This had not been his design.

Regarding Will with dark eyes, Hannibal didn't attempt to smother the groan pulled from somewhere deep in his chest as the younger man rubbed against him, ducking his head to once again taste the warm sweetness of Will's mouth, thrusting his tongue into the welcoming cavern and swallowing the younger man's own sounds of need and want in the process. Pulling back from the kiss after a long moment, he trailed his lips across his stubble covered jaw and then down the column of his neck, nipping lightly as he went and Will arching into the touches, the fingers of one hand digging into Hannibal's silk covered hip and the other holding his shoulder in an almost vice-like grip.

Given Will's sleep-related issues, the suggestion that the profiler use one of Hannibal's spare rooms when cases brought him to Baltimore and the surrounding areas had seemed like a good one for a number of reasons. From Will's point of view, there was no denying that he felt safe within the confines of Hannibal's home and the psychiatrist's company was generally a welcome respite from the interactions he was used to and experienced with everyone else. The frisson of desire and want attached to the other man's presence, one that Will did his best to supress or at the very least ignore, had given him cause for concern not to mention the fact that he routinely awoke screaming, however he had still found himself stood on the older man's porch late one night with the vestiges of a particularly cruel sadist inhabiting his mind and leaving him cold from the inside out. From Hannibal's point of view, Will's presence in his home gave him a perfect opportunity to witness first hand his nocturnal disturbances, give him further insight into a mind that intrigued and fascinated him with or without the fire that had started to burn in his brain and slowly but surely destabilise him.

Will had sought sanctuary eight times since the suggestion had been made over dinner two and a half months ago. Three of those occasions had been within the last week and none of them tied to a local case. The continued fever consuming his mind was giving rise to more and more disassociation, more nightmares, more sleepwalking and rapidly so. It was something Hannibal had noted with far less pleasure than he would have imagined previously, a thought that he had been trying not to examine too closely - one of several in fact where Will was concerned. For a man who prided himself on his self-awareness and knowledge, that in and of itself would have been alarming if Lecter had been a man prone to the feelings of other men. He knew exactly what sort of creature he was, or had thought he did, but over the last few weeks the tiniest slivers of doubt had crept into his mind as his thoughts turned to Will at the most incongruous moments.

Tonight Will had been waiting on his doorstep when he'd returned from a brief visit to the local market for herbs before it closed, crouched to the side of the door jamb with his back pressed against the wall and his rucksack at his feet. The physical and mental pain radiating from his tense frame had been palpable as Hannibal had got out of his car, cataloguing the increased level of the other man's tics as he approached. Will's hands twitched, his head moving jerkily, a ball of nervous fight or flight energy and it was clear he had chosen to flee to Hannibal. Crouching down in front of him he'd appraised the younger man with sharp eyes, discreetly scented him at the same time for an indication of the current level of his fever, then simply waited.

"It's 8:17pm, I'm in Baltimore, Maryland and my name is Will Graham," Will intoned quietly, shakily, eyes glued to Hannibal's Italian leather shoes.

Satisfied, Hannibal extended his hand to the younger man and began to rise.

"Come inside, Will," he instructed, disproportionately pleased when Will slipped his hand into his and allowed Hannibal to help him up. "Have you eaten?"

Picking up his rucksack, Will gave a jerky shake of his head, gaze still somewhere below the other man's knees.

"I prepared a wonderful recipe for Boeuf en Daube yesterday with dried orange peel and cep mushrooms, it should be ready shortly. I think you will like it," the psychiatrist stated with a small smile as he unlocked the front door and ushered the younger man over the threshold with a carefully placed hand in the small of his back.

Lecter had busied himself adding the finishing touches to the 'beef' whilst Will had silently occupied his now customary place in the armchair in the corner of the kitchen, nursing a glass of sweetened tea and listening to the other man reverently explain the ingredients and processes that had gone into the dish. It had taken over an hour, but by the time Hannibal had plated the slow cooked meat, Will had been able to at least raise his gaze to the other man's chin when he thanked him. Whilst still present, the tics had decreased considerably and his voice was steadier – there was something comforting and reassuring about being sat in Hannibal's kitchen while he worked. In the past, the irony of Will's apparent peace in his kitchen had amused Hannibal; more recently it had given him a feeling akin to indigestion.

