The situation would have been comical had it not been for the circumstances, the pool of blood in his line of vision taking away the farcical edge. Along with the knowledge of his own part in the loss of life as Jack Crawford had tried to get his message across.

Sat on the floor with his back pressed against the hallway wall, the fear that had gripped Will had been all-consuming, not helped by the fact that the ringing in his ears meant that he was reduced to trying to lip read. He'd managed to make out 'Budge' as Jack had stood half-bent over him whilst the EMTs began to thoroughly wrap his left hand, but the only other word he'd picked out from there was 'Lecter' and when coupled with the other man's demeanour his blood had run cold, the hand gestures designed to placate and reassure doing the exact opposite. With the realisation that the psychopath had gone after Hannibal, a fresh surge of adrenaline had shot through his battered system and he'd found himself attempting to push to his feet but thwarted by the heavy weight of Crawford's hand pushing down on his shoulder, the other man's stern face in his line of vision and intent clear even if Will couldn't follow the exaggerated movements of his mouth. He'd seen his superior deliver enough bad news to people to know that Hannibal was at least alive, but beyond that his imagination had begun to run riot, the sudden twitches of his fingers making the paramedics' job twice as hard and causing pain to lance up his arm. The sensation had not been unwelcome, grounding him against full-blown panic at least.

By the time the EMTs had begun applying the outer bandage the odd word had started to filter through, but not enough. Office, stab wound, minor, followed by you, stitches, hand. Even if he couldn't hear properly, he could at least make himself understood, restlessly tolerating the medical assistance whilst telling Jack in a loud voice that he didn't need, didn't want to go to the hospital and that if the other man wouldn't drive him across Baltimore to Hannibal's office right now he would damn well walk. Not for the first time, Will had picked up on a faint thread of suspicion emanating from Crawford regarding his relationship with the other man, a slight narrowing of the eyes apparent as the younger man had almost ranted at him but the truth was that in that moment he simply hadn't cared.

Hannibal was hurt.

Whatever Jack had seen as he had looked at Will, it was enough for him to acquiesce to his demands.

Will silently cursed at the lunch time traffic littering the roads as Jack steadily weaved his way through lines of cars. The fact that he wasn't using his lights should have been reassuring, but it simply wasn't reassuring enough despite the fact that with the short passage of time his hearing in his non-ruptured ear was returning in increments and he now at least had more details.

Pulling up to yet another red stoplight, Will grit his teeth and tensed his fists against his knees, momentarily distracted from visions of what he might find when they got to their destination by the stabbing and pulling the action caused in his injured hand. Hannibal had been attacked, stabbed no less, although he'd been assured that the wound wasn't serious, that the other man was alert, talking and mostly mobile although there had been a 'significant altercation' according to the brief report Beverly Katz had phoned through. There were two casualties including Tobias Budge, and Will couldn't help the guilt that coloured his thoughts as he briefly considered yet more loss of life, another innocent to add to his tally. That feeling, however, paled in comparison to the guilt he felt when he considered the position Hannibal had found himself in due to his issues, his inability to function normally, and he found the only way to deal with that was simply not to, at least for the time being. The fear that Hannibal would hold him as responsible as he himself did struck as Jack finally rolled the black SUV to a stop outside the psychiatrist's office, neatly parking between the Fire Department bus and one of two patrol cars.

"Will?" Jack queried when the other man made no move to get out. Will focused on his breathing for just a moment, eyes fixed on the dash as he tried to control his almost overwhelming emotions, suddenly but only fleetingly torn between the urge to get to Hannibal as fast as humanly possible or run away as far and as fast as he could. "You ok?"

"I'm good," Will finally offered with a dip of his head, before reaching for the door handle.

The muted joy Will had experienced as he'd slowly entered Hannibal's office and had seen the other man sat at his desk was further tempered by the bodies on the floor, but even more so by the blood and despondency marring his normally impeccable, often impassive features. There had been a millisecond of surprise that had chased across the older man's face as his dark gaze had slid past Jack to land on Will, but it was the sheer relief in the set of his expression that had left him very nearly reeling with its intensity as he'd forced himself to walk, rather than run, towards Hannibal. His fingers had itched, near burned with the urge to physically reach out to the other man as the world in Will's mind had narrowed to encompass nothing but the two of them. But he hadn't, he'd kept his hands to himself and settled for meeting his gaze instead, letting that act alone say everything he couldn't given the circumstances.

