Étouffée

In addition to being a Cajun and creole dish from southern Louisiana, étouffée means "smothered" or "suffocated" (from the verb étouffer).

Today, Will can almost bear to look at their faces.

He selects from candids and police report photos from a database and inserts them into the slide show for class. Thumbnail to life-sized. No less dead.

It's a little easier this time because he saw their decomposed bodies only. Didn't have to see them fresh on the scene or later on the table when the stink of death still clung to them.

The names get him, though. Names he'll never forget. In a practical sense, it makes his lecture more dramatic. He doesn't have to use any notes. His students will see these people as people rather than victims. They must never forget the inviolable sovereignty of each person.

He sits back, unapproachable, as the cadets file in. Runs through the slideshow one last time before dimming the lights and brightening the screen on a blank slide.

Will holds back a sigh. Even this isn't easy any more. Not when he's teaching cases he works on.

Sure, it's nice to have an audience for his work. He prepares more thoroughly when he knows he must explain his ideas to trainees. Very much like talking to Hannibal: clears his mind.

An image of Hannibal in his pajamas making breakfast this morning flashes in Will's head. Hannibal in whose bed he'd slept in last night. He'd been alone when he woke. Hannibal knew it would be easier that way.

Will sits up straighter and checks the time. Two minutes. Enough time for him to calm down. Waking up alone had been easier in all ways but one and he hadn't done anything about it before he left for Quantico. Been too busy today to think about it before now. Now is a really strange time to think about it.

Will wonders idly why his thoughts have strayed so far, cues up the slideshow, dims the lights, and begins his lecture.

He walks them through the details of the crime scene. The totem pole in the context of its cultural resonances and the specific message of this killer's design. How to extrapolate from the evidence by drawing on both forensics and culture.

He's nearly done with the lecture, working up to his theory that the timeline will reveal everything they need to know about this totem, when Alana appears.

"Will?"

Stepping into the lecture hall before class is over because…?

"I don't want to interrupt if you're rehearsing."

Rehearsing?

Will glances up. No students.

They were just there. They were…

Fear knocks the breath out of him.

Again. Here. In front of Alana. Who's so perfect in that dress. And who doesn't seem to know he wasn't rehearsing.

Will's stomach flutters. He hasn't talked to her since they kissed and she saw his madness and ran from him.

He recovers quickly. "No, no, no, it's okay, it's okay," he says even as fear makes him shrink inside.

Another hallucination.

"Very moody in here," she says as she steps forward.

Will hears her tone, just on this side of sensual. His mouth goes dry.

"Ah…," he starts, "well, that's me all over."

Terrible. Stupidest thing he's ever said. He smiles to cover.

"Come on in," he urges, removing his glasses to try to wipe away the sudden headache that often accompanies one of these – goddamn hallucinations.

Noticing her caution, he adds, "I promise I won't try to kiss you again." He hopes it sounds inviting and appropriately self-deprecatory.

She does come forward. Smiling at him. So beautiful. Radiant. No one's ever seemed radiant to him before, but there it is.

He sees from her bearing that she came to talk about them.

"Unless you've stopped taking your own advice," Will says, giving voice to his greatest desire.

"A doctor who treats herself has a fool for a patient," Alana says.

Contritely. She's apologizing. He thinks. Not completely sure. But that sounded like an admission of…foolishness?

Which means…?

She's still standing far away.

Okay. What is this?

Will's chest tightens as hope glimmers and glows. He tries to quash it. He can't allow himself to hope.

"I regretted leaving you house the other night," she says.

Hope flares as Will's mind fires a thousand thoughts at once. His heart pounds, chest hurts. The wound is as raw as if it'd happened last night.

"Regretted…" Will turns the word choice over in his head, setting the clicker aside. "Implying that you're no longer regretting? Or are you still in a state of regret?"

"I'm crisscrossing the state line."

Alana looks genuinely conflicted. If there's a possibility, even a faint one, he has to…

"What side of the line are you on now?" he challenges.

And she comes forward. And she's getting into his space. He can smell her perfume. The same perfume. God.

"I've got one foot firmly planted on both sides."

What? He's going to burst. Her face, her body, her smell, the fact of her stepping forward, of coming to see him when he's alone in a room in the first place – it's too much.

He can't help himself. He's blunt.

