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The panic arrived too quickly for Will to fight or even fully name.
One moment, he had been standing in Hannibal’s kitchen with both hands braced against the edge of the counter, trying to explain what had followed him home from the case. The next, the room had gone thin and distant around him.
Every sound sharpened.
The low simmer of something on the stove. The clock in the hall. Hannibal setting down a knife with deliberate care.
Will’s lungs seized around a breath that would not complete itself.
He bent forward, fingers curling hard against the marble. His thoughts were no longer thoughts so much as flashes—blood beneath fingernails, a woman’s final terror, the awful borrowed certainty of the man who had killed her. It crowded into him until he could no longer tell which fear belonged to whom.
“Will?”
Hannibal’s voice reached him, but only barely.
Will shook his head, though he wasn't completely sure what he was refusing.
A hand settled between his shoulder blades, warm and broad. It moved once, slowly, applying steady pressure.
“Come away from the counter.”
Will tried. His knees nearly folded beneath him.
Hannibal caught him before he struck the floor, turning him carefully and gathering him against his chest. Will heard himself make a broken sound. His hands fisted in Hannibal’s shirt without permission, holding on with the desperate strength of someone gripping the edge of a cliff.
“I can’t,” he gasped.
“You needn’t do anything alone.”
Hannibal lowered them together, sitting against the cabinets and drawing Will between his knees. One arm wrapped firmly around Will’s waist. The other came up to cradle the back of his head, shielding him from the kitchen, from the light, from everything beyond the small space Hannibal made around him.
Will could feel Hannibal’s pulse beneath his cheek.
Steady.
Infuriatingly steady.
He tried to follow it, but his own heart battered over the rhythm, drowning it out.
Hannibal pressed his lips to Will’s temple.
“Feed," he urged softly.
Will recoiled at the word, though he had nowhere to go. “No.”
It emerged too sharply, tainted by fear.
Hannibal did not release him.
“You are overwhelmed by emotions that are not your own,” he murmured. “My blood will help you separate them.”
Will shook his head again. The movement dragged his face roughly against Hannibal’s collar. “I can’t—I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“I do.”
There was no impatience in it, no dismissal. Only certainty.
Hannibal adjusted his hold and began unfastening the top buttons of his shirt with one hand. Will watched without understanding, his vision blurring at the edges.
“Hannibal,” he whimpered, his name catching on the edge of a plea.
“I'm here,” Hannibal assured him, his voice low and tender.
The shirt opened at the throat, exposing the pale line of Hannibal’s neck. He tipped his head slightly, offering the place where his pulse moved calm and strong beneath the skin.
Will stared at it.
Hunger stirred faintly beneath the panic, but even that frightened him. His teeth ached. His mouth filled. He turned his face away, ashamed of the instinct when he could barely control his hands.
Hannibal cupped his jaw.
“Dear one,” he said, so softly that the word seemed to settle over Will rather than strike him. “You are not dangerous to me.”
Will’s breath hitched.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You will not.”
“You don’t know that.”
Hannibal’s thumb passed over his cheekbone, catching moisture Will had not realized was there.
“I know you.”
Will closed his eyes. The room tilted.
Hannibal drew him closer, guiding Will’s face into the curve of his neck and held him there, one hand supporting the base of his skull, the other spread over his ribs as though he could contain the violent fluttering beneath them.
“Open your mouth,” Hannibal whispered.
Will shuddered.
“Hannibal—" he tried, "I’m scared...”
“Shh, I know.” The answer was warm against his hair. “Let me give you something else to feel.”
Will’s lips parted on a trembling breath.
Hannibal pressed closer.
The scent of him filled Will’s senses—cedar, clean linen, skin, and beneath it the dark living richness of blood. His fangs descended painfully, driven by need and fear together.
He whimpered and tried to pull back, but Hannibal held him more firmly.
“Gently,” he soothed. “That’s all. I have you.”
Will’s teeth grazed the skin.
The contact sent another frightened tremor through him.
Hannibal stroked the back of his head, again and again, never changing the rhythm.
“Take what you need.”
Will bit.
