mind seemed to jump to its own conclusion as Will didn’t make eye contact with him.
“I’m glad you came. There is much to prepare.”
Will nodded, not trusting his voice, and stepped inside. He set down his coat and rubbed his hands together, noticing that Hannibal’s gaze lingered a little longer than necessary.
Hannibal handed him a knife with a faint smile, tilting the blade just so. “Care to start with these vegetables? It’s simpler if we work side by side.”
Will took the knife cautiously, the weight solid in his hand. As he leaned over the counter, Hannibal moved just close enough for their elbows to brush. It was subtle, almost unnoticed, but Will felt the spark of proximity immediately. He stiffened, then relaxed fractionally, as if surrendering to an inevitability he had long denied.
They worked together in silence at first, chopping, peeling, and slicing, their movements harmonizing in a way that made the ordinary task feel intimate. Hannibal’s hands occasionally guided Will’s, a nudge here, a gentle touch on the wrist there quiet enough to be defensible as instruction, but deliberate enough to make withdrawal difficult.
Will’s pulse ticked upward with each contact, heat rising along his neck. He wanted to tell himself it was just cooking. He wanted to insist that the closeness was accidental, that Hannibal was simply attentive. But the brush of fingers against his own, the way Hannibal leaned slightly closer to show him a proper cut, the way the scent of cedar and wine and something faintly metallic clung to him—it all spoke a different truth.
A truth he denied. Hannibal’s voice cut through the quiet
. “You’re holding the knife too rigidly. Relax. Allow it to follow the motion of your hand. Like this.”
Before Will could protest, Hannibal’s hands were over his, guiding his grip, showing him the curve of the blade. The proximity made Will aware of his own body. Somewhat insecure at the moment and still his stomach coiled and tensed like a schoolgirl on her first date.
Date. This wasn’t a date? Was it?
Hannibal’s gaze met his, and Will met his. Will realized he wasn’t going to retreat. Not tonight. Not while the opportunity presented itself.
“You wanted this to happen,” Will said quietly, almost a whisper, even as he felt the absurdity of admitting it aloud.
Hannibal didn’t flinch. He continued guiding the knife for another moment before stepping back slightly, letting Will’s hands fall naturally into place. “And yet,” he said, “you stayed.”
Will’s chest tightened, but he did stay.
He caught himself staring once, for just a second too long, at the line of Hannibal’s jaw. The previous “accidents” he had blamed on coincidence—the couch, the log, the office—hovered at the edges of his mind, suddenly suspect. Maybe they hadn’t been accidents at all.
The meal took shape under their hands: color, texture, scent—a sensual assembly that mirrored the unspoken tension between them. Will realized he was aware of everything—Hannibal’s proximity, the warmth of his hands guiding his own, the faint scent of cologne and something else, the way the knives clicked softly against the cutting board. Every sound seemed amplified, every movement deliberate.
Finally, Hannibal stepped back, letting Will take the last slice of vegetable to plate. Their hands brushed one last time, fingers lingering, and Will’s pulse leapt. He couldn’t say he hadn’t noticed. He couldn’t deny that he hadn’t enjoyed it.
And then Hannibal leaned in closer than necessary. Just slightly, just enough that Will could feel the warmth radiating from him. The scent of wine and cedar wrapped around Will like a shroud. His pulse stuttered. Hannibal’s hand rose lightly, brushing against the back of Will’s neck, guiding him, coaxing him forward.
Will didn’t pull away. He knew, suddenly, that he didn’t want to. His own hand found Hannibal’s wrist as though anchoring himself, a tentative claim, and Hannibal’s eyes softened with approval.
He kissed Hannibal. Again and again. With passion, with patience. Love and anger. His hands found them tangled in Hannibal’s hair. Meanwhile, Hannibal’s crept along his waist and he felt a tug on his belt.
”May I?”
Fuck it.
“You may.”