"You tellin' me that to confuse me?"

"No, I'm telling you that to be honest about how I feel. I don't want to mislead you but I don't want to lie to you either."

Will sees absolute sincerity. He nods in agreement. "I won't lie if you don't," he promises.

"I have feelings for you, Will."

Hope blossoms, vanquishing fear. He's suddenly weightless again. He has no desire to search for the ground. This can't really be happening.

"But I can't just have an affair with you," she says, and he sees how badly she doesn't want to say those words. How much she does want to be with him.

"It would be…reckless."

If she has feelings… and they're so strong she has a hard time saying she can't do this with him… if… just –

He laughs again, thinking of her previous excuse.

"Why? Why?" Will asks plaintively. "And it is not because you have a professional curiosity about me."

"No," she says straightforwardly. "It's because I think you're unstable."

Will's nervous smile dies. The ground slams into him with such force he feels like every atom in his body has been smashed. He swallows around the lump of aborted hope stuck in his throat.

"And until that changes I can only be your friend."

Will nods and tries to feel numb, tries to kill the ball of terrible cloying emotion that makes his eyes water and his head throb.

"Thank you for not lying," he says, using every ounce of his strength to keep his face impassive.

He waits for her to go away. He needs her to go away. Needs to be alone.

But she keeps looking.

"Do you feel unstable?"

He makes a noise in his throat, yes, where the lump is and nods vigorously, breathing through the impending tears, smiling to make them go away. But already she's approaching him and her arms are out and she embraces him and oh god so soft and warm and good and here.

It's the worst thing that could happen and then, quickly, the best thing. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of her hair and just memorizes, trying not to shake so much. This isn't going to happen again for a long time. He needs all of this to sustain him.

When she pulls away – too soon, but ever would be too soon – he fights to keep the tears inside until she leaves. He won't cry in front of her. He won't.

She breaks away and steps back three feet. Double the normal distance of personal space, some disconnected part of his mind notes.

"Hannibal knows?" she asks.

Will nods, not trusting himself to speak.

"He's helping you?"

Nods again.

"You're making progress?"

This. He doesn't want to do this. Doesn't want to lie to her. But he has to.

Nods.

"Good," she says.

And with a sad smile that contains everything he feels, Alana turns reluctantly and walks toward the door.

Will sits on the desk and kicks his legs like he's eight and holds the edge tightly as he watches her walk away. Perfect. Leaving. He listens to her footsteps fade down the hall, thinks about the sight of her walking away, and wonders when, if ever, she might walk toward him with no reservations.

It's a question he can't answer.

Will counts to thirty before the ball of emotion wells up and chokes him. He slides off the desk and retreats to a high corner of the room where he can see everything. Slumps against the wall and slides down, covers his face with his hands and, chest heaving, lets go.

Unstable. He feels so unstable he hardly remembers what stability is. Apart from the moments he has with Hannibal and the moments when he's at home and can see the lights in the distance and feel anchored, nothing is certain.

Nothing is certain. Not anymore. Not after yesterday.

Lost time.

Hallucinations.

Another one. Another goddamn hallucination. Right in front of her.

So fucked up. So wrong. So broken.

You're not broken.

She can't think that now. Can't possibly delude herself into thinking that anymore.

No. She came to see him because she had to face reality.

He laughs through the tears rolling unchecked down his face: at least one of them isn't deluded. At least she's smart enough to protect herself.

His mind skips to Hannibal. God. Hannibal getting so close to him. So close last night.

He'd woken up to the smell of coffee and pancakes. Too comfortable to get up right away, he'd buried his face in Hannibal's pillow and inhaled and memorized. He'd been tempted to lie there until Hannibal came to get him. Maybe entice Hannibal into something. He'd slept so well – deeply, no dreams – he would have been able to thank Hannibal for all he did yesterday. For opening his bed. For the hand over his heart.

Will can't remember the last time he slept comfortably in the same bed with another person.

He thinks, a little calmer, snuffling as he wipes his tear-stained face with his hands. Never with Dad. Never with a sexual partner. If they stayed together for the night, he never slept comfortably. If at all.

So, never.

Never.

Another wave of sorrow wells and breaks across his face. Disgusting frailty. Weakness. Delusion and hallucination and lost time and god only knows what else.