Will had always had a problem with eye contact, something that had uniformly been attributed to his Asperger-like tendencies since he'd had his first clinical observation in first grade. He didn't disagree with that assessment, but he knew that for him at least it also ran deeper than that. Theories had been bandied about for years as to why some people on the autistic spectrum had difficulty with meeting someone's gaze; they found people's faces, even those they knew, threatening; their field of peripheral vision was stronger than their central one and they focused accordingly; it was simply too intense an experience to look into someone's eyes. For Will, part of the issue was that it magnified his empathic response, it made it far too easy to slip into the other person's mind. Hannibal had been the first person he had encountered in his thirty-two years with whom the notion of eye contact was not something that completely filled him with dread because he was quiet. Staring into his maroon gaze, he wasn't assaulted by feelings and thoughts that weren't his own, wasn't overwhelmed by hidden motive and meaning. He saw exactly what Hannibal wanted - allowed - him to see, and whilst on several levels that should have been worrying, in reality it was simply a relief. When Will felt able, when he chose to meet his gaze, it added to the experience rather than detracted from it and it had certainly done that, not least as Hannibal had moved over and inside him and lead them both satisfyingly over the edge on numerous occasions in recent weeks.

That first morning Will had awoken in Hannibal's bed, wrapped in silk and the lingering scent of the other man's cologne, he had been aware of two things: firstly, that he'd had several hours of uninterrupted sleep for the first time he could remember in months and, secondly, he ached in places that he hadn't experienced in several years. With gradually returning awareness as he had stretched and catalogued those aches, one in particular, Will had recalled some of the events of the previous night and the only thing that had prevented him from bolting out of bed and running from the house never to look back, had been the memory of the hunger and desire he'd seen in Hannibal's gaze every time he'd braved meeting it.

No one had ever looked at Will Graham the way Hannibal had that first night. Or the way he continued to look at him when they were alone. The fact that Hannibal had apparently wanted him, at least to some degree, rather than slept with him purely out of pity or some form of misplaced gesture of friendship, had given Will the strength to tamp down on the panic and reign in his urge to run. It had not, however, assuaged his fears.

Will let the spray from Hannibal's impressive shower soak into his skin as he waited for his morning painkillers to kick in and dull the almost ever-present ache in his head. They'd been thoughtfully left on the mahogany bedside cabinet along with a tall glass of water, and a thick, fluffy towel carefully placed at the end of the bed; the invitation, or perhaps instruction, had been clear and once the initial panic had abated to a manageable level, Will used it as something to quiet the thoughts running rampant, turning the heat as high as he could bear and simply standing under the steady torrent of water. Like everything else associated with Hannibal, the shower was obviously an indulgence and Will allowed himself to at least briefly partake before uncertainly reaching for the expensive bottle of shower gel sat on the glass shelf. There was something extremely intimate attached to the idea of using Hannibal's soap and shampoo, however given what had already transpired between them and the alternative option of carrying an underlying scent of eau de sweat for the rest of the day, it didn't take Will long to squeeze a small amount of the opaque, pale green gel into his hand and begin to thoroughly wash himself.

Whilst he'd achieved at least a solid four hours sleep, he had still awoken lightly covered in sweat and his hair had been plastered to his skull. He only hoped that Hannibal had not had to endure a night of enforced dampness himself as thoughts of how he had fallen asleep entered his mind, the memory of almost desperately pressing himself against the length of the other man as he'd been held colouring his cheeks with shame but finding himself surprisingly calm within the memory. Almost unnervingly so. Current issues excluded, Will was not a needy man, but feeling Hannibal pull him close had roused the fierce desire for human contact he had supressed ever since he had realised that he wasn't destined to have normal, healthy relationships, whether that was familial, platonic or romantic. In romantic terms, he strongly believed that he wasn't destined to have a relationship at all if he was being brutally honest. Normally he spent his time fiercely pushing people away or at the very least keeping them at arm's length, shying from close relationships because he'd learnt from a young age that people generally fled when they realised just how different he was. To be abandoned required expectation, so when his date with Jennifer Matthews in the eleventh grade had resulted in nothing but pain and humiliation and heartache and only compounded his other experiences in life, Will had decided that he would never expect anything from anyone again and he had withdrawn even further. From time to time he had fought his instincts, tried to trust, even managing to sustain the odd relationship for short periods, at least until the effort of hiding who he truly was became too much, but the end results had always been the same; more pain, more fear, more loneliness.

But, Hannibal…

Hannibal understood him, and what he couldn't understand he at least accepted. And that thought terrified Will as he carefully washed away the last evidence of what had transpired, the thought that he'd potentially thrown that understanding away in a fit of blind, uninhibited terror. His attraction to the older man hadn't crept up on him, at least not from a physical point of view – that had been present from the breakfast they had shared in Minnesota, Will's comment about not finding Hannibal that interesting made to cover his discomfort at being analysed but also the fact that he was sat in his underwear with a man who ticked all of Will's boxes when it came to physical attraction. Strong features, square jaw, broad shoulders, forearms that indicated he was muscular without being muscly. The emotional attraction had come with conversations and shared meals and the unwavering, non-judgmental support the psychiatrist had offered. Will had reasoned that perhaps it was erroneous, that he was latching on to what Hannibal exuded because he was so desperately alone even when surrounded by people, but when the weeks had gone by and Will had discovered that wasn't the case, he'd done his best to bury it out of fear and for the sake of his own self-preservation.

