Warning: Depending on your definition of dub-con, this chapter is dub-con. It's light dub-con, though.
Hannibal wakes from a restful sleep to the sound of the land line ringing in the kitchen. Light peaks through the windows. His carefully-calibrated sense of time tells him it's nearly 7 a.m. That will be Jack Crawford on the phone, wondering where his protégé is. Hannibal ignores the ringing.
A glance at Will confirms that he has not moved in hours. His legs are still tucked under the duvet; a towel covers his upper body. Messy, matted brown curls face Hannibal. He gently lifts the towel covering Will and tosses it to the floor. Will's bare back, dry for once, greets him. Will's scent is strong, uncut by sweat. It's more intoxicating than it should be – an indication of how deeply Hannibal's desire for him runs. Inches from Will, Hannibal lightly caresses the soft skin of Will's strong back.
Will does not stir. His slow respiration indicates not just sleep but sedation. Hannibal has at least an hour – probably more, given Will's weakened state – before the sedative begins to wear off.
Though he has no intention of pursuing Will, he cannot allow this opportunity to touch him to slip away. He has not touched someone lovingly in too many years. For all the feasts of sight, sound, smell, and taste he orchestrates for himself, he has neglected touch. This morning, with Will's bare flesh so tantalizingly close, he will indulge tactility. His fingers flex in anticipation.
Hannibal softly strokes the curve of Will's shoulder. His fingers come to rest on an angry scar that mars Will's otherwise flawless back. Hannibal recognizes it as an old stab wound – one Will has said nothing about.
One of Will's secrets. Intriguing.
Hannibal skirts his thumb along the pale, raised length of the two inch scar and wonders how it happened. It was done with a switchblade: a deep stab followed by a clumsy yank up and out. Done hastily. Done imprecisely. Done by a petty criminal. A legacy of Will's pre-FBI past. He has lingering problems with his shoulder that he has not mentioned.
This is why Will preferred not to remove his shirt. Though the scar is relatively small, Hannibal knows that it's the story, not the sight, that Will wishes to keep to himself.
It's a pity. Will has the strong back of a man who takes more care of himself than he lets on. A man who conceals his grace beneath khaki and plaid. A man whose awkward movements belie his beauty.
One day, Will will tell him about this scar. He will express only an ounce of the pain it caused him. He will duck his head and fidget. He will ask without words not to be judged. Hannibal will be patient and kind.
Sometimes – when they have conversations – Hannibal's interaction with Will rushes along like the countrapuntal polyphony of a fugue. A harmonic give-and-take, quick and lively. Other times, during the quiet moments, triadic chords resonate in the Ionian or Dorian modes. Major or minor, depending on the mood. Often creating the mood.
But this moment now, the two of them in bed, and the future moment of the scar: they are a susurrus in a grove of aspens. They are the motion of light on water.
Hannibal traces the outline of the scar again, then slides his fingers down to Will's strong spine. His fingertips lovingly grace the notches of Will's vertebrae. Slowly, he slips his fingers from the bones of Will's neck to the curve of the lumbar where skin meets the hem of silk shorts, counting the calcium crests in their sheathes. So fragile. So inviolable.
Muscles now. With both hands, Hannibal traces the mirrored contours of the trapezius and latissimus dorsi. The long, thin muscles expand and contract just so as Will sleeps. Dry and hot under Hannibal's sensitive digits, Will's permeable integument breathes along with the steady swell and dip of his chest. Heat radiates from his body as it fights the invasive bacteria, incinerating them one by one.
Will has not responded to his touch, but the burn of fever is much like the burn of desire. The same desire threatens to overwhelm Hannibal.
And it will. He will allow it to crash over him.
Hannibal pivots away from Will and off of the bed. He removes his robe and pajama top, recalling former lovers sleeping with their backs turned in the fey light of morning as he crept from the bed and out of their lives. Not this time. This time, he returns, seeking intimacy before satiation.
Intimacy with Will Graham. Desire for Will Graham. It may be worth the risk after all.
The phone rings again in the kitchen as Hannibal returns to the bed. His lip curls.
Once the noise dies, Hannibal slides closer until his bare chest touches Will's denuded back. He places a hand on Will's barely-clothed hip and hooks his fingers in the jut of Will's pelvis.
Will slumbers peacefully beneath his touch.
Emboldened, Hannibal buries his face in Will's hair where his scent is strongest and places soft, delicate kisses on his neck. It's easy to imagine that the dried sweat clinging to Will's hair and skin resulted from a marathon love-making session.
Passion pulses through Hannibal. Achingly hard, he pushes his pajamas aside and strokes himself. He licks and lightly sucks the salt from the soft flesh of Will's neck, careful not to leave the hint of a mark. He tongues the hard line of Will's cervical spine and gently kisses the vertebrae notched beneath, lazily massaging the responsive tip of his penis.
He soothes the ache away slowly with his expert hand until his entire body simmers with a balance of need and satiation. Desire is a warm, shallow sea. He bathes in its ripples and currents, buoyant and unhurried.
Time stops. Only the existential certainty of himself and Will as immutable, mutually desiring beings remains.
After a long series of moments that contain days of voluptuous, voluminous tactility, Hannibal signs contentedly. Desire hums in his veins like a fine wine.
