Chapter Text
The motel room is shabby, even by Will’s admittedly low standards and after the first night he is already missing the modest but comfortable accommodations of Chiyo’s safe-house. Their period of convalescence was extensive - Hannibal's surgery demanded it - but they're fortunate that the time allotted allowed too for what had turned out to be crucial planning and strategizing. Hannibal, Will learned, found it prudent to have various safety nets in place and Will was unsurprised to discover that the Doctor's well-used methods for avoiding law enforcement were infuriatingly clever, devious really. He was almost overly cautious, exceedingly careful in every detail; he dotted every i, crossed every t, but he was also bold, creative enough in his decision making that it made predicting their movements near impossible. He had explained their itinerary to Will clearly, calmly; he was thorough, had left no eventuality unexplored and Will's acute anxiety about being apprehended had slowly begun to fade.
It's almost as if he's done this before.
They’ll be on the road for a few more days as they head north, yet another of Hannibal's stashed hideaways serving as their - perhaps permanent, perhaps not - destination. They'll be stopping at these, at-best, threadbare, at worst, bug-infested lodgings as need be. Will found himself stunned by Hannibal’s ease with the squalid accommodation - he’s as-always fastidious with his belongings and personal items, but other than a periodic disapproving frown here and there he hasn't complained, perhaps having been long resigned to it all. Still, he looks out of place here, Will thinks, sitting straight-backed but relaxed, elegant as a dancer on the wooden desk chair across from a shirtless Will, occupied with examining the healing wound of his shoulder. The skin feels stretched still and the whole area occasionally aches - Will's shoulder in general has seen too much trauma at this point for it not to - but most of the surface pain has begun to dissipate.
They haven’t spoken much, not since the fall; In the safe-house Chiyo seemed intent on not leaving them alone together for any extended periods of time, which, Will surmises, makes a decent amount of sense seeing as this is the second time now that she’s caught him trying to murder her beloved adoptive brother. The two doctors who had performed Hannibal's operation had stayed with them for a few days and though they didn't interact (they spoke only what Will was sure was Russian, and all of Will's just-shy-of panicked questions during Hannibal’s recovery had had to be translated through Chiyo) their presence in the little house made Will feel crowded. After Hannibal was well enough to be moderately active, when they did speak Will could feel a pressure building between them, something bubbling beneath the soft, noticeably guarded exchange of words.
Something, Will knew, needed to break. He just wasn't sure what or when or how to initiate it.
When they finally got on the road the quiet persisted. They took turns sleeping in the car, and even when they were both awake, they spoke only of trivial things; the drive, directions, logistics, meal options, their wounds, their supplies. For the most part, things that were happening in the now. It was as if neither one of them wanted to broach the subject of either the past or future. Unwilling to shatter this easy yet sterilized peace.
Will knows they’re both only too aware of the weight of all that’s unsaid and unresolved between them. He's concluded that at some point they must have decided to enter into an unspoken truce, a silent agreement that they will not yet investigate, dissect, or dive headfirst into the vortex of chaos that is their feelings for each other, at least not until they’ve reached some kind of safe haven.
At first, Will felt comforted by that, by Hannibal’s willingness not to poke and prod at the temperamental beast that is their relationship, but now after a couple of quiet days on the road, the calm feels unworthy of the tension it's begot and Will itches to plunge his fingers deep into the squelching stomach of that tidy peace.
He watches Hannibal as he finishes applying the odorless medicinal cream he’s been slathering Will's cuts and bruises with over the last few days. Hannibal's been playing nurse to both of them since he was healed enough to be able. Bandages had needed to be reapplied often, stitches, those of Will's shoulder, and the small delicate ones of his face had needed to be sewn, tended to, maintained and eventually removed. At the end of the day, he had been lucky. His injuries, even that of the ugly knife wound in his face had turned out to be far more superficial than his initial assessment (or as the searing pain would have lead him to believe). And since the day Hannibal emerged from surgery alive - alive - though recovery has been slow going and they are both far from good as new, they are somehow, miraculously on the mend.
