Work Text:
“You’ve been rather introspective since you arrived, Will. Is there perhaps something on your mind which might be better worked out verbally?”
The question pulls Will’s attention from the bookcase he’d placed himself before, staring but unseeing. “You seemed content to keep on with your sketching,” he rebounds after a moment, sparing a glance over his shoulder to the doctor seated at his desk. “I’m in no rush to hurry you along.”
“This time is meant to focus on what you need, Will, not me,” comes the expected reply. The soft tap of a pencil placed upon wood and the susurrus of Hannibal’s chair rolling across the floor breaks the resulting silence. “If what you need is simply a safe place to process your thoughts and feelings, even internally, I’m happy to provide that for you. But you should know you always have a friendly ear as well.”
The reminder sounds so earnest that, for a moment, Will almost feels guilty. And then he recalls exactly what he’s brooding over, and his stomach gives an unpleasant twist. “I wonder sometimes if I dare give voice to some of my more visceral thoughts. They may be enough to shake even you, with all your professional experience.” Will turns his focus back to the books before him for a moment and then, hearing Hannibal approaching, even in his roundabout fashion, retreats to the other side of the room, toward the ladder to the mezzanine.
“If you feel uncomfortable confiding in me on a professional level, perhaps consider doing so on a personal one instead.” Impossibly, he’s at the ladder as soon as Will reaches it, his own arm stretching out to grip the far side rail and effectively stopping Will in his path as his hands reach for the rungs. “I’m your friend, Will. I should hope you wouldn’t assume I’d abandon you so easily.”
Will sucks in a deep breath and forces his gaze from the houndstooth clad arm barring him his escape, to its owner beside him. Hannibal’s amber gaze is both entreating and penetrating, and Will heaves a sigh before glancing away. Direct eye contact is definitely not ideal for the words itching to spill off his tongue.
“The Ripper is courting someone,” he divulges, backing away from the ladder to pace aimlessly in the open space of the office. “It was about time for him to come out of whatever stasis he normally falls into anyways, but there’s something else about this new sounder. It’s not just for him anymore. There’s someone -- directly or indirectly, I don’t know -- that’s guiding his hand. And it’s --”
Will swallows around the thick lump that’s formed in his throat at the memory. A man prostrated before another, his own heart offered in outstretched hands. The utter care taken in every detail, the placement of every errant blossom. He imagines even the lighting was considered, the tableau staged on a walking trail that consistently sees a high volume of traffic at the breaking of dawn.
“If the Ripper has begun to kill for another rather than himself, the individual targeted must be very special indeed. They may even be in danger.”
It’s a logical assumption, one which Will himself had come to almost immediately. But that’s not the reason his eyes sting with unshed tears as he recalls the most recent display. “You don’t know what you’re asking for when you coax me into voicing the things I’m thinking,” Will murmurs. “I can’t bear to hear them aloud myself. Why would you be any different?”
“We are always, when it comes down to it, our own harshest critics,” Hannibal assures him placidly, and Will can’t stop the watery laugh that bursts forth as he glances over to the psychiatrist, still stood at the base of the ladder like a Sphynx barring entry should he attempt to escape again.
“It’s not the safety of the target that concerns me,” Will bites out, almost spitefully attempting to make Hannibal eat his own words. Because Will is going to say it, he’s actually going to say it to another person, and then Hannibal will never view him the same way again. The doctor can stop blindly seeking an ill-advised friendship and they can stop these meetings and Will can just go back to his life like normal.
“I’m more concerned the one he’s after isn’t me.” The words leave him on a stilted breath, more painful to give voice to than he even anticipated. The preemptive grief that rips through him at the thought fills him with another bout of restless energy, and Will begins his pacing once more. “I’ve sought him out for so long. Studied what I saw and felt, extrapolated what I could, and I’m no closer to finding him now than when the first body dropped all those years ago.”
“Catching him.”
Will pauses in his agitated movements, turning his attention back to Hannibal with a distracted, inquisitive grunt.
“You said you’re no closer to finding him. What you meant was that you’re no closer to catching him.”
