magnolia in the winter

by antiheroblake

Summary:

guilt eats away at him, lust makes him sick, but it’s his tender desires that truly frighten him.

will graham can’t shake hannibal lecter, and he’s come to accept that the young psychiatrist has no intention of freeing him from this torment.

Before he sees the crime scene, he sees the cream suit of Doctor Hannibal Lecter, brightened by the late Winter sun, a shining vibrancy against the browns and yellows of a Southern Winter, a misgrown, gorgeous, but hardy flower. His hands are folded behind his back, the golden ring on his pinkie finger glints, and his dirty blonde hair is tucked behind his ears from where the wind has pulled strands awry despite his meticulous styling. He turns, smelling Will in the cold air.

Saliva fills Will’s mouth when their eyes connect, a once peculiar pain lurches through his entire body as a shiver.

25, petulant, and intelligent beyond his years, Hannibal is the sort of creature that burrows into the pulpy parts of a man and leaves a permanent depression. Will swallows, his tongue light. He can’t shake this kid. The previous four cases have all included him, and he’s been called in again to assist Will. A lost, imprinted puppy parading at his heel. They’re partners, it’s on their paperwork, people refer to them as such, but he’s ignored it. He assumed he would go away, that someone would say he’s too young or too much or anything but a perfect fit, but he isn’t so lucky. He shows up at random at Quantico to pester Will. Inviting him to dinner—he’s never agreed—bringing him lunch—he’s accepted every time. He brings his dogs homemade sausage. Sometimes he sits in during Will’s lectures at the Academy, he doesn’t know how he has the clearance, but he struggles to feel a proper amount of anger toward him in regards to the intrusion. Hannibal engages with the material with such genuine curiosity that it puts his students to shame.

“I would like to see where I can improve, I understand the FBI and I do not profile the same,” he said the first time Will caught him in his class.

He made him stand in front of his desk while he reviewed the pictures from the lesson. An old case, as old as Will. Six dead, no leads. They stopped killing that way when the FBI got involved. Their involvement was sloppy, and that’s the point of his lesson every school term. The FBI is fallible, they are fallible.

Hannibal gripped his fine leather satchel, earnestness blazed in his maroon eyes. He wanted so badly to impress him; nausea swept through Will, a current he could not escape. The first of its kind.

His jaw twitched. His voice wanted to shake, he felt the way his throat tightened and loosened, but he didn’t allow it. If Will gave him any indication that he affected him, Hannibal would only be emboldened.

Will cleared his throat. “I think they call you in because you don’t think like a government agency, Doctor. Coming to my lectures will taint your unique perspective.”

But that hasn’t stopped him from coming in once a week when his schedule permits, and Will has stopped trying to shoo him away. On the occasion he’s attended Will’s classes and work is assigned, he completes it, just like any other student. The only difference is he emails Will rather than turns in paper copies. (Jack Crawford thinks this is good. Hannibal stays objective, but he learns his deficits from the lack of forensics education. Will isn’t so sure, but his work is phenomenal. Articulate, researched, resolute. He hates to say he’s proud of him, and he’d never confess it to Hannibal, but pride swells in his chest every time he grades his work.)

“Hello, Will!” he greets so brightly Will has to recoil. The speckling of older police of this tiny South Carolina town side eye them, their judgment is a hazy cloud but what they’re judging them for, he isn’t sure. The younger police, however, look at Will with suspicion. Great, he thinks, Hannibal has already made an impression. “I considered that I might have to get you from the airport. I’ve waited well over an hour. I thought it best we see the bodies together.”

The edges of his body warm under Hannibal’s singular attention. An uncertain indignity cools his middle. A nervous sweat moistens his neck. He’s going to be sick.

“I didn’t know they were bringing you out today,” he says glibly.

Traffic from the city to these little towns is atrocious, and the car supplied by the FBI isn’t the fastest piece of machinery. It has a governor, and he can only assume the FBI is unaware of this fact, his phone GPS kept rerouting due to new road construction, and there were some 75 cars backed up at a red light that headed out of the city, most of which were turning to one of the islands, and he could not go around them to head straight for some time.