Will is reasonably sure he can apply these ointments himself. He thinks Hannibal is likely aware of that as well. Neither of them has mentioned it.
“This will leave a scar,” Hannibal remarks, bringing Will back to the present. His eyes are focused on his task, fingers soft, warm but clinical on Will's skin.
“Another one for the books,” he mutters noncommittally, as Hannibal leans back and reaches for the dampened cloth in his medical pack.
"You know, Bedelia once told me that the scars you've left on me excite you." Will says, voice steady, conversational, even in the face of this pressing forward into dangerous territory. He knows as the words escape his lips that he is picking at seams, threatening to unravel their fragile repose.
Hannibal's eyes, curious, had flipped to Will's at the mention of Bedelia's name and now they've settled on his face, alert, waiting. He seems surprised if not pleased at Will's sudden veer into more perilous subject matter. It occurs to Will then that perhaps Hanibal may not appreciate this calm so very much himself.
He must be going along with it then, participating because he thinks it's what Will wants.
"What did you say to that?"
"I asked her why."
His mouth wobbles around his words
Hannibal moves to replace the cloth and cream into his kit so that he may sit back, refocus and give Will his undivided attention.
"And? What was Dr. Du Maurier's conclusion?"
Will peers at him, awareness heightened as if he is in danger. He licks his lips, wonders, not at all for the first time where Hannibal is concerned, what the ever loving hell is going to happen next.
Another inhale.
He's oddly hyper cognizant of his own face, overly-conscious of each twitch of an eye, every flare of his nostrils
"She seemed to be under the impression that you were in love with me.”
And there.
He’s done it.
Hannibal for his part appears unperturbed. He blinks, inclines his head. An infinitesimal half smile is his only detectable reaction, his dark eyes remaining perfectly, irritatingly neutral. It creates the overall impression of near bored politeness.
At his core Will knows this is a painstakingly constructed mask. It doesn't mean being greeted with it in the face of such weighted words has no effect.
"Did she?" Hannibal says smoothly, folding his hands in his lap.
In the silence that ensues, Will's mind, indeed like Hannibal's, endeavors to follow multiple threads at once, and he imagines that in a spur of spontaneity he reaches out, grasps one of Hannibal's hands and moves it to splay across the scar - the "smile" - on Will's stomach.
He dismisses this audacious plan of action immediately of course, almost before its inception, but when he looks back to Hannibal's face he feels naked, as if Hannibal has peeked through some curtain of his mind and seen, clear as day, the wanderings of Will's traitorous imagination.
Hannibal's hands themselves remain where they are but Will thinks he sees his fingers quirk, just for a moment, as if they are feeling raised flesh between them.
"Do you deny it?" Will asks softer than he intended to.
Hannibal's expression remains inscrutable.
"I'd say it's a bit late for that, wouldn't you?"
Another beat. Hannibal’s head is cocked slightly to the side and he studies Will. Will thinks he may be able to just make out a touch, only a sprinkling really, of uncertainty playing across his sharp features, but even that tiniest of tells he finds himself taken in by. Hannibal, unsure, Hannibal untethered, Hannibal looking at him as if he is trying to make out the fine print written across Will's psyche.
Will mirrors him, cocks his head back, stares at the plains and valleys, the fine lines, the perfect imperfections of Hannibal's face.
“I guess so,” he allows carefully.
Another moment. And Will realizes what he himself is slightly thrown by is Hannibal’s total inaction, Hannibal is, after all, a killer. A brilliant, genius really, ruthless, terrifyingly efficient killer. Of course he can be patient, calculating, but what Will has witnessed more often than not, is that in times of unforeseen pressure, Hannibal will pounce, that he will make split second decisions, outcomes of which frequently can mean the difference between life and death. So maybe Will expected...if not the clear drawing of battle lines, then at the very least an invitation to pick up their usual routine, to take their assigned places in yet another deadly dance of push and pull, pursuit and escape (even if time and again this gavotte had resulted only in the both of them running in circles, lost as to who was chasing who). Another charged, perverse, fruitless, and - Will can admit to himself now - delicious game of wits.