Will could agree, admit to the slip and move on. He decides instead to challenge the assumption. Telling the truth feels good, he finds, even if it might lose him a friend in the end. He holds Hannibal’s gaze, veins flooded and pulsing with an excess of adrenaline and his heart thumping wildly against his chest, but his voice is clear and steady when he replies, “I said what I said.”
Hannibal, to his credit, doesn’t outwardly balk at the proclamation. Instead, he holds Will’s gaze, his own placid and calculating. After several beats of heavy silence, his head tips slightly to the side in consideration and he dissects Will’s words, “If the Ripper is to court someone, you wish that someone to be you.”
The observation is spot on and Will can’t detect any judgement in Hannibal’s tone or person, so he swallows down the panic that had begun to crawl up his throat in the stillness before the words were voiced and gives one sharp nod. “I’m the only one worthy of such an honor.”
“Honor,” Hannibal repeats softly, his head ticking to tilt slightly in the opposite direction. “Most people would consider such a concept a horror.”
“Most people aren’t me,” Will reminds him. He can feel his lips twitching into a smile and wonders if he appears as crazed as he feels in the moment.
“No,” the doctor agrees in a thoughtful murmur. “They most decidedly are not.”
Doubt seizes him belatedly, his stomach sinking as he recalls exactly to whom he’s baring his twisted soul. “Will you tell Jack?”
Hannibal is very still as Will stares at him, his only movement the slow blinking of his eyes. “Tell Jack what?”
Will offers him a feeble smile at that and turns his attention back out the office window. Silence reigns until the end of their hour.
---
The one thing they can’t teach you in forensics is how to prepare for the smell. All the coursework, the textbooks, the hours of lectures; none of it comes close to properly describing what an active crime scene smells like.
This is the third kill in the Ripper’s sounder, what would traditionally be his last. But before Will even finishes processing the scene he knows it won’t be. The entire area is full to the brim with flowers, nearly all of them poisonous. He takes special note of the Sweet Williams, the painful throb of his heart beating against the cage of his chest would be enough to give him away if anyone else could feel it; his bitter, fierce spark of hope that he’s been right and the Ripper is trying to make contact with someone -- with him.
Even with all the flowers the stench of death and decay is nearly overpowering, but Will stands his ground and looks. Two men -- Lovers -- hands clasped together as they gaze up at the stars spilling across the oil-slick black of the night sky. If Will didn’t know he was looking at a murder scene he’d almost think the men were simply reposed, comfortably enraptured with one another and their shared task. As it stands, he can see the way their rib cages are spread open, organs removed to hollow out the space for the flowers spilling over them.
In the hand of the man on the left, a man with riotous curls and eyes clouded with death, is a sprig of honeysuckle. The man on the right, slightly older but no less beautiful than his lover, holds a Tarot card in his palm. Will steps close enough to see the Three of Cups displayed, mind racing to put together all the pieces floating in his brain.
The first murder scene had been the Hierophant. A cop who’d played by the rules his entire career until a criminal nearly got away and he decided to cheat the system to ensure the man was brought to justice. The moment he’d taken justice into his own hands he’d become something other, a creature of neither the wicked or the saintly world. But in that process he’d also gained insight, achieving a higher level of education before his life had been snuffed out. He’d offered his heart in supplication to a well known local judge, the judge’s eyes skillfully removed and found in his stomach -- justice is both blind and well fed -- and Will had assumed it was a courting call as much as it was a representation of the cop’s disgust with himself.
See. Learn. Know.
The second tableaux had been the Magician. A younger woman who’d been far more world worn than any twenty year old should have to be. Will had seen her file and her story was sadly common; a boyfriend who thought he knew what was best and felt the only way to show her his love was through violence. She’d killed him -- a claimed accident -- and had been awaiting trial for the deed, awaiting the judgement of the very judge who’d been present in the first murder scene. He remembered her pale white skin almost glittering against the backdrop of a Christmas snow, the sounds of carolers they’d walked past before arriving on the scene. The blood splashed like rubies on the frost.
Grow. Evolve. Become.