Hannibal inhaled softly, his body tightening for only an instant before relaxing around him with deliberate intent.
Blood touched Will’s tongue. The effect was immediate.
No silence, nor even emptiness.
Only Hannibal.
His composure poured through Will in a slow, enveloping wave. It carried the weight of Hannibal’s attention, the disciplined cadence of his breathing, the absolute conviction that Will was safe in his arms.
Will made a sound against his throat, small and wounded.
Relief followed so closely behind it that his body did not know how to bear the change.
He drank again.
Calm spread through his chest, pressing outward against the panic. It did not erase the fear so much as surround it, giving it boundaries. The dead woman’s terror receded. The killer’s rage loosened its grip. Will could feel where those emotions ended now.
And beneath them, waiting for him, was Hannibal’s steadiness.
Will whimpered once more, but the sound softened midway through.
“Yes,” Hannibal murmured. “There you are. Let it pass through you.”
His hand moved down Will’s spine.
Will drank in shallow pulls, no longer desperate. Each swallow deepened the quiet inside him. His heartbeat stumbled, then slowed. His fists gradually loosened in Hannibal’s shirt.
The strength left his body all at once.
Hannibal was ready for it.
He gathered Will closer as he sagged, supporting his full weight without shifting the bite. Will melted against him, knees drawing inward, cheek pressed flush to Hannibal’s neck. The panic drained away in trembling aftershocks.
Hannibal continued to hold him.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “You may rest now.”
Will’s mouth released him reluctantly.
For a moment, he remained with his lips pressed over the marks, breathing against the damp skin. His fangs withdrew. His forehead settled onto Hannibal’s shoulder.
The kitchen had returned around them.
The simmering pot. The clock. Hannibal’s hand beneath his hair.
None of it hurt anymore.
Will swallowed and tasted the last trace of blood.
“I could feel you,” he said faintly.
Hannibal turned his face into Will’s curls.
“That was my intention.”
“You were making yourself calm.”
“I was emphasizing what was already there.”
Will’s eyes burned. He tucked himself closer, too exhausted to conceal the movement.
Hannibal’s arms tightened around him.
“And now?” Hannibal asked.
Will listened inward.
There were still echoes. There would always be echoes.
But they were distant now, and Hannibal’s calm remained inside him like warmth held beneath the ribs.
“Now I can tell which one is me.”
Hannibal kissed his temple again.
He kept Will cradled on the kitchen floor until the final tremor left his hands.
Will remained tucked against his neck, breathing softly over the bite. After a moment, his tongue passed carefully across the marks.
Hannibal’s hand stilled in his hair.
Will did it again, a slow, tentative stroke meant to soothe the hurt he had caused. His mouth lingered afterward, warm and apologetic against Hannibal’s skin.
“You needn’t tend to me,” Hannibal murmured.
Will’s fingers tightened faintly in his shirt.
“I hurt you,” Will protested tiredly.
“Mm, only at my request.”
“It still hurt.”
“Only briefly.”
Will frowned against him, unconvinced, and ran his tongue over the wound once more.
Hannibal allowed it.
The blood sharing had left Will pliant in his arms, all the rigid panic gone from him. He seemed almost surprised by the weight of his own body now that fear was no longer holding it upright. His cheek slid lower against Hannibal’s shoulder.
Hannibal adjusted him without complaint, drawing Will more securely across his chest.
“Better?” he asked.
Will nodded. The answer was small, delayed. “It’s quiet.”
Hannibal pressed his mouth to Will’s hair.
Will breathed him in and sagged further, his hand loosening at last. Hannibal continued stroking the back of his neck, letting the calm inside him remain open and easy for Will to absorb.
“I can still feel you,” Will whispered.
“Good. Just keep hold of me, dear one. You’re safe with me.”
Will’s eyes slipped closed as the absurdity of the statement passed over him. His human, so fragile, so susceptible to wear and injury, promising he was safe. And yet, beyond the absurdity was a certainty that there was nowhere in the world that felt safer.
His lips settled gently over the bite, no longer trying to mend it, only resting there as Hannibal held him.