But no, Hannibal is not employing his legion of words, the greatest weapons in his arsenal, to either coax or impose or manipulate. There is no perfectly pleasant-in-delivery ominous-in-subject matter soliloquy being performed, no meditation on the origins of the concept of love itself, encapsulating its history, its varied forms, its follys and favors. Were this the case, had Hannibal given Will one of these diatribes, at least then Will would have something to work with; perhaps he could find some truths hidden there if only by studying Hannibal's attempts to obscure them.
But there is only this nothing, this silence.
It is Hannibal who looks away, breaks eye contact first and the simple motion sets off alarm bells in Will's head.
Two realizations hit.
One is that Will has once again, truly and completely taken Hannibal by surprise.
The second is more bewildering, it emboldens him, tickles him even. It hints that Hannibal is experiencing a thing Will would have once thought him incapable of.
Hannibal Lecter can't really be shy, can he?
The silence stretches on.
Maybe Will expected denial; though it's unlikely Hannibal would outright lie to him, he's always had his tried-and-true ways of maneuvering around facts. He eludes. He evades. Misdirects. Accuses.
Will can see so many other possible worlds. Maybe there's even one where Hannibal would have reacted with quick, eager acceptance, one where he'd try to flirt using philosophy - a thing only Hannibal could do without seeming preposterous - and then it would just happen, then and there, in a crappy motel room not dissimilar to the one they're in now, and there would be breath and touching and-
Will was not hoping for that last one. Certainly not. He was not hoping and curious and excited and nervous to follow Hannibal through a doorway that would allow him a glimpse into the world of Hannibal's specific refined brand of hedonism...
Ok.
Perhaps he had envisioned some possible outcomes.
But he's almost 100% sure he never thought about them consciously.
Probably.
But whatever he may have expected it wasn’t this...void
Still Will is nothing if not adaptable. He can work with this.
Just as the silence begins to feel too much, too heavy, Will sighs - he shoots for disappointment as he rises from the edge of the bed, moving to put his t-shirt back on, but he fears his own excitement is too transparent, that Hannibal will call his bluff and let him walk away -
“Will."
A hand reaches out, hooks gently but insistently onto Will's arm, stopping him before he can go far. Hannibal stares up at him from where he sits, face all business. “You should understand, this quasi revelation, it doesn't necessitate a change between us."
Will blinks. And is that truly meant to mollify? Reassure? Does he think Will is offended? Can he really be so blind that he can't yet see how much Will wants, well, more?
Or then...maybe that's just what Hannibal wants him to think.
It could be a challenge - you want this? Then take it.
It could just as easily be a plea - tell me Will, tell me how wrong I am, tell me how much you want me.
Will can see truth in all and none of them, they're all equally as likely, equally as unlikely. And since when has the Ripper ever made things easy for Will, when has he ever left any simple, easily-decipherable, goddamn straightforward evidence behind?
For just for a moment, the flash of rage he feels is a familiar and welcome distraction, and belatedly he understands something about himself, why he fought so hard for so long to hang onto his resentment. Anger is so very blissfully easy compared to, well, this.
He wonders if it will always be like this for them.
Hannibal's hand remains curled around his forearm. He swallows almost imperceptibly
Will turns towards him.
And then he sees it.
It's nothing more than the subtlest of glances down Will's bare chest, it's tiny, almost non-existent, and Will knows there's no way in hell he ever would have picked up on it had he not been utterly honed in on Hannibal's face, had he not been explicitly searching for something to slip up and show itself.
It's nothing. And yet it has just told Will everything he needs to know.
A great rush of feeling then - victory, excitement, wonder, affection, anger, anticipation, arousal, - they coalesce inside him all at once, become a warm, buzzing, undulating thing, a wave that crashes over him again and again.
It takes everything in him not to laugh out loud.