Will had known when he’d seen the first scene and the Hierophant card folded up inside the cop’s mouth that the Ripper was trying to court someone, trying to make a connection. Trying to speak through the only route available to him; through his art. After the second scene he’d started to put together the details laid out to him, started to wonder.
With this final design he was nearly certain he was the someone in question. If not him, who? Will could see the details everyone else overlooked. Could read between the lines of the script being written and performed on the Ripper’s usually solitary stage.
The Lovers card and the honeysuckle told him everything he needed to know about where he’d find the true final tableau of this sounder. The Three of Cups and the steady, consistent spacing of the three murders -- each three days apart -- told him when.
“Anything, Will? This’ll be our last chance to catch him for who knows how long this time.” Jack’s voice holds a thread of desperation, chaffing and heavy against Will’s empathy. He knows how to help him, knows how to end this all. But he also knows he won’t.
He could tell Jack here. Now. End the reign of terror of one of the most notorious serial killers of this century. He could potentially save a life -- dozens of lives -- could aid Jack in catching the Ripper and putting him in a small padded cell; or more likely put him in a pinewood box buried so deep no one would ever find it again.
The Ripper has all but given Will a map with a big red X marking exactly where he’ll be and when and Will could share it. He could. But he won’t. The very concept of showing anyone else, of sharing the Ripper with anyone else makes his lips curl back in an aborted snarl.
Thankfully, Jack is accustomed to Will’s idiocracies and assumes the gesture is one of disgust at the scene before him. That’s for the best. It’s better if Jack remains innocent in all of this. Will’s hands might be stained but there’s no reason to rub it off on anyone else.
“The scene will be as immaculate as all of them are, Jack. I know you think I see things where nothing exists, but that’s not how it works. I only see the evidence laid out in a pattern, it’s not magic, I can’t pull something out of nothing.” It isn’t a lie, not really, but it is an omission. He can see plenty, could say plenty.
Hours later, when they’ve finished their preliminary review of the scene and everyone’s preparing to go back home for the night he catches Jack’s eye from across the car, the two of them sharing a silent camaraderie at all the things they’ve seen. Will lets that silence stretch on for the half hour drive back to his own car.
---
Before he’s even reached the clearing, Will is certain he has the correct time and place. There’s a stillness surrounding him which is eerie even for the woods in the dead of night, and a thick sort of anticipation has been building steadily in his gut since he left his car half a mile ago.
And then, a break in the trees, the light of a nearly full moon cascading into what, at first glance, appears to be an empty clearing. Will’s eyes scan the area and, suddenly, he is face to face with the Ripper’s latest display, a sight unseen by any living being other than the creator himself.
It’s beautiful is all Will can think for so long he feels frozen in time by more than just the winter chill clinging to the air. Out of nothing, all that is was made. With nothing more than a thought I could have that too; a new beginning. The message is clear, Will has the power to create or destroy; such a fine line between entropy and negentropy, chaos and order.
Will has worked his entire life to retain some semblance of order in his life, a grey sort of morality and a desire to turn a blind eye to the darkness swirling inside of him. That darkness had only been growing of late, now that his innermost thoughts were sharing space with a presence such as the Ripper.
He steps closer, not close enough to contaminate the crime scene when it’s ultimately found -- though not by his report -- and he looks.
The man has a striking resemblance to Will, much like the previous scene. He can’t deny any longer that this is for him. This man’s life was snuffed out to be offered as a gift to Will, and Will finds what once would have been a troubling lack of care for this stranger and the path his life took. Just so Will would see. So he would know the Ripper.
Even without being able to see the Tarot Card, he knows the image well; that of the Fool. The man is posed in the traditional style of the card, a wooden staff thrown almost carelessly over one shoulder and gripped in his hand with the rigidity of death. One of his feet is even lifted slightly off the ground, as though posed to take his first step into a new world. There are flowers here too, purple and pink hydrangeas, bright yellow daffodils, snow white gardenias and blood red tulips. All flowers that represent clarity, new beginnings, love and a deeper understanding.