Will sits forward, pulls his knees up, and parts them so he can rest his head on his folded arms. Tears drip off of his face and onto the carpet as sobs shudder in his chest.

This needs to happen. He knows it. He hates it so much, hates the weakness of it, but he needs the emotional release.

So he fuels it. All the fear he has about his mind. Tumor. Blood clot. Seizure disorder.

He laughs again through the tears. At this point, a tumor would be good news. How fucked up is that.

No. If this is going to happen, let it happen. He whispers in his mind what he fears the most.

I fear not knowing who I am.

There. It's said. His most fundamental terror given voice.

Because all he's ever had is himself. The assurance of identity. The assurance that he would always come back to who he is. No matter how hard he pushed himself, no matter how hard anyone else pushed him, he'd always find his way back.

Not anymore.

Nothing is certain now.

A long time passes before the sense that everything is wrong in his life lets up enough for him to take a normal breath.

He knows that isn't really true as he wipes his face again. He's got Hannibal. The dogs. Himself. He's strong. A fighter. Always has been.

Even if all of that's in flux now.

Hannibal. He's going to have to do what Alana did and pull back. But not to protect himself. No - for Hannibal. Hannibal who seems to think that he can handle whatever Will throws at him. Who doesn't seem to realize how dangerous Will is. Or if he does, who doesn't care.

But he should. He's not immune to harm.

Hannibal's face flashes in front of him: bloodied, tears in his eyes, shocked from the fight and what he had to do to defend himself.

I thought you were dead.

Jesus. He can't allow himself to hurt Hannibal. And he knows so many ways he could.

Because – he sniffs at the thought, feeling a last gasp of sadness pushing up and out of his raw throat – because Alana's right: he shouldn't be with anyone until he's stable. And he's so unstable he hardly knows what he'll do next. Something's wrong with him and it's causing these problems and it can't just be stress. That leaves only two options, one significantly better than the other.

A final tear runs down his face as he checks his watch. Class in half an hour. Then he's driving to Baltimore to visit Abigail with Hannibal.

Abigail is the other bright spot in his life, though he doesn't visit her as often as he'd like. He's not always sure how to be around her. But she means a great deal to him.

And now Freddie Lounds wants to expose her to the drooling livers who read trashy bestsellers.

Breakfast this morning flashes in front of him. Hannibal in his pajamas drinking coffee, waiting on Will to get out of the shower.

"Abigail called," Hannibal said after they'd both had enough coffee to be awake and civil. "She wants to write a book with Freddie Lounds about what happened to her."

He'd almost choked on Hannibal's fancy French version of pancakes.

"She wants… what?" he'd said when he could speak, "to tell people what happened? As if they'll believe it? As if Freddie Lounds won't warp her words?"

Hannibal sipped his coffee. "This is exactly the problem."

Though his tone was calm, Will saw his concern. A mirror of what he felt churning inside. No one but the two of them to look out for Abigail. No one else knows what happened. She can't feed the gluttonous masses and expect to be exonerated. It's not in the culture.

"We have to see her."

Hannibal agreed. Said he'd arrange for them to visit her after Will's afternoon class.

Will doesn't know what he's going to say. He wants to treat Abigail like she's an adult, but she's not. She's still a teenager. Still developing. And doing that while recovering from something Will himself hasn't gotten over yet.

Hobbs flashes in front of him, lashed to the totem pole like Christ.

Will starts. Blinks in the dim lecture hall.

He checks his watch. Twenty-three minutes until class. No lost time. Just a hallucination.

He wonders just how fucked up it is that he feels relieved by that thought. Just a hallucination. Shit.

It occurs vaguely to him as he gets to his feet that he should be writing this stuff down. He'll have to start doing that, he thinks, walking down the stairs and out of the room.

Alone in the men's room, he rolls up a sleeve and holds the drain plug down until the sink fills enough for him to dip his face in the cold water. It chills the heat out of his eyes and nose and cheeks. Immensely soothing. For all that crying felt terrible, he's calm now in a way he hasn't been since he set foot on that beach.

Will dries his face and takes a deep breath. He looks splotchy in the mirror. Flushed in some places, pale in others. He doesn't worry about it. Lights off for today's lecture. And anyway, he doesn't give a damn if they do notice.

As he leaves the bathroom to finish preparing for class, Will steels himself and turns his mind back to what's familiar, to what he knows best: murder.