He clamps down on these sensations. Reminds himself to stay just a little ways away from Hannibal's body. The man can smell diseases, Will reminds himself, he's pretty sure his sensitive noise would be able to detect whatever ridiculous endothermic reaction is happening inside his body right now.
"You'd be satisfied if things remained as they are?" Will asks, and he's really rather impressed at how calm he sounds
"I would," Hannibal nods.
"Just like this."
"Yes."
"Platonic?"
Only a slight narrowing of eyes. He lets go of Will's arm.
"Of course."
Another wave of affection. Will has to close his eyes to it.
On one hand it is Hannibal's armor that has fallen away, it is Hannibal who is unknowingly naked this time. But on the other Will is the one overcome with the knowledge of Hannibal's compassion. He's been on the receiving end of so many of the destructive consequences of Hannibal's love that discovering evidence of the opposite, of the softer side of his devotion (though Will's not entirely a stranger to that either) small though it may be, still manages to make him feel as if he's been pieced straight through the chest.
There are so many things he knows now that he didn't five minutes ago;
Hannibal is attracted to him.
Hannibal desires him.
And yet if Will never brought that idea up himself? He's almost certain Hannibal never would have said a word about it.
Will thought he'd understood Hannibal's feelings, Bedelia told him, and he'd known, he'd known for ages now. He'd always understood Hannibal's fascination, felt his obsession almost as if it were his own. But as he realizes Hannibal would have been content with anything Will would give him, with scraps.
He can see now, maybe for the first time, the truth of it. He flashes back to earlier encounters, conversations they've had through the years, A pattern becomes illuminated. He really does, doesn't he? Hannibal loves him.
He feels himself fighting the epiphany though he's not sure why. Denial swiftly but briefly turns to anger - how could he do all this to me then? If he loves me how could he hurt me so fucking much so fucking often?
He almost rolls his eyes at his own thoughts.
Because he's Hannibal.
The autonomy Hannibal is offering, promising here is done so unknowingly. Will wonders how he'd feel if he knew Will could see his cards.
Still, the respect it covertly displays overwhelms him.
Certainly, Will thinks wryly, these are things that are more or less given in most conventional relationships.
At this point he has also lost track of how many times they've tried to kill each other.
He's... relatively confident theirs will never be a conventional relationship.
He looks down at Hannibal, at his eyes, tight with worry, and he feels like he is seeing him for the first time.
For just a moment, Will gets another flash of memory, a past conversation with Bedelia, how she'd once told him her first instinct at the sight of something vulnerable, - a bird with a broken wing - was to crush it.
He thinks about how he would then, still, and always want to help it.
And he wonders; as much as Hannibal claims to appreciate all of Will's baser instincts, all of Will's demons and darkness, if perhaps the real reason Hannibal loves him is because of his light.
Will takes one last step forward and it feels like crossing an ocean.
He's in Hannibal's personal space, within the range of his senses.
“Thing is, Hannibal,” he says slowly, thrilling at the way his name sounds on his tongue, "I don't think I would be."
Will will probably treasure the lightning fast flicker of surprise that shoots across Hannibal's face for the rest of his life.
The words landing cause something in the room to shift.
With bated breath, Will waits.
They peer at each other.
“Satisfied that is,” Will clarifies unnecessarily. Again, he says it slowly, enjoying how the double entendre causes Hannibal's eyes to narrow even more.
A car passes outside. A cell phone on vibrate is buzzing somewhere in a room down the hall and Will’s whole world feels tilted on its axis as Haninbal’s stare continues to burn a hole through his skull. The expression Hannibal gives him is blank yet primed and it reminds Will vaguely of his dogs, how some of them first reacted at their initial encounter, assessing, ready for both attack or retreat as they tried to decide if Will was friend or foe.
Finally, Hannibal allows curiosity to bloom in the twitch of an eyelid, lets a hint of playful skepticism bud in the shift of an eyebrow,
Ah. He’s steeled for a game and he’s willing to play.