“I flew in two hours before you, Jack picked me up. He and his associates seem to believe we make a good team.” He’s still beaming, the apples of his cheeks are so round, youthful with that dusting of pink the cold January wind has given them. Will’s gut clenches. “I have to agree.”

He averts his gaze. The stirring has started already. Of course, it always does when Hannibal is brought on these cases, but it usually takes a few days of close contact. Acceleration is not a good sign in his desire to be unaffected by him. This unease that Will knows is attraction, a sick and wrong thing he must have inherited from his father the same way he inherited a predisposition to alcoholism, settles like a stone in his belly. There’s almost 20 years between them and every time he’s reminded of that fact, whether by some reference one makes the other doesn’t understand, or the general youthful glow of Hannibal’s face compared to the hard lines of his own, a visceral self-hatred blooms in his hollows that can only be squashed with distance and a few fingers of whiskey.

(Unlike his father, and he tries to remind himself of this often, he is strong enough to deny this attraction. All consuming as it may be.)

Both of them have been too busy to be around each other in recent weeks. Three weeks and two days, but he isn’t counting. These feelings have faded into the background of more important things, a manageable part of him he can soon lock up in the same place he keeps all his unsavory desires, but apparently it hasn’t been long enough. These feelings don’t burst out, but it’s a slow bleeding, a pinpricked organ filling his abdominal cavity with all manners of bodily fluids.

He risks another glance at him. There’s a sweetness to Hannibal he doesn’t think he likes about himself, but won’t admit to it. Innocence he tries to hide, but can’t from Will’s empathy. What about Hannibal is innocent, Will hasn’t parsed yet, but it shimmers in his eyes and comes over Will—not unsure, but occasionally cautious.

Will sighs, a plume of air wisps out in front of his face. “We get the job done.”

Hannibal leans into him until they’re sharing warmth. He smells good, lavender and something woody. A new cologne. “We do.”

His heart thumps once, he coughs to dislodge it from his throat.

“We should…” He makes a vague gesture toward the police tape and Hannibal listens. He steps back from Will and heads in, where the forensics team is already working.

Behind the police tape lies two bodies, a young male and female, both who are believed to have been runaways if their killer is keeping the same pattern, 16-18, but they’ve yet to confirm their identities to know for sure, clothed in white lace gowns. Their hair is clean, brushed through, with baby’s breath woven into small braids that frame their faces, and their hands are folded to resemble prayer, with dried white spider-lilies placed between them.

Jack has stepped away, closer to the dormant thicket, his phone clutched in his hand as he talks. He’s had more time with the bodies than anyone, both via picture and in person, and now he needs a fresh pair of eyes on it.

These aren’t the first, there have been three other pairs. All under 18—although the boy in this set might be older, he looks it, but the killer obviously didn’t know. He assumed, or was lied to. Righteousness has prevailed in this killer's mind regardless.

Will stares down at their motionless faces. “They’re with God now.”

He blinks and the boy is gone, replaced by Hannibal’s own delicateness which he believes suits the lace gowns better. His skin has lost the vibrancy, sucked of all his youthful colors, his mouth no longer curls in willful delight, his slender fingers are limp, and his hair has been brushed down and splayed out like a halo, baby’s breath scattered in tiny braids. The quiet disturbs him.

He feels the weight of his body in his arms, laying him to rest under an ancient oak tree, adjusting his lace gown, his hair, his hands, and setting each flower in their perfect place. Love blooms in his chest, confused and wrong, but love nonetheless. He’s done the right thing, and Hannibal’s temporary pain has served for his betterment.

Love changes. It burns through him, fraying the edges of his vision. It shifts, dulling the perspective he’s taken on, and bleeds into it until he can’t pinpoint where his feelings ends and their killer’s begins.

He blinks again and Hannibal is beside him, not laid to rest in hopes of restoring innocence stripped of him, but so close they’re almost touching.

“It’s definitely religious,” Beverly agrees. “The first pair had matching cross necklaces, but the rest haven’t. We think that he takes them before he displays the bodies.”