Will knows he’s not alone, just as certainly as he knew where he was going, though his company is announced not by any sort of sound, but by a sheer presence behind him.
“It’s beautiful,” he announces, his voice a tight rasp over the emotion swelling in his throat. And it’s so indescribably not enough, but it’s all he can offer. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
The Ripper settles behind him, so close he can feel the warmth of the other man radiating through the chill of the crisp autumn night. Will fights the urge to lean back into that warmth, unwilling to risk offending the killer by taking unwarranted liberties. Even so, every inch of him sings with the proximity, the anticipation that had coiled tightly in his gut warming and expanding until he feels as though every last one of his nerves is tingling with a need he can’t quite identify.
“I’m the one, right? The person you were reaching for,” Will asks, a sudden wave of doubt flooding his chest and sending his heart rabbiting against his ribcage. “Was I right in coming here?” An apology is perched on the tip of his tongue but it would be a falsehood and he doesn’t want anything else between them, no more lies. No more missed moments to know and be known.
The answer he receives isn’t verbal. A hand settles gently on his left hip, tender but firm, and a pair of lips dip closer to ghost down the column of Will’s neck before placing a soft, wet kiss to where his pulse thumps wildly through his carotid artery. Will’s body momentarily stiffens in surprise before relaxing entirely into the touch, his cock giving a twitch at the intimate caress.
“I’ve been looking for you for a long time,” Will admits on a shaky breath. The Ripper tightens his hand on Will’s hip and places another kiss to his neck, as if in agreement. “For years I’ve seen you without knowing you, like a ghost in the mirror; a shape there, but unrecognizable. To be here with you now…”
The hand at his hip slides across his abdomen, the connected arm curling around him and pulling Will back firmly against him. His other hand reaches up, and Will shivers as it delicately covers his eyes. The Ripper has removed any gloves he’d likely worn setting up his display, and his skin is warm against Will’s chilled face. His breath stutters with the gesture, swallowing back his disappointment even as he gives his head a short nod.
“Oh. Okay. I won’t look. I promise.”
His eyes had flickered closed as the Ripper’s hand surrounded them, and they remain so when the hand is slowly removed. It strokes tenderly down his cheek and along his jaw, making Will ache with want, and then settles against his chin before guiding Will’s face to twist toward his shoulder. He keeps his eyes squeezed closed tightly, but can’t contain the moan that pours forward when his lips meet those of the Ripper’s.
The joining is soft, seeking, an almost innocent press of lips for the span of a breath before a hot tongue joins the mix to slip inside Will’s mouth, searching. Will’s cock fills against his thigh as own tongue twists with the Ripper’s, and he can’t stop his body from rocking back to press closer, desperate for more --
The kiss ends abruptly, the Ripper pulling back and tilting Will’s face away until his neck is exposed once more. He places another wet kiss to Will’s pulse and begins to pull away entirely. Will can’t contain the whine that bursts forth at the feeling of being abandoned, but retains the presence of mind to keep his eyes closed, resists turning around.
“Please don’t,” he chokes out as the Ripper’s arm unwinds from his midsection. “Please don’t go. I don’t...I don’t want to be alone.”
The Ripper’s movements pause, his body falling into stasis for a moment before he presses forward once more. He tilts his head to rest his forehead against Will’s shoulder for a moment before pulling back to place a tender kiss to the nape of his neck. The response is clear to Will, even without speech or sight.
You won’t be.
Will stays still, eyes stubbornly closed as the Ripper departs. It’s minutes before he dares to open them again, the Ripper long gone. He stares at the display left for him for far longer than is wise, etching every piece into his eyelids to cherish before he himself finally retreats, only daring to leave once he’s seen the first tendrils of early morning light spill across the canvas he’s been gifted.
---
The door is unlocked when he arrives, but Will is certain he’d have forced his way in regardless if that hadn’t been the case. A frantic energy has been building in his core since the early hours of the morning, the rapturous, floating warmth that had first filled him settling over him like a blanket. He had returned to Wolf Trap with new eyes and a renewed sense of purpose, and had drifted back to the tableau mere hours later in a blissful daze, hardly registering the commotion of the agents working around him as he laid eyes upon his gift once more. This time he hadn’t left it until the fading light of a winter dusk had started to recede, throwing the tableau into sharp, shadowed relief.
