Jack is talking and Will can't concentrate because it hurts. Everything hurts, every breath and every twitch of his sore muscles, the way the fabric of his shirt is scratching over the marks the whip has left on his back (it's the softest one he owns, one Hannibal has gotten him, probably knowing that he will come to favour it on days like this, because Hannibal takes care of him, tries to keep him happy and well and as sane as someone like Will can be),how the tie around his neck keeps the collar of his shirt tight and pressed against the bruises on his skin, even sitting hurts because Hannibal has taken an hour or so to open him up last night, with fingers and then a dildo which had felt as if it was splitting him apart when the other had pressed it into him.
It hurts, and Will loves every second of it, relishes in every sensation his nerves register, because he can't concentrate, not even on his own thought, let alone Jack's. And he doesn't want to, not when concentrating means nightmares and vision and hallucination and thinking as much about killing people as about how to stop them from being killed.
He hasn't felt that light, that free since months, if not years, and although he can sense Jack's anger, his frustration and annoyance (mostly because they still haven't caught the Chesapeake ripper who Will doesn't care about much at the moment, either), it's so distant, so far away that it hardly even touches him. He is not responsible for other people's fates, Hannibal has made him say that fifty times the second night they spent together, each time rewarding him with a harsh thrust of a vibrator inside of him until Will had had problems even forming the words because everything had been drowned in want and need and lust and desperation.
This is Hannibal's gift to him and he thanks the other for it daily.
It's their little ritual in the mornings, after Will has woken up from another, blissful, dreamless night, curled up on the other's side. He whispers Thank you, and Hannibal smiles and it's the sweetest, most pleasant thing in the world.
Sometimes Will wonders if he likes it even better than he likes the other man's hand around his throat (because Hannibal doesn't need both, not at all, one of them enough to completely take Will's breath away).
It's also the gentlest moment they share most days, too, since Will has to go and try to save lives and solve crimes, while Hannibal goes to save minds and solve other people's problems. Sometimes, if Will is lucky, they have an appointment in the middle of the day, one of those which sometimes end with bouncing ideas off of the other and talking about serial killers and rapists, sometimes with Will bent over the beautiful, wooden desk, biting his lower lip bloody as he tries not to scream as Hannibal takes him apart with his hands, with a paddle, a ruler, whatever he's got at hand.
Because Will needs it, and Hannibal takes care of him.
The evenings are usually spent with cooking (which means Hannibal cooking and Will watching him in awe, sometimes being fed a piece of fruit or a spoon of some sauce or licking cream off the other's fingers) and eating, then usually both of them retire for some more work, Hannibal preparing for the next day's patients, Will going over old case files. Or sometimes not even doing that, sometimes just curling up on the sofa, waiting for the other to finish and come sit with him, so Will can lean against him and let Hannibal stroke his hair, playing with the soft curls until he is almost asleep from the touch and the sound of the other's voice. By now, it's the most soothing thing, better than watching his house (which he hardly ever sees anymore) from afar, better than rain and better than any kind of medicine he has been prescribed.
And then there are the spankings. Maintenance spankings, Hannibal calls them, designed to make sure he will continue to remember his place. Not that Will needs to be reminded of that, but he gladly bends over anyway, waiting on his hands and knees each and every night, head bowed in submission.
It never is less than ten smacks, and most days more than that, sometimes because he hasn't been good enough, so that Hannibal deems it important for him to learn his lesson, sometimes because he asks, begs for it, needing the pain, needing to forget. Needing to be owned.
He would need to break him, Hannibal told him before they started this, as an experiment, nothing more, an unconventional way of treatment, so that afterwards, he would be able to piece Will together again, in a better way. It had taken three weeks and two more gruesome crime scenes, seventy-eight hours without sleep, before Will had found himself in front of the other's house, so exhausted he missed the bell the first time, only making it ring when he tried again.
He'd do anything for two hours of sleep, he had told Hannibal without even greeting first (a behaviour which would now earn him at least an extra four, five slaps), stepping inside without taking off his shoes (another five) and turning around to look at the other, muttering, "Please."