Hannibal wipes his hand on his pajamas and finds Will's iliac spine again. He inches his hips forward until his half-hard cock rests in the cleft of Will's muscled ass. His hand slides down silk to cup Will's genitals – like lovers falling asleep after a night of devotion and ardor and ecstasy.
For nearly an hour he lies with Will, reveling in the leisurely undulation of desire and sensation. He alternates between kissing and tonguing and licking Will's neck and inhaling the alluring scent of Will's trust.
Perhaps one day Will will come to him to be touched. Perhaps one day soon.
A knock at the door interrupts Hannibal's sensual reverie.
Hannibal lavishes a final kiss Will's neck before extricating himself. He dons his pajama top and robe, stops in his bathroom for a dab of cologne to cover the smell of sex, and adjusts his fading erection as he saunters to the door.
He expects Jack Crawford's angry visage to greet him. He is pleasantly surprised, then, when he sees Alana Bloom's smiling face instead. A bag of clothes in her hand and the faint scent of dog tell him that she's been to Wolf Trap.
She has saved him a trip. He smiles as he invites her in. He has always appreciated her thoughtful, measured courtesy.
She steps into the entryway. He reads her reading him: his robe, his messy hair, the lingering traces of sleep. As always, she reserves judgment.
"I hope I didn't wake you," she says.
"No," Hannibal answers. "But I regret that I have not started any coffee yet."
She smiles and waves a dismissive hand. "I can't stay long. I just came by to drop off some of Will's clothes."
"How thoughtful," Hannibal says, taking the proffered bag. "You fed the dogs?"
"They wouldn't have let me leave if I hadn't," Alana jokes. She quickly turns serious. "You look like you've had a long night."
There is so much she chooses not to say.
"Not as long as Will's," Hannibal replies. "He's sleeping now. I had to resort to a sedative so he could rest."
A mix of sympathy and unsurprised dismay appears on her face. "Nightmares?"
Hannibal inclines his head. "And illness. He's very weak. I doubt Jack Crawford will get him back today."
"Jack's going to want to hear that from you," Alana points out with a knowing look.
Hannibal mirrors her expression. "He will."
He lets her out with a final thanks and smiles to himself. He knows so few people who are truly conscientious. Only she would know that he's been feeding Will's dogs and would not only make the trip for him but would have the presence of mind to collect clothes for Will.
Hannibal checks on Will – still asleep – and leaves the clothes in the bedroom before repairing to the kitchen to start coffee and breakfast for himself. For Will, he will prepare a nutritious broth and soup for later.
As he chops onions and peppers, he searches his memory for the last time he cooked for someone who stayed the night with him. Zurich. He was twenty-eight. She was an exceptional woman, but he had no interest in a relationship. Still, he thought it proper to make breakfast for her.
How many years have passed.
Hannibal browns the onions and peppers with blood sausage and cracks two eggs over the pan.
Dr. Du Maurier thinks he's lonely. No significant relationships. No friends. He should not be bothered by her assessment but he respects her judgment. He doesn't want to admit that she's right… but… she is.
He isn't sure exactly what Will wants – what the timbre of his desire is. Mere lust? Or something more holistic, more human and less animal?
Will also doesn't have friends. Just dogs with whom he shares the intimacies of his inner life. He doesn't want friends. But maybe he wants one friend.
Hannibal plates his breakfast, pours the coffee, and eats by himself. His mind wanders to the first breakfast he shared with Will in Minnesota. Will's distrust and uncertainty. His forts to keep others out that fail to protect what he values most.
Just keep it professional.
Or we could socialize like adults. God forbid we become friendly.
I don't find you that interesting.
Talk of the Minnesota Shrike. Will's instant understanding of the intent of the murder Hannibal committed for him. A positive so he could see a negative. Will's intensity as a profiler. His response to Hannibal's carefully-selected questions, meant to guide him to the Shrike. Reconstructing the Shrike's fantasies. The Shrike's problems.
Ever have any problems, Will?
Uncle Jack's fragile little tea cup.
Will's genuine amusement. His laugh.
Hannibal hasn't heard him laugh heartily since then. Too many problems clutter his head.
He is slowly falling apart. Jack brought Hannibal in for one reason: to glue him back together when Jack breaks him.
As Hannibal carries his plate back to the kitchen, the phone rings again. Uncle Jack has quite a sense of timing.
Hannibal assures Jack over the phone that Will is far too sick to return to work. He hears Jack falling apart as well. Hannibal did not cut the first cord – cancer did that for him – but he happily sliced the rest. Jack did not hold up his end of the bargain with Will; he earned his humiliation.
Hannibal hears in Jack's tone that he will be driving to Baltimore some time this afternoon to see Will for himself. Hannibal snarls. Will is his to protect, his to heal. Jack cannot have him back until Will can stand on his own two feet again. Even then…
Hannibal stops to check on Will again before he takes a shower. Will hasn't so much as twitched, but his breathing indicates that he's actually sleeping now – no longer sedated. Careful to keep his movement silent, Hannibal disconnects the IV in case Will needs to get up. His hand moves to brush Will's hair of its own volition. He stops himself, instead studying Will's slack, peaceful face. He wants to give Will this peace always.
Hannibal carries these thoughts with him into the shower. The peace of a breeze in the aspens outside Zurich. For Will, he can do this. He will.