Hannibal sees that something's happened today to Will, something significant, when Will meets him at Port Haven's visitor check in.

"Rough day?" Hannibal asks in a quiet tone so the receptionist won't hear him.

"Talk about it later," Will mumbles.

Hannibal smells the salt of many tears on him as they affix their visitors badges. Will, shoulders tense, leads them down the hall. Intriguing.

Abigail brightens when she sees them. She looks happier to see Hannibal than she does to see Will. Will won't notice. Not the way he was walking. He's too angry.

It's what Will does best. His father was often angry with him. He doesn't want to replicate his father's behavior, of course not, but sometimes he has little choice. Since Will is angry at Freddie Lounds and not Abigail, Hannibal steps aside and lets him play his role.

"I'm trying to be understated when I say that this is a bad idea."

He is. Hannibal hears him just barely containing himself.

"Freddie Lounds is dangerous," Hannibal adds.

"She says she wants me to write about you guys in the book," Abigail says brightly. Innocently. Falsely so and detectable to anyone who knows her. But only two people know her.

It must remain that way.

"You would be forfeiting your privacy, and ours," Hannibal points out calmly.

He sees her take that point. Will marshals his arguments in Hannibal's peripheral vision.

"This – this – all of this will change," Will says adamantly. "Whatever you're feeling now, that won't last. Things change."

Hannibal hears his voice catch in his throat.

"Things are changing for me, too." Will steps forward, moving toward her, utterly sincere.

Hannibal watches, fascinated. Whatever happened to him today has made him reflect, something he does not often do.

"I've been doing some accounting of what's important in my life and what isn't. You are important, Abigail."

"Just because you killed my dad doesn't mean you get to be him."

There it is: the cruelty of the young, the cruelty of the wounded. Will shuts down.

"Abigail," Hannibal begins, a slight reprimand in his tone. "You've been through a traumatic event."

He steps closer until he's standing just behind Will. They must present a united front.

"No one more traumatized than you, Abigail, but we went through it together. What you write, you write about all of us."

"I don't need your permission," Abigail says, standing, too, knowing that she needs to be on equal footing. But she is so young. And because of Freddie Lounds, somewhat misguided.

"You don't need our approval," Hannibal points out, "but I hope it would mean something."

Because it's honest, it gets her. Anger, confusion, fear. Much stronger from her now than from Will, who's so hurt by Abigail's comment that he broadcasts little else.

"I know what people think I did," she says. "They're wrong."

Still denying it, even to herself. Sweet Abigail. One day, she will acknowledge the truth.

"Why can't I tell everybody that they're wrong?"

Will stirs next to Hannibal, brought out of his pain by Abigail's expression of hers.

Will, adamant again, protective, sincere, says, "You have nothing to apologize for."

"Yet," Hannibal adds, stepping closer to her. "But if you open this door, Abigail, you won't control what comes through. Are you ready for that?"

Bold Abigail, she reacts to his challenge to her sense of control with an expression she intends to be defiant. But she sniffles. She breaks eye contact first. Not chastised but not moving forward unilaterally anymore.

"I'm sorry our visit wasn't more cordial," he says. "We'll see each other again soon."

He offers a small smile which she returns. They leave things unsettled but not antagonistic. Hannibal is satisfied with that. He will let her think for a day and call her tomorrow with an invitation to dinner. The three of them and Freddie Lounds.

Will follows him out of the room, down the hall, and to the visitors station where they return their badges and check out. Hannibal stops outside under the small portico. Will stands next to him, coat still under his arm, staring off into the distance.

"My butcher received a fresh shipment of white shrimp from South Carolina this morning. Harvested yesterday," Hannibal offers. "I need a native's opinion of my étouffée."

Will nods faintly and trudges toward the parking lot, shoulders slumped. Hannibal watches Will surreptitiously as he gets into his car. Coat still off. Too shocked to feel the cold.

He may need another night upstairs, Hannibal muses as he starts his own car.

It's a risk, a serious one. Letting Will get so close. And yet Hannibal wants him close just as he wants Abigail close. They are family. Both so badly damaged by Garrett Jacob Hobbs, they need each other to heal – to the degree that they can.

And now that Will is experiencing dissociative amnesia, it will be easy to convince him that he's killed again. Easy to push him just far enough that Jack Crawford will see him as a liability rather than an asset. Then they stand a better chance of being together.