And Hannibal had understood, had looked back and told him he'd help. That he would take care of Will.
That night, that very first night, Hannibal had used a paddle and not his bare hands, and Will had hated it at first, up until the point where the pain got so much that he couldn't distinguish where the new sting of another smack started and the dull, underlying ache of the ones before ended. Because at that point, he had started to forget and it had been the best feeling in the world.
He had slept better than he had in years in that night, and at first this had been it. When things got bad, he would visit Hannibal at home, sometimes they would have a glass of wine, or even dinner, and Hannibal would wait for him to ask. Sometimes he didn't, because he wasn't yet desperate enough, and Hannibal would bid him goodnight without any signs of hurt feelings. But most nights, he did, awkwardly but still, asking if the other could maybe help him, without looking in his eyes, and Hannibal would do that as easily as letting him walk away.
It had changed as suddenly as it had begun, in one night where Jack had dragged him to another case, of a young mother, slaughtered next to her two children, laid out as if she was still protecting them, and Will had all but broken down, hardly making it back to his car, back to Hannibal's office where he had frightened a patient by barging in, falling down on his knees right at the door.
Please, he had whispered, because there hadn't been anyone else to turn to, because if Hannibal wasn't going to be able to help him, no one would be, least alone he himself. And somehow, the other had known, sending away the woman crying about her boring, little problems Will would have killed to have, and had crouched down next to him, had brushed a stray strand of hair from his face.
I'm going to take care of you Will, Hannibal had said, softly, with that strange accent of his, if you'll let me; and Will had nodded so hard his neck had hurt.
And with that, everything had changed, because Hannibal had kept his promise, had made Will forget about everything at all, his work, himself, even the other man, and not just this night, but every night after that. They had talked about it, of course, but Will hadn't even listened because he knew he would agree to everything anyway, as long as Hannibal would keep him safe and sound and sane.
He had, making sure that when Will went to bed (next to Hannibal more often than not now), his head was blissfully empty, his body too exhausted and spent to walk around on its own, and although Will had wanted to keep it a secret, it had been impossible to. Because from one day to the next, he had been less exhausted and calmer, able to form sentences which made sense. The zoning out faded, and at first, everyone had been overjoyed.
Alana had congratulated him, although Will thought he had seen a strange kind of jealousy in her pretty eyes, Beverly had patted him on the shoulder and told him to keep doing whatever it was he did (letting Hannibal spank him and then fuck him with three fingers until he was hardly coherent anymore before he was allowed to come), even Jack noticed and seemed pleased. That's the way to go, he had said, and Will had nodded.
But with time, spanking became whipping, scratches became bruises, three fingers became Hannibal's cock and there was a permanent deep, red bite mark Hannibal made sure never to let fade, and just like the exhaustion, the others noticed the pain, too, and it was hard to convince them that it was good, that he liked it. That he liked how Hannibal sometimes treated him like a child, like a pet, because it took away all that responsibility he couldn't possibly bear any longer, because it made life so, so much easier.
They didn't understand and Will started to lose interest in making them, because in the end, it didn't matter if Alana looked at him as if he was a wife who would one day be beaten to death by her husband, or if Jack alternated between treating him even rougher than before and gentler than Will had ever seen him with anyone, for in the end, he would come home and Hannibal would be waiting for him, patting the spot next to him on the couch, letting Will curl up next to him and rest his head on the other's thigh.
They still don't understand and they don't have to, Will knows that now, even as he feels Jack's eyes on him, concerned, because this is between the two of them, between Hannibal and him, and it's intimate and special and beautifully fucked up, and most of all, it's all Will needs. He needs someone to take care of him, just like he thinks Hannibal needs someone to take care of, and they fit together in ways Will would never have thought possible.
He would need to break him, Hannibal had told him before they had started this and Will isn't sure if he is broken already or is still about to, but it doesn't matter, because if he does break, Hannibal will be there to catch him and put him back together in a way which the other likes better. And that, Will has long since realised, is exactly the way he wants to be.