Always
Irritation prickles along Will’s scalp as he gathers that Hannibal is likely going through the same second, triple, quadruple, etc., etc. guessing game that Will played internally only moments ago.
Again, that shiver of rage.
Will's so tired of that game.
"Stand up."
Hannibal blinks once but does so after a somehow perfectly ambiguous amount of time - neither hurriedly nor languidly, only as if he had been meaning to stand anyway. And Will thinks to himself he's worse than a cat.
In an instant they are very close, and though Will knows at this juncture he maintains somewhat of an upper hand, losing the height advantage still dims his courage considerably. The air has shifted, like they're suddenly at a higher altitude, and with the proximity, Hannibal's eyes are minutely less guarded, something like appreciation peeking out there as if he is enjoying the novelty of the small distance between them - without it involving stitches and creams and peroxide - almost despite himself.
Will swallows hard. “Don't move," he says, and his voice sounds surer than he feels.
He tentatively places his hand on Hannibal's shoulder, not accidentally (but then, not really on purpose either) gripping him in precisely the same place he did not long ago when they had stood at the top of that bluff, victorious, panting, drenched in blood, and Will had told him it was beautiful.
He rests his open palm against the soft cotton of Hannibal's shirt and moves it slowly across the raised bones of his clavicle. Down it goes, down the length of his chest, his fingers skimming along ribs, his touch beckoning the skin and blood underneath as Will imagines it all - fat and muscle, tissue and bone.
Making sure to avoid the still healing wound on Hannibal's lower stomach Will's hand strokes down to the hem of his shirt and then ventures back up. He stops before he hits the skin of Hannibal's neck - Will's too frightened to touch him there yet, though of what, he's not quite sure. Instead he repeats the process, sliding it again downwards, this time closer to the center of Hannibal's body, closer to his heart. He finds he likes in particular the way his palm feels against Hannibal's sternum, like it fits there, like that part of Hannibal's body was made for him, and he holds it steady for a beat.
The tension is palpable. Will can feel it on the air like electricity.
He's aware that he is stretching taught some kind of invisible intimacy barrier the longer he touches. He wonders when it will tear. When he will break through. What it will take to break through.
He wonders what's waiting for him on the other side.
He watches his progress, avoids Hannibal's penetrative eyes, focuses instead on the rise and fall of his chest as Will slides his hand just a bit lower, dipping into the shallow valley between pectorals, his fingers greeted as he does by the not quite steady beat of Hannibal's heart
Will finds he's holding his breath.
As he lets it out Hannibal breathes in, and it's like they’re already a part of each other, like they share the same breath, the same pair of lungs, the same heart and blood.
When he does chance a glance up at Hannibal's face, Will is pleased to find any air of mischief that may have been present diminishing quickly. His mouth is open the tiniest bit. His eyes are glued to Will's face, fascinated. Will licks his lips. Lets his fingers drop lower than the hem of his shirt this time, lets them graze Hannibal’s belt...
Just as it seems Hannibal may respond to his ministrations Will feels him tense and a warm hand abruptly clamps down around his own, stopping it before it can continue its wanderings. Will looks up, irked at Hannibal’s defiance and finds eyes that are hard, closed to him.
Will blinks, meets the shuttered stare with an open one; decides on a response that is all feigned innocence and seductive charm
He does that well.
"You want me to stop?"
Hannibal is deathly still. Will can see the cogs in his brain turning. Weighing data, considering biases, anticipating possible outcomes. Will almost smiles.
He bets Hannibal wishes he had the forethought to set up some safety nets for this particular extenuating circumstance.
A proud lift of the chin.
"I'm wary of being mocked."
Will does let out a laugh this time, it's almost bitter.
“You think that’s what I’m doing?"
“I’m not entirely sure I know what it is you’re doing."
They eye each other until Will shifts, turns Hannibal's hand around with both of his and begins to run an intrepid thumb along the raised skin of the scar that spans the length of his wrist. Hannibal lets out a soft breath.
“Care to venture a guess?”