"This is delicious,"

Hannibal paused to glance up at the other man, the corners of his mouth turned up in a small smile as he inclined his head at the compliment. It was the first thing Will had said of his own volition since Hannibal had found him on his doorstep. Other than ascertaining what Will wanted to drink, the psychiatrist had asked nothing of him and once again Will had been immensely grateful for the older man's perception and lack of demands. There was a lack of expectation attached to their interactions that made the profiler breathe more easily in his presence. Even during their more formal 'conversations', truth be told Hannibal expected very little of him, only asking that whatever Will chose to share with him he was to be honest about it. On the whole he was.

"I'm glad you are enjoying it," he replied, raising his fork to his mouth and taking another bite. Nervously licking his lips, Will forced himself to fleetingly meet his gaze.

"I - I feel like I need to say sorry," he offered, annoyed at the stutter he couldn't prevent. A slight frown on his face, Hannibal carefully placed his cutlery down on his plate before dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

"What for?"

There was genuine confusion in his tone and Will wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse.

"For turning up on your doorstep. Again," he added, a self-deprecating smile twisting his lips. It looked more like a grimace.

"I told you once that my door is always open to you, Will, and I wouldn't have extended the invitation for you to stay whenever you wished if I had not been prepared to honour it," Hannibal stated, a softness and weight to his words designed to reassure the younger man. "That is what friends do,"

"I'm not used to having real friends," Will admitted softly.

Neither was Hannibal, but it was not a fact that he was prepared to share with the profiler, his façade too carefully crafted for that. He had a myriad of acquaintances, people to entertain and feed, but there was not and never had been someone that he could truly call a friend. Nor anyone that he had even remotely wanted to. The fondness for Will that had slowly taken root was an alien concept and completely unknown, forcing rapid and on-going re-evaluation of his plans for the young man once Hannibal had been prepared to acknowledge it. If he hadn't now found otherwise, he would have easily believed that he wasn't capable of caring for another being. A man of science, he had no choice but to acceptthe empirical evidence presented by the vague discomfort in his chest whenever Will's distress flared. Or the warm sensation in his gut whenever Will met his gaze or smiled.

Desire was not an alien concept.

It had become hard to ignore the sharp flare of sheer want he experienced in Will's company. The urge to take his face in his hands and kiss him so thoroughly he forgot to breathe was intense; not one prone to flights of fancy, it had been disconcerting to find himself imagining his tongue in Will's mouth and his hands on his body, his teeth grazing his neck, no matter how welcome a distraction it might be from the pathetic, banal drivel spouted by his patients during sessions. Sometimes he'd wondered what might be revealed to Will in the throes of passion, whether the empath's keen mind would see through his person-suit as Du Maurier called it, which led to him wondering what the younger man's reaction might be. Loathed though he'd been to admit it, it was that which had prevented him from acting on his desires; the thought of having to kill Will was not one he drew any pleasure from, and even the lack of treatment for his encephalitis had been beginning to sit a touch uneasily. He'd never considered himself one to play safe, the very nature of his appetites making it near impossible, however, where Will Graham was concerned that was exactly what he was doing: it was safer not to play with fire because, ultimately, playing with fire got you burnt and his freedom going up in smoke was too great a price to pay, even if it meant that he would never know Will in the way he truly craved.

Will was lost in the depths of the fire when Hannibal joined him in the lofty sitting room, dark eyes flecked with orange and gold as he leant against the mantle and watched the steady burn. The older man stepped close to his side, close enough for Will to smell his expensive cologne, and offered him a glass containing two fingers of exceptionally fine single malt that the profiler readily accepted.

"Thanks," Will stated, "For dinner. And not asking me how I feel,"

Hannibal's lips quirked into a half smile that Will almost felt comfortable returning, gaze sliding from the psychiatrist's mouth to his chiselled cheek and then finally to his eyes for a long moment. For a second, less than a second, as he met his gaze Will had one of the very rare flashes of empathy he experienced in Hannibal's company. It had happened only twice before, and it wasn't the all-seeing, all-knowing empathy he struggled to avoid with everyone else, something that both of them would have been grateful for if either of them had been fully aware. The simplest way that Will could describe it was as a fleeting imprint of something intangible that tonight left him warm and centred. Centred enough that the corners of his lips were still turned up as he watched Hannibal retreat and lower himself into one of the high-backed leather armchairs facing the fire.

"How do you feel?"

Mouth turning down again, Will let out a sharp breath and tiredly took the empty chair next to the other man, staring into his whiskey. The silence seemed to stretch between them for an age.

"Tired," he offered slowly, swallowing convulsively before continuing and his speed picking up as if afraid that he wouldn't get the words out if it didn't. "Unstable. Like I'm broken and lost and I don't know how I'm going to get back. Or if I even can,"

"You're not broken, Will. Perhaps a little bent, pushed to the limits of your endurance certainly, but I assure you that if I believed you to be broken you would know about it," Hannibal intoned, accent soothing even if the words were less so when they registered properly in Will's mind.