But his nerves have begun to fray as the day has worn on, an ache settling in his core, deep and persistent, to reach out again, to be near. Perhaps, next time, to see even more, to know. It’s only when he enters the familiarity of the dimly lit office that some semblance of comfort returns to him, and he feels as though he can begin to contain the ravenous hunger that’s been spilling out of him all day. Moreso, when his eyes immediately seek and find the only other person he’s allowed himself to find comfort in.
“You’re here late.”
Hannibal scarcely glances up at Will even as he enters the privacy of his office unannounced and uninvited, his gaze trained on the paper below him as his hand continues to twitch across it with gentle, purposeful strokes. “There was a drawing I wished to finish,” Hannibal explains; his hand stills, eyes narrowing in consideration for a moment before altering the angle of his wrist and continuing on. “You found me here late,” he tacks on after a moment, though doesn’t sound disgruntled in the least by it.
“You weren’t at home,” Will informs him, as though this is potentially news to the other man. He can still feel the weight of disappointment that had sunk through his gut like lead at the discovery, rolling up to a darkened house, absent the one occupant that gave it light and life. That disappointment has been flooded and drowned with a different emotion now. It’s relief, he realizes belatedly; that he was correct in his assumption Hannibal would be here instead. Relief and the beginnings of comfort that he hadn’t even known he was seeking when he slipped into his car and away from Wolf Trap in the late hours of the evening.
He’d half expected Hannibal’s house to be blazing and open, too many guests that claimed friendship with their host spilling out of it, ringing in the new year. Will hadn’t even remembered what day it was until he was sat in front of Hannibal’s surprisingly empty house.
“Is everything alright, Will?” Hannibal’s soft question, laced with concern and something else Will can’t quite identify, brings him back to this room, this moment, this man, and the reason he’d felt compelled to seek him out.
“We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“I like to think so.”
“Like, actually friends. You’re not just...a really good therapist,” Will elaborates. Because wouldn’t that be so typical, for him to have hopefully and helplessly fallen for the lofty idea that there was a true connection between them, when all the while the man opposite him was merely doing his job.
Hannibal’s hand pauses once more, his eyes lifting to Will. They shine with vague amusement and something else...something...fond. “I’m not in the habit of inviting my patients to my home for dinner. Nor do I appreciate them turning up unannounced on my doorstep.” A flicker of a smile then and, yes, that is fondness that twitches at the edges of his lips. Will wonders if soon it will disappear, never grace his mouth again when he looks upon the man he once considered a friend. If thinly-veiled, or worse yet, open disgust will take its place.
“I’ve never really had a friend before.” Will huffs a sardonic breath and rubs his hands over flaming cheeks. “That sounds pathetic. But growing up moving around the way I did and...being the way that I am… I never really had a person that I could share everything with. My dreams and fears… My secrets.”
Silence blooms between them for a moment, and then, “Do you have a secret to share, Will?” He can hear the curiosity in Hannibal’s tone. Although the question is almost low, melodic, tempting the truth from him, it doesn’t feel as though the psychiatrist is solely interested in gossip.
“I met him,” Will punches the words out on a single breath, terrified to speak them out loud but no longer able to keep them pinned and fluttering within his chest.
One more beat of silence, and then, “Am I correct in inferring you’re speaking of --”
“The Chesapeake Ripper, yeah,” Will confirms on another shaky breath. Why does it almost feel wrong to speak his name in the presence of another, even just a moniker that could never fully encapsulate the entirety of the monster it marks?
“It must be a rare occurrence indeed, to become acquainted with such a man and live to tell the tale.”
“He wasn’t interested in killing me. I don’t know how I know I could just… I knew it in my bones. He just wanted me to see.” Will takes a halting step forward, doesn’t miss the way Hannibal’s arm twitches and shifts to protect the paper below it from seeking eyes.