So perhaps it's only fitting that Abigail's fathers share a bed from time to time.

Hannibal's mouth quirks as he considers that he's going to have to deal with what their teenage daughter did to her sensitive father over dinner this evening. It's exceedingly domestic, what he's been doing with Will. All the intimate moments they've shared while cooking and eating. Yet the intimacy is more pleasant than he supposed it would be. Moreover, he can't hide his delight over Will's unconscious choice to come to him yesterday after the trauma of the crime scene took his mind from him. It's equal to the delight he felt when Will joined him in bed last night.

Sitting at a red light, Hannibal allows the image of Will sleeping next to him as dawn unfurled to rise before his eyes. He'd been completely calm, his heart beating a steady rhythm under Hannibal's hand, his face so relaxed as to be boyish in the fey light. Sleeping like the innocent man he is.

Knowing that he can do that for Will – take away all of his fears – moves Hannibal's spirit as strongly as the finest strains of Bach.

He had allowed himself half an hour of worshipful adoration stoked by unchecked fantasy. Will slept soundly the entire time.

But now as then his instinct tells him not to allow Will so close. Not when he's this volatile. Will's going to get worse long before he gets better. Too deluded by his ridiculous notion of saving unworthy lives at the expense of his own to quit.

And now he wants a brain scan. He'll ask again. But he cannot know about his illness until he gets himself fired or thinks he's killed again.

It's a terrible thing Will does to himself, Hannibal muses as he turns into his driveway. Hurting himself so badly, so often. It's becoming hard to watch. Because, he admits, he's opened himself to too much of Will's suffering. It's going to have to stop.

But maybe not tonight.

It all depends on what happened between Will and Alana earlier today. Well, Hannibal admits to an off-chance that he was upset over something work-related, but save for the death of one of his dogs – something he would call or visit about – only Alana can hurt him so badly. She's talked with him about his hallucinations. Likely told him they cannot be together while his problems persist. Given her depth of feeling for him, the conversation can't have been easy for either of them.

Yes. That would reduce Will to tears.

Hannibal's mouth quirks; he's a little pleased with himself for securing one of Will's favorite foods, fresh, on a day when Will has need of something good in his life. How serendipitous.

He lets himself enjoy the thought even as warning bells clang. Alana is right to protect herself. He should follow her example.

Hannibal has time to hang up his jacket, tie, and vest, and don his apron before he hears Will at the door. Will offers him a bottle of wine as he steps inside, his coat forgotten in the car.

"Tried this with my étouffée last week," Will says, his eyes cast on the floor and posture telegraphing rejection. "Not sure it's up to your standards, but I thought it worked okay."

Hannibal smiles as he takes the bottle and mentally alters one ingredient in the meal so it will match the wine. "I'm sure it will pair well."

He puts his hand on Will's back as Will comes in. Will doesn't acknowledge him. Just stoops to untie his shoes.

Hannibal waits until he has Will chopping celery and peppers to broach the topic of their visit to Port Haven.

"I think we should invite Abigail and Ms. Lounds to dinner. Discuss this book project."

Will chops fiercely, eyes focused on the knife, taking his anger out on the innocent butcher's block.

"What's there to discuss," he says flatly without looking up.

"Abigail will be 18 in three months," Hannibal supplies. "We need to cultivate our relationship with her. Just as we must protect her, we must also listen. Treat her like the young woman she is."

Will chops even more loudly. "Are you implying I treated her like a child?" Doesn't look up. Vitriol drips from his voice.

"No," Hannibal answers calmly, "though she did act like one."

Hannibal watches as Will's face softens. Will keeps his eyes on the pepper he's chopping, but the subtle change in his expression shows how much that comment meant to him. It was unnecessarily hurtful of Abigail to say that to Will. She couldn't know that she's the second of the two significant women in Will's life to reject him today. But she could and did know how much her words would hurt him.

Hannibal stirs the roux and waits for Will to speak, wondering where the evening will take them. Will has had two very difficult days. He may seek solace in the solitude of his little house and his dogs. But he knows nightmares await him there. Dogs can do only so much.

Will's frustrated exhale makes Hannibal look up. His face has darkened again.

"Abigail's being manipulated," Will spits the word out, emphasizing each syllable, "by Freddie Lounds. Who are we really listening to?"

