I own nothing. All my Hannibal stories are on my AO3 account, ThatGirlTheyKnow, and my writing blog on Tumblr, wordsareagirlsbestfriend.
"But already my desire and my will
were being turned like a wheel, all at one speed,
by the love which moves the sun and the other stars."
―Dante Alighieri
The realisation hits him like a punch to the stomach. No, more accurately, a knife to the stomach, cutting quickly past the flesh and muscle and deep into his soul in one powerful stroke, then turned at a slow, agonising pace. Like everything is sped up, then slowed to almost a stop. Like his thoughts were a car that was recklessly speeding along a highway and the moment of the collision, of his body being broken, is a moment of pure clarity and awareness, the landscape no longer a blur. He can see every detail in every leaf on every tree and the blaring horns and the screech of his breaks ring loudly through his ears.
He can see everything now. He can see everything, he can see Hannibal, and he is left with a bleeding soul, alone in his kitchen surrounded by his worried dogs, clutching at his stomach, trying to staunch the wound that nobody would be able to see.
Well, that's not true. Hannibal could see it, just like Hannibal sees everything about Will.
Images and emotions flash in his mind that is once again moving at its fastest pace. Trying to make sense of this new knowledge. Trying to find ways he could be wrong.
A pendulum swinging and a blurred silhouette and guidance and friendship and support.
Trust.
Hannibal. A butcher's knife. A gourmet meal. Deep, searching eyes. A knowing glint. Bodies elevated into works of art. A small smile at the corner of the mouth.
A drunken kiss. A smooth promise. A whisper of patience. A strong body pressed against his own. A dark intensity and a restrained hunger and yearning. A shared passion.
Will realises he is crying. Winston sniffs at his hair, confused and distressed by his master's emotional state. A shaky hand runs through the dog's soft fur and the warmth the animal emits helps Will focus his thoughts.
He picks up his phone and types in a number. It picks up on the second ring.
"Will?"
He can't speak so he just cries into the phone. He grips it so tight he worries it might break it, then eventually he gets sick of Hannibal's queries and concern and throws the device at the wall with a growl that makes his dogs whimper and whine.
He's angry. He doesn't remember being this angry in his life. He doesn't remember a rage so powerful that it fills him with a bright, burning fire. He wants Hannibal to be in front of him so he can hurt him: to cause him physical pain and emotional pain and every type of pain imaginable. How dare that man lie to him, manipulate him, feed him the flesh of the victim's who's deaths had haunted his nightmares? For a brief, fleeting second, he hates Hannibal Lecter.
It passes quickly and he's left a sobbing mess on his kitchen floor.
He doesn't know how long he sits there, but it has to be hours. The sun, that was bright and cheerful in the sky when the realisation hit him, is falling lower and lower and the shadows it casts are growing longer and longer. The coffee Will had been making lies on its side, spilled all over the counter, forgotten. The novel he had been reading on his rare day off was probably still being held open at the correct page by the cushion he'd placed on top of it.
Eventually, he gets up. He knows Hannibal will be here soon. The man would be curious, perhaps would have deduced correctly why Will called him.
Hannibal Lecter is probably on his way to kill me right now.
Will should call Jack. He should call… he should call someone, at least, someone who can lock up the Chesapeake Ripper and put an end to his long, gruesome trail of blood.
He looks over at his cracked phone on the floor a few meters away from him, and wants so badly to do the right thing.
But he can't.
He fucking can't.
Because every time he twitches his hand over towards what could be the only thing that could save dozens of lives, he is reminded harshly that if Hannibal is locked away, he will never be able to see the man in a private setting again, and he will never be able to take that step in their relationship that he so desperately wishes they could take, and he will probably never be able to tell the only person he's ever been in love with that he loves them.
Will Graham is in love with Hannibal Lecter, a burning, all-consuming type of love that allows him to forget about the right thing, forget about bringing justice, and forget about the evil his love feels and does and is, and allows him to be selfish. He is battling with equal parts of disgust and want, and want is winning.
He sits on his couch and waits for Hannibal to show, and contemplates killing himself and carving his declaration of love in his flesh, or writing it in his blood. Maybe he should carve out his heart and leave it for Hannibal to consume.
A shadow passes the window and the front door opens. Hannibal is standing in his doorway and the rays cast by the sinking sun frame him like wings of an angel. He stands, elegant and righteous, then takes a step forward, and the illusionary angel falls and becomes a devil of shadows.
"Will? Are you alright?"
Will lets out a bitter, humourless laugh and shakes his head stiffly. "Oh, I don't think I've been alright for a long time, Dr Lecter."
The man (murderer, cannibal, manipulator, devil) frowns at him. On the surface, he looks worried, but Will can see now, and he can see the thoughts that churn in that intricate mind.
And he can see that Hannibal knows, that Hannibal is cautious, Hannibal is most probably armed, Hannibal is surveying him and Hannibal is prepared to kill.
"I see," Will says.
Hannibal stares at him and his face is back into the mask he uses when talking to a patient. The concern is gone.
"You see, Will?" he says softly. He walks closer, and Will doesn't allow himself to tense when he sits down next to him. He thighs are lightly brushing against the other man's and all Will wants to do is lean in and breath in the scent he has come to associate with comfort and safety, when this whole time he should have associating it with the opposite.Danger, a part of his mind screams wildly, but then, Will's always been good at ignoring the parts of his mind that tell him what's good for him.
"I see," Will repeats. "I see you, Dr Lecter. But don't worry, I'm not going to tell anyone, obviously."
"Then what are you going to do, my good Will?"
Will takes a few deep breaths. Tries to calm the bubble of hysteria forming in his chest. "Nothing. I'm… I'm not going to do anything, Hannibal." In his voice are traces of disbelief. Out of the corner of the eye, he thinks he sees the corner of Hannibal's mouth twitch.
"And why not, Will?"
Will laughs again. "You know," he says. "Don't pretend you don't. I'm yours, aren't I?"
Will's eyes slip shut. He feels Hannibal adjust his position on the couch and a large, warm hand cups his face lovingly, though Will wonders about Hannibal's ability to love. A pair of chapped lips ghost against his own and Will leans into the contact eagerly. He presses his lips against Hannibal's firmly, and feels the underlying hunger that radiates from them both. He wonders if they hunger for the same thing, or not.
"Open your eyes, Will."
He leans back and opens his eyes, face millimetres away from that of the man who had come to his house fully prepared to murder him and eat the remains and who had been manipulating him and lying to him and playing with him since the day they had met.
Hannibal is smiling in earnest now, pride and something else in his eyes.
And the sight of it sends cold shivers down Will's spine.