Hannibal had positioned himself for it, had anticipated that Will would faint, but still a part of himself exulted in disbelief when Will fell into his arms.
"Oh my God!" Alana gasped, rushing forward to help.
Hannibal squeezed Will tighter in his grasp, felt the solid weight of this beautiful man, the heaviness of his head resting against Hannibal's shoulder.
"I have him," Hannibal said, hoping the tightness in his voice might be attributable to muscular effort (although it was no effort at all, the rush, the joy – a dump in his veins of power and domination, it was nothing to hold Will. It was everything to hold him.) "If you would move those papers, please."
Dr. Bloom rushed to clear the sofa as Hannibal clutched Will, and wished she would slow down.
Hannibal let his face lower towards Will's neck a second time. Allowed himself a deep inhalation. Stale sweat and laundry detergent, and that abysmal after-shave, but under those scents, the heady blast that was Will's unique bouquet.
Hannibal wanted to growl. Felt himself tighten.
"There, let me help you," Dr. Bloom said.
"Thank you but if you will just allow me," Hannibal replied, courteously. He lowered Will, wishing for more time to hold him, wishing for Dr. Bloom's absence, wishing for blood and cries and the edge of pain.
He wanted to rip Will apart.
He wanted to protect Will.
What a delicious, complex feast.
Hiding a slight smile at the beauty of his Will, Hannibal reluctantly eased his arm out from under Will's torso. He lifted Will's legs, one at a time, laying them along the couch.
The dogs nosed around him, licked Will's hand (how Hannibal envied them that liberty!), whined until he shushed them. Settled them with a glare.
"So what is it? Exhaustion? Or something more?" Dr. Bloom asked, her hands busy over Will, straightening the delicious rumple of his shirt, bunched gaping over his stomach, lifting his hand onto the cushion.
"That and hunger. Dr. Bloom, Will has been my patient for some time now, and this event was not wholly unanticipated. I suspect Will's talent, as you thought, has turned on him. That, combined with the frankly nauseating combination of odors and take out items I glimpsed in the kitchen have me convinced Will is not eating."
"Not eating?" Dr. Bloom stood and took a few steps towards the kitchen in the back of the house. Her eyes fell on the assortment of food items Dr. Lecter had described. Dawning comprehension drew her brows together as she turned back to Hannibal. "Thrill Kill. Will spent too much time at each crime scene. I thought so at the time. How he must have been struggling with it – the mindset – the – repulsion."
"Yes." Hannibal kept his face still, but an edge of disgust crept into his voice. Thrill Kill had been a brute. A creature who didn't have the sense not to shit where he ate, nothing more.
"So, he needs a break, for one thing. Jack's been working him too hard, and Will's been letting him."
Hannibal said nothing, didn't disclose his agreement nor his knowledge of the tragedy quietly exploding Jack Crawford's life. Knowledge he knew Will shared.
Jack's wife had terminal cancer.
Which was why Will hadn't quit. Was why he wouldn't quit.
Loyal little mongoose, injured but still limping forward to battle cobras.
Hannibal didn't want Will to quit, anyway. Each step closer to the edge, was a step closer to the fall. To their consummation.
"One thing at a time, Dr. Bloom," Hannibal said. "If you would please go out to your car and bring the cooler I packed, I shall deal with the unsavory abomination that is American Delivery Cuisine."
Dr. Bloom chuckled lightly, before picking up her keys. She walked out the front door, leaving it cracked open behind her.
The moment she was away, Hannibal lunged down to Will. Smelling, looking, touching, partaking with all his senses. Hannibal let his face and hands quickly rove over Will. He sat up, drunk on it, and let himself look.
The gorgeous column of Will's neck was exposed, vulnerable. Hannibal could see the steady pulse on one side.
When they'd first walked in, when Will had taken his glasses off and let his head fall back against the cushion, Hannibal had wanted to groan with the pain of the longing. Had allowed himself to imaging his lips against the pulse, the blood contained or spilling into his mouth.
Hannibal glanced behind him, heard the car door close outside. Quickly, Hannibal let his hand fall across Will's throat. Using the edge of a finger nail, he scratched, just off center, just to the right of the adam's apple.
Will groaned and stirred, but Hannibal was done. Standing, Hannibal put the fingernail into his mouth, the slight tang of the skin cells, almost imperceptible but now held in his mouth.
The scratch didn't bleed, but raised slightly red and livid. Hannibal's mark. Like a promise, something he could look at, and remember. And promise.
Hannibal strode into the kitchen, picking up pizza boxes and deli wrappers, shoving them into the trash as Dr. Bloom walked in, carrying the cooler.
"Almost done here," Hannibal called, shaking out another bin bag and shoving items into it.
"Will?" Dr. Bloom's voice had the gentle tone one used with an injured animal. "He's waking," she called to Hannibal.
Hannibal heard the deeper murmur of Will's voice as he shoved the remaining food into the bag and twisted it shut, containing the scent at the least.
And now it was time to feed Will. Hiding a smile, Dr. Lecter returned to his patient's side.