"All the more reason to have them both over."

Will tilts his head, grudgingly acknowledging the point. Hannibal watches him finish the celery and peppers and start on an onion.

Halfway through the onion, Will sighs and nods: it's settled.

"I'll try to be civil," Will volunteers, hackles still raised, "but no promises."

Hannibal's mouth quirks as he recalls Will's threat during their last encounter with Freddie Lounds.

It's not very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living.

He lets Will simmer while he cooks the vegetables down. Once the roux also simmers, Hannibal prepares dough for a dessert of beignets.

Will stares into space, strangely inscrutable. Perhaps not entirely present.

Several minutes pass before Will notices that Hannibal is watching him.

He blinks and smiles nervously and says, "How long have you been watching me?"

"How long have you been staring at the refrigerator?"

Will ducks his head, slightly embarrassed.

"Something happened today," Hannibal prompts.

"A lot happened today," Will says sardonically.

"You were upset about something when you arrived at the hospital," Hannibal encourages.

Will looks away and sighs.

Hannibal waits a beat. "If you'd rather not talk about it..."

Will shakes his head. Blinks unsteadily. "No, ah, it's fine."

He glances from one part of the floor to another and back as if searching for the right words.

"Ah, Alana came to talk to me."

Rubs his neck. Wriggles his fingers near his thigh. Smiles nervously.

"Said she has feelings for me… but she can't be with me while I'm… unstable."

The last word falls from Will's lips like a door closing. Hannibal lets the words linger in the room for a moment.

"She's protecting herself," he says, kneading the dough.

"I know," Will says with a sigh. "She should."

Hannibal nods and they exchange an expression that acknowledges the correctness of her choice, even as Will laments it and Hannibal feels badly for both of them.

"You're having a rough week, my friend," Hannibal says with just enough cheer to get Will to smile. "The case is going well, I hope?"

Will comes to life as he describes the totem pole and airs his theories. After a while, he slows, troubled again.

"Jack didn't notice," he says hollowly.

"That you disassociated?"

Will nods a fraction of an inch.

Hannibal shrugs. "It's not always noticeable. You must have acted normally."

That seems to trouble Will further. Hannibal sees the thought form: And when I don't…?

Will wanders into the dining room. Hannibal hears him setting the table. He waits until they're well into dinner to try to draw Will out of his sulk.

"So," Hannibal ventures conversationally, "how does it stack up?"

Will is bewildered for a moment. "Oh, ah – it's the best I've ever had." He flushes and sighs. "I'm not good company tonight. Sorry."

"You have every reason to be troubled, Will," Hannibal says.

Will nods.

"However poorly the day treated you, you were right about one thing," Hannibal offers.

Will glances up curiously.

Hannibal holds out his glass, glancing at the wine.

Will's mouth quirks as his muscles work their way into a genuine smile. His glass meets Hannibal's with a soft tink. They drink and Hannibal pours them both liberal final glasses. Will's smile stays on his face as he finishes his dinner, which quickly garners all of his attention. Wasn't tasting it until his spirits were lifted, Hannibal notes.

Hannibal catches Will glancing coquettishly at him through his lashes. Artificially. Will feels he owes something for dinner and a sympathetic ear; he intends to pay in sex. Hannibal wonders whether Will realizes he doesn't have to do that.

Hannibal waits patiently through dessert and into the dishes. Will usually makes the first move. Perhaps not tonight. Hannibal moves subtly, holding a plate for a second longer than he should to remind Will of his presence, letting their hands overlap as he offers a pan to Will to dry.

While Will puts the last dish away, Hannibal dries his hands and turns to face Will, his posture open and inviting. Will stops a few steps short, contradictory emotions in his eyes: desire, reticence, fear, anxiety, need. Need is strongest. Raw need.

Hannibal closes the distance to place a tender kiss on Will's lips. Will responds desperately. Hannibal reads from his lips that this will be at turns aggressive and yielding. Give and take. Will has much to express. The part of him that wants to help Will heal whispers that they could go to his bed for this. He nudges Will toward the guest room instead.

They undress between kisses and gropes and wicked expressions.

Will stops just as he kicks his shorts into a corner, skin flushed, erection straining. "You boxed. Did you ever wrestle?"