Stall filling with hints of cedar and pine, Will continued to absently run his soaped hands over his body, trying very hard not to recall the sensation of other hands on him and the pleasure he'd found in the touches. Washing himself more intimately, the tenderness he encountered made it near impossible not to lose himself in the memory of fingers breaching his body and the desire that had burned white hot as Hannibal had joined them together. Abandoning his attempts at cleansing himself, Will stretched his arms out and braced against the slick shower tiles, taking several unsteady breaths as the memory threatened to overwhelm him, and not in a good way. The fact that it was a nightmare that had brought his attraction to the fore was not really a surprise and he mentally berated himself for ending up in the position he had. What happened next was in Hannibal's hands, but Will knew how it was going to go despite the desire he'd witnessed, knew that even if the older man continued to be his friend rather than cutting him off completely, their relationship would never be the same. In Will's mind it was clear - there was nothing Hannibal could possibly see in him, no possible, conceivable payback to warrant the effort dealing with his behaviours and neuroses required beyond their already established relationship. Fighting down another surge of panic, Will knew with unerring clarity just where he had gone wrong and it was painfully simple: he had gotten too close...

"I was worried you were dead,"

Will had nothing in his arsenal to deflect that statement or the carefully concealed emotions; he had worried the same as he'd struggled with Budge, luck rather than judgement coming to his rescue. He didn't have, had never really had, a death-wish beyond the vague desire at his lowest for a way out, but it was the first time he could ever recall having a truly compelling reason to embrace life either. Truth be told, he wasn't sure if he could embrace it, not with the way his mind seemed hell-bent on malfunctioning, but the man before him had given him a reason to at least try and although an uncharacteristically romantic notion, Will had wondered if it were possible that had swung things in his favour with whatever forces controlled the cosmos.

Thankfully, Jack's interjection had at least saved Will from trying to find an appropriate way to respond that both acknowledged the meaning in Hannibal's words yet didn't immediately reveal to those carefully working around them that they were…involved, even if he would have quite happily strangled the man for the tone his questioning had taken. Will had played the part the senior agent would have expected of him, asked questions, but he hadn't needed to 'look' to see the truth of what had unfolded. He hadn't wanted to look, hadn't wanted to live through the moments in which his lover had so obviously fought for his life. He hadn't wanted to internalise another life lost to his own hand, particularly not one who was innocent as Franklyn had been, though his face rotated ghoulishly to the side would colour his dreams for many nights to come, second only to visions of Hannibal's lifeless form crumpled beside him. It could have been only a minute or it could have been an hour before Jack was done, Will couldn't be sure as time resumed its recent tendency to slip through his fingers like individual grains of sand, but then they were left alone, emotions surging to the fore once more.

"It looks like I've dragged you into my world,"

Unplanned, the words had come almost unbidden, guilt an ill-tempered dog snapping at his ankles as he'd settled against the edge of Lecter's desk and unconsciously catalogued the physical wounds he could see littering the other man's being, each one a wound to his own psyche. To his heart. The mental abrasions had seeped in of their own accord as Hannibal had trained tired eyes on Will, defences literally struck low enabling Will to inadvertently absorb some of the layers that were normally so tightly hidden from him. Pain. Relief. Anger. Affection. It was the anger that had lingered, assuming wrongly that it was aimed at him, at least until Hannibal had replied.

"I got here on my own. But I appreciate the company,"

Whilst he could kindly be described as socially inept at the best of times, Will had reasoned he would have had to be both deaf and blind to miss the true import of his words. His heart had felt a fraction lighter, a fraction warmer, a cautious hand extended to the dog that had at least temporarily stopped snapping but was still growling in a threatening manner at his feet. Concern had furrowed his brow, once more vying for supremacy and this time coming out on top.

"They said you were stabbed?"

As if he'd forgotten about the wound, Hannibal glanced down at where his hands still lightly gripped his leg.

"Perhaps an exaggerated term. It's a flesh wound, nothing more," he looked up as he spoke, saw Will's disbelieving expression given the way he had yet to relinquish his hold on the wounded appendage, and he acquiesced softly. "Although, whilst superficial, I will admit it's somewhat painful,"

Will nodded, teeth worrying at his bottom lip of their own accord. Words, sentiments, tried to force their way up his throat but were caught just short of his tongue, partly due to appropriateness given the situation but partly due to his own insecurities. If Hannibal noticed the way he went to speak but caught himself, he said nothing. He did, however, prevent Will from any further introspection or aborted declarations, by pinning him with a raw, emotional gaze that Will never wanted to see again.

"Join me for dinner?"