Hannibal swallows but his face remains impassive. “If I had to I’d say you're testing me,” he says smoothly, almost casually. "Playing with me, as a child toys with an insect.”
Will shakes his head and frowns at him. He senses no vitriol in his voice, only perhaps slight resignation, as if Hannibal is willing to indulge Will, as if he is willing, albeit unhappily, to let himself be toyed with.
“I’m not interested in tearing your wings off, Doctor.”
“No?” but his voice sounds rougher than normal. Will shakes his head again and focuses his attention back on his wrists as Hannibal continues. "If I remember correctly," but his mouth closes on a sharp inhale as Will's thumb creeps further up his forearm, venturing under the fabric of a cotton sleeve.
He endeavors again.
“In our past sessions-“ but now Will moves to lift Hannibal's hand and he presses it against his cheek, holding it there with his own, and however he looks back up at Hannibal is apparently enough to deter him from finishing his thought, which, Will decides, is a pretty remarkable feat.
Hannibal once more attempts to finish but has to first clear his throat.
“While I am a proponent of the notion that attraction is complex and exists on a wide spectrum” - and this is officially as close to rambling as Will has ever seen him - "I had assumed you were situated firmly at one particular end of it.”
And Will almost laughs again. He lets out a shaky breath, closes his eyes for a moment, revels in the way Hannibal's hand feels against the skin of his cheek, the way Hannibal's pulse beats against the pad of his thumb.
"Semantics," he murmurs. and when he opens his eyes again they seem closer still
“Will," Hannibal asserts quietly, eyes roaming his face.
But Will just lets his eyes close as he fastens Hannibal's hand more firmly against his cheek and allows himself the pleasure of nuzzling into it. When he looks up this time Hannibal’s lips have fallen open wider but still he scrutinizes Will's expression like it’s a riddle to be solved. Will can almost feel the wrestling match between doubt and hope raging in his mind.
“You'd really let labels define us now?” Will says. "After everything?"
Hannibal wets his lips before he continues “I’ve learned through experience that taking you at face value can be hazardous to my health." But his voice is pitched lower than it was. It stirs something in the pit of Will's stomach.
"Mm. Experience with you has proven similar."
Another approach.
“This doesn’t have to happen," And there's an edge to his voice now though Will isn't sure what's behind it. "Our relationship need not progress in this manner, not if you don't want it to. There's no obligation-" but Will reaches out and places a hand over Hannibal’s mouth, shutting him up, rolling long-suffering eyes up at him.
"Who said I don't want it to?" His hand lingers there for a moment before he remembers to take it away
His fingers tingle where they touched his lips.
"Now be quiet."
The way Hannibal looks at at him now, like he is something complicated and beautiful and unknowable - like Will is both the question and the answer, a mystery he could perhaps one day solve if he could just stare deep enough - it's as intoxicating as Hannibal's attentions have always been, but what lies beyond that layer of admiration is still hidden to him. Hannibal isn't taking what is being offered, devouring it with fastidious abandon as he does most things. And though his palm is soft on Will’s cheek, it hasn't moved. Will can detect tension still in his stance, and again the dichotomy strikes him, how it's neither that of a prey freezing nor a predator priming for attack, but something somehow equally as dangerous and vulnerable as both combined.
Will knows to his core that Hannibal would have taken the offering, years ago. He would have pushed and pulled strings, whispered poison, manipulated and seduced and done whatever he deemed necessary to ‘get' Will, if Will was what he desired.
Do you think you could change me, the way I’ve changed you?
“You’re resisting me,” Will murmurs and removes Hannibal’s hand from his face, keeping it between his own for good measure. “Why?”
Hannibal again, uncharacteristically, doesn’t immediately answer. Will narrows his eyes and brings their hands up to his neck now, wraps Hannibal’s fingers lightly around his throat.
“You want to be sure.” Will says, lowly, liking the way Hannibal’s eyes flutter as the vibrations travel down his fingers. He supposes that makes sense,
I already have.