"What, when I woke up medicated out of my skull in Chilton's 'care'?"

Rude and a touch acerbic though they were, there was no real venom behind his words, just exhaustion. In different circumstances the psychiatrist would have taken offence, but Hannibal knew Will's psyche far too well to take it as an insult or barb, it was purely a reflection of the man's deepest fears. He feared madness and the loss of self that would bring, and Hannibal's actions were directly leading him to believe that fear was becoming reality; it seemed only fair he let the churlishness go. The mouthful of red wine he took as he considered his answer tasted like ash.

He could have told him that as long as there was breath in his lungs Chilton wouldn't get within six feet of Will and live to tell the tale - he'd gut him like a fish if he so much as looked at him in the street. That he would rather be destitute than let such a poor excuse of a psychiatrist, let alone a human being, get his hands on a mind as brilliant and fascinating as his. Instead he had waited until his silence had forced Will's gaze to his, uncertainty and near terror at the prospect clouding the younger man's expression, then uttered one weighty word.

Never.

He hadn't made anything even remotely resembling a promise to anyone since Mischa, but Hannibal couldn't deny that's what it had been. A promise that no matter his own actions towards the younger man, Will would never suffer at the hands of another that way. Lecter didn't like to share.

The profiler had stared at him then with an intensity he'd only seen him exhibit previously at crime scenes and for a moment Hannibal had wondered if he were trying to read him in much the same way. Will had told him early on that he was quiet in a way that no one else he'd ever met had been, a welcome absence of emotions and motives and noise that he struggled to filter out with the rest of the population. Hannibal had hoped that remained the case. Finally, satisfied with whatever he'd found with his scrutiny, Will had jerkily nodded his head and the pair had lapsed into a comfortable silence.

Will's need for sleep had eventually become too great, even though he was clearly fighting it as Hannibal glanced from his book to the other man from time to time. Lulled by the warmth of the fire, the alcohol in his system and the gentle strains of Handel Hannibal had opted for whist he read his head had begun to droop, his almost empty glass clasped negligently in one hand as he began to doze. Hannibal had taken the opportunity to study him, eyes raking over his form, noting the tight line of his tempting mouth and the tension that oozed out of him even in sleep. Beneath the plaid, Hannibal was certain Will would be a vision, if perhaps a little too slim. Watching until he was certain he was asleep he had placed his hardback on the table between them then silently slipped from his chair and leant down over him, his nose almost touching the exposed column of Will's neck, then closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. His scent was a heady mix even with the repugnant aftershave that he still insisted on wearing; a fevered sweetness underpinned with Will's natural scent. Often it was spiced with fear and sweat and uncertainty, only occasionally did it hint at peace and calm. Tonight Will had seemed to be somewhere in-between with little fever to speak of.

Indulgence over, Hannibal had carefully pried the Whiskey glass from his grasp, deposited it next to his book then placed his hand on Will's shoulder as the other man stirred, smiling slightly as he watched him struggle to the surface. In soft tones he'd roused him, told him to go to bed. Fear then resignation had coloured Will's expression as he'd stretched slightly under Hannibal's hand to ease the kinks forming in his back before he'd slowly made his way towards the guest suite adjacent to the master bedroom.

The first time Will had appeared at his door had been a victory as far as Hannibal was concerned. He'd come to him on the back of losing time, the on-going case leaving him unsettled and the killer's darkness still lurking in his mind. His hesitance had been endearing and given Hannibal the opportunity to cement his place as someone to be trusted.

Whilst it had seemed a good idea at first, now that he was faced with the reality of it Will had adopted a rabbit in the headlights look as he stood at the bottom of the stairs.

"I should go, this isn't a good idea. I…sleepwalk,"

"I'm a light sleeper, I will wake should you leave your room and intercept you before you can go far. Or come to harm," Hannibal said, knowingly.

Will had never told him about waking on the roof, but he felt as if somehow the other man knew. Or at least suspected.

"I sweat…" he murmured, searching for a reason, any reason, why he shouldn't stay.

Hannibal simply shrugged. "Sheets can be washed,"

There had been no protestations tonight. Hannibal had watched him climb the stairs and disappear out of sight, listening for the click of the bedroom door before turning towards his office. Sitting down at his desk he had pulled out his sketch pad, sharpened his pencil and begun to draw, alert to every sound from upstairs.

By the time he had laid the foundations of Will's sleeping form on paper, he was ready to retire for the night.