Hannibal just grins and gets on his knees on the bed. He strokes himself – can't help it, this is what Will does to him – as Will joins him. Grinning madly, also touching himself, Will kneels to square off, using the bed as a ring. They lock arms and push, each testing the other's strength. Hannibal feels Will put his legs into it and responds in kind, each jockeying for position, trying to pin the other. Will holds back enough to indicate that he means to play.

Hannibal counts to twenty before giving in. Will pitches forward into him with a grunt and immediately grabs Hannibal around the waist and twists to drive Hannibal onto his back and pin him. The bed frame creaks dangerously. Will laughs, amused by the possibility of breaking the bed, and leans down to claim Hannibal's mouth.

He's gentler than Hannibal expects but still rather rough. Eager yet also deft. Controlled. Studied. They know each other too well not to settle into familiar rhythms. Hannibal allows Will to choose his favorite position. It speaks well of him that Will prefers to them to see each other when they fuck. Though lately it's felt more like making love.

Desire and need blend in Will's eyes. He's forceful tonight. Hard and fast enough to chip paint off the wall with the headboard. Inventive in his choice of positions.

Will changes the rhythm, slower, sweeter, and bends to kiss Hannibal deeply. When he pulls back, his eyes say that this means everything to him.

Hannibal studies the feeling of making love with Will Graham as best he can with so much pleasure rippling over his body. Will gives enough to satisfy him – plenty to satisfy – but not enough to let him finish. Will intends to tire them both out tonight. Hannibal settles in to be pleasured by Will in any way he chooses.

After a thorough fifteen minute fuck that may be a prelude, Will surprises Hannibal by withdrawing and pulling the condom off with a smack. Hannibal sits up, hazy with pleasure, and looks to Will for direction. Will glances from Hannibal to the drawer, cocks an eyebrow, and lies on his side to catch his breath. As Hannibal rolls on a condom, he notices Will restrain himself from touching his blood-darkened dick. Hannibal burns the moment into his memory.

Most of all, he records Will's eyes. Excitement coils inside Hannibal. Will is entirely unafraid.

Hannibal goes slowly nonetheless, teasing Will before opening him all while lavishing kisses on him so he relaxes into the endorphins. Still, Will gasps when Hannibal fills him. Clings to Hannibal's arms for a moment. Hannibal kisses his neck and jaw while he adjusts. Waits for Will to tell him he's ready. Then gives him pace he can bear, a pace that makes him gasp with pleasure. Will writhes, ecstasy already written on his face. Hannibal records Will's reactions to his experiments, finding a new combination that makes Will writhe and writes ecstasy on his face.

Eventually, Will wants more. His eyes say so. But he doesn't want a faster or harder stroke. Something different. Will's eyes gleam mischievously as he climbs Hannibal like a jungle gym. He wrestles Hannibal, grappling with him, grinning over the minor displays of strength, and knocks Hannibal onto his back again. Will straddles him and works his way down until Hannibal's inside him again. Taking a deep breath, Will takes over, pleasuring himself with Hannibal's cock.

Hannibal watches in amazement as Will allows himself to be primal. There's no doubt this is how it will end. Will's going to make him come. He has no choice in the matter. Nor does he want one.

Will keeps his head back while he holds Hannibal's flanks and slams into him. Harder than he should. They work out a rhythm that tests Will's limits and Hannibal's control. Will sweats, chest flushed, as he takes Hannibal as hard and fast as he can. Moans with pleasure. Will finds the final stroke for himself; his body nearing completion brings Hannibal close. Hannibal listens carefully, concentrates on timing, and spills into Will half a second before Will comes on his stomach.

Will rolls off of Hannibal and into a boneless heap beside him, his chest heaving, slick with sweat, limbs limp where they fell.

Hannibal sits up first. He offers Will a cloth and cleans himself.

"I'll call Mrs. Young."

It's easier for Will to say nothing than no when he phrases it like that. Will says nothing. Just squeezes Hannibal's forearm and closes his eyes.

Will has burrowed under the covers by the time Hannibal returns from calling his neighbor. He's not asleep but he also doesn't want to be disturbed. Hannibal leaves him a glass of water, turns off the lamp, and shuts the door.

Two hours later, alone in his room, Hannibal turns onto his side and stretches his hand out across the bed where Will slept last night. Only cool fabric greets him.