“Jack had informed me that a fourth tableau had been found, but I’ve yet to see the fruits of our killer’s labors.” Our killer. For one brief, mad moment, Will wants to rip that word from Hannibal’s tongue. “Tell me, Will, what did you see?”
“It was beautiful.” Will has admitted thinking as much to Hannibal before, but heat flames in his cheeks once more and he turns away self-consciously, scrubbing at his face as the truth pours from him. He slinks back over to the window in the corner, taking solace in the privacy of the shadows birthed by pale moonlight filtering through the gauzy curtains. The street below is dark, and Will can’t help but notice how he finds comfort in that endless dark where once he found terror. “All the more because it was for me. He was so close, and when he touched me I finally felt…”
Whole. Meaningful. Wanted.
“Stable. And from the moment he pulled away from me I’ve felt as though I’ve been drifting aimlessly, unable to keep my bearings. I’m almost frantic with the need to reach out to him. To make sure he knows --”
“Knows what, Will?” At some point Hannibal had silently abandoned his desk, the words reaching Will far closer than he anticipated. Will stiffens with the discovery, but tries to remain calm. It’s a good thing that his friend is moving toward him, rather than away in disgust, isn’t it? Well, there’s still time.
“How much I appreciated what he did for me. How much it meant to earn his trust, even for a fleeting moment. To be granted the ability to see…”
Hannibal settles just behind him, his presence one of warmth and comfort, and in the heavy silence that enfolds them, all Will needs to do is close his eyes and transport himself back to that little clearing in the dead of night, and it almost feels right, he can almost pretend…
“I’m...considering doing something ill-advised.” He speaks the words without making the conscious effort to do so. Behind him, it sounds as though Hannibal’s deep, even breaths hitch for just a moment.
“You would take a life and leave a tableau of your own, just to show the Ripper your gratitude,” Hannibal surmises, voice low and husky. Curious, that it sounds more like an invitation than an accusation.
“My gratitude,” Will agrees, his own breath hitching as a warm hand settles over the curve of his left hip. The fingers fit the curve of it as though the Ripper’s own hand had left a mold where they’d branded him. “My love,” he elaborates, his throat tight as Hannibal’s other hand moves to rest gently over Will’s eyes.
Heat blazes against his back, then, as Hannibal presses closer still, and Will’s pulse is pounding just as wildly as the first time when soft lips dip to place a featherlight kiss there before dragging up to rest against Will’s ear. “And should he make it known that your feelings are requited?”
“God,” Will breathes a huff of laughter, scarcely able to fill his burning lungs. His whole body feels as though it’s vibrating, every nerve singing, and he just wants to melt back into the man behind him. “Jesus, I’m so stupid.”
Everything locks into place in a solitary moment, and Will can’t believe he didn’t see it before. Down the road, a clock tower begins to strike the hour with deep, clanging chimes. Will imagines he can feel each beat in the pit of his stomach, vibrating out through the rest of him with every strike. Is that why he’s trembling? How close is that clock?
Bing. Bing. Bing. Bing.
“Not stupid,” Hannibal murmurs, brushing his lips along the shell of Will’s ear before nuzzling into the messy curls behind it. “Never stupid. Merely blind. And in your defense, I worked very hard to keep you that way.” Despite his words, the hand covering Will’s eyes slips away, stroking tenderly across his cheek and along his jaw. It settles there, the pad of his thumb skating lightly over Will’s lips.
Bing. Bing. Bing. Bing.
“Until you were ready for me not to be,” Will murmurs, his lips brushing against the digit with each word, and he can’t even be upset by it. In that moment, his chaotic mind is flickering through every interaction with the doctor they’ve had since they met -- every glance and touch, every conversation and the inflection of each word spoken and, more importantly, unspoken -- in a new light.
Bing. Bing.
“Until we both were,” Hannibal amends softly, the hand at his jaw applying gentle but persistent force. Will’s head turns with it, helpless to resist and having no interest in trying. “But you’re ready now, aren’t you, Will?”
Bing. Bing.
Will’s response is merely a soft whine of agreement which Hannibal swallows as soon as their lips meet. Unlike their joining that very same morning, Will gives in to the impulse to turn around immediately. Hannibal doesn’t attempt to halt his movements, but welcomes him by deepening the kiss, twisting the arm at his waist around his lower back to pull him closer and slipping the one at his jaw to twist through his curls.
Will’s own hands scrabble between them, first clutching and then tugging at Hannibal’s lapels, gripping his shoulders, twining around his neck. Each time their lips part for air, Will presses all the closer, desperate to stay near, to absorb the monster before him and be absorbed in turn. “Take me home,” Will requests in a breathless rasp when Hannibal takes another moment for air and rests their foreheads together.
“Let me just see to the fire,” he agrees, his own voice just as husky. Until that moment, Will was so lost in the bliss of finally knowing the man he’s sought for so long that he doesn’t even realize how hard he’s grown until the sound of Hannibal’s voice sends his cock twitching to life once more.
Hannibal pulls away finally to complete his task, albeit reluctantly, and Will can’t stop himself from immediately trailing after him, as though any amount of space between them now is insufferable. He makes it as far as the desk placed proudly near the center of the room, his eyes drawn to the work in progress still sitting atop it.
Will’s own visage stares back at him, but he doesn’t recognize the expression on his counterpart’s face. He looks beautiful, curls windswept and eyes shining. His lips are parted in what appears to be a breathless gasp, and his entire countenance expresses blissful awe and adoration. The Will standing in the Chesapeake Ripper’s office can’t see what the Will in the drawing is gazing at, but he can guess.
He shudders when Hannibal’s arms wrap around him from behind, leaning back into the warmth as Hannibal hooks his chin over Will’s shoulder. It feels as easy as breathing, so natural already to connect with him in this way. “The experience of witnessing you view my creation with fresh eyes will stay with me all my life. I’d be remiss if I didn’t attempt to capture it.”
“This is how you saw me?” The words feel tight, squeezed out over some unnameable emotion that thickens and swells in Will’s throat.
Hannibal’s lips press gently to his throat and pause there, twist and shape against his skin as though the murmured words must be spoken directly into him. “It’s how I’ve always seen you.”
That unnameable emotion slides down Will’s throat to expand in his chest, makes his lungs hitch with his next breath; warmth blossoms deep in his belly, a giddy excitement for the start of something new fluttering to life inside him even as his body feels leaden with the heavy comfort of that which is familiar and safe. He could live a thousand lives with this man, he realizes, and never get enough of this feeling.
He hopes Hannibal feels the same. Knows innately, somehow, that he does.
They exit the office to the dead of night, a world silent and fresh and theirs before them. It had begun to snow in the time that Will had arrived, thick clumps of ice rushing down to land gently, already blanketing the ground and muting what little signs of late city life still erupted in the distance. He’d be concerned for the pace of the snowfall if he wasn’t already certain he wasn’t going to be travelling more than a ten minute drive for the rest of the evening. He’ll have to call his neighbor when he gets to Hannibal’s, make sure she can head over to feed the pack in the morning and let them romp in the fresh snow for a bit.
He doesn’t realize he’s been frozen in place, taking in the scene around, until Hannibal’s hand slips into his own at his side; warm and strong, fingers twining with his own and clutching to him with all the confidence of one who handles something that is their own.
“A new year has arrived,” Will murmurs, words puffing out before him in a burst of white mist before being swept away into the night.
“As they inevitably do,” Hannibal agrees.
Will gives the fingers tangled with Hannibal’s a twitch, tossing a glance to the man beside him. Heat flares in his cheeks when he meets amber eyes, the winter cold no match for the warmth, the desire, the achingly present contentment that pulses through him; multiplies and swells and threatens to burst from him at every seam. He can’t stop the smile that twists his lips when he looks at Hannibal now. Doesn’t want to.
“I think it’s going to be a good one.”
Hannibal’s own lips twitch and twist as well, form a soft smile -- something rare and genuine and his -- that Will can hardly recall ever seeing there before. Hannibal gives their hands a tug until Will is pulled through the short distance between them and dips his head to press a soft kiss to Will’s lips. “I think so as well.”