“A mark of possession masked as a gift,” Hannibal’s voice breaks through Will’s mind. “He’s worried people will recognize his work by the crosses. He learned between the first set and the second.”

“Someone recognized them,” Beverly says.

Will scrubs his face. The aftershocks of seeing Hannibal there clings to the outer layers of his mind, but he can’t shake that deeper feeling, not of Hannibal, or their killer, but the one born inside of his chest. His feelings bleeding into the killer’s has never happened. He’s aware that is not the sort of man that could restore innocence to Hannibal; in spite of the tenderness that the young psychiatrist inspires in him, he fears he’s going to cut his thread of innocence without permission, whatever it may be.

Each time that Hannibal imposes upon him, this fear only grows more intense. It’s edging on something that can’t be undone. Whatever Hannibal believes he wants from Will, whether that be sex or a relationship or some place in between, giving it to him would be selfish. Hannibal’s crush will pass. Will just has to wait it out, and then when Hannibal’s attention has withdrawn, he’ll hide away.

Still, his attraction is poignant. In the back of his mind, he hears his quiet voice telling him that what he feels for Hannibal isn’t mere lust, and has developed naturally with no influence from Hannibal’s feelings. Loss of his affection won’t change anything for Will. He can tuck tail and run, but with every beat of his heart, his feelings will pump through him.

He bristles, frightened and angry with himself.

“It’s about innocence. Restoring it, maybe. Sending them to a loving God.” He slips away from Hannibal, not for long—he knows the he’ll find his way toward him again—to collect a pair of gloves from Beverly.

Three, five, seven feet away from Hannibal, he’s lapping at a grievous wound that continues to weep.

“Our killer believes he is a man of God, sent here to guide downtrodden souls to the gates of Heaven,” Hannibal suggests.

“He’s probably been anointed in his church.” Will crouches down next to the bodies to peel back the high collar of their gowns. They have a ring of bruises across the soft skin of their throats. Strangled, but not by hand. A rope like the rest, but the girl’s throat is managled—she fought him. Near-black bruises litter her neck up and down from the drag of the rope, but the boy has one solid line all the way around. A fighter and a fawn, from the few pictures he’s seen of the others, this is his preferred pairing. Their gowns are expertly made, and extend past their feet, christening gowns. He pulls the hem of both and finds similar bruises around their ankles. “A prophet.”

“John the Baptist,” Hannibal says with an almost indecipherable touch of humor.

“Well, he does believe he’s saving their souls.” He waves Hannibal close, and then immediately regrets it. “Do they smell like a river to you?”

“Do you intend to use me like a dog?” he scoffs, but he walks over, happy for the invitation, and crouches next to him. Their shoulders brush.

Will licks his teeth. “It’s just a question, Doctor Lecter.”

Hannibal leans forward slightly, resting his hand on Will’s shoulder for balance. The warmth seeps in through his canvas jacket. “No. They’re fresh.”

He thought this would be the case. He’s only seen a few photos, but he was inclined to believe they weren’t submerged at any point, if they had been, he wouldn’t have washed away the cleansing water.

“Methodist, I think.” He was baptized in a river at 12, not of his own volition, but of his father’s. The last dredges of hope that Will, who had done nothing and knew little of sin, could be saved from his proclivities. “Sprinkling or pouring, but not submerging. Other denominations submerge. Some Methodists do too but the act of submerging isn’t a requirement. It’s… peculiar though. This is a christening as much as it is a regular baptism.”

Jack comes around, his phone gone, ready to hear Will’s current assessment. “Does he care for them that much? My agents disagree about what constitutes caring.”

“He sees… what’s been taken from them. Stripped away or freely offered under the wrong pretenses. He wants to give them a second chance.” Will rubs the back of his neck. Hannibal still has his hand on his shoulder and he doesn’t shake it off. “He sees them as his own children. He’s giving them what he would have done for them.”

“So he wants to give them second chance with God,” Jack says. “But not in this life.”

In this set of circumstances he can only hope God is real so these children might have something warm waiting on them, but he also understands why they might not want that. To have their lives ripped from them for some man’s selfish ideal and sent to a God they may not believe on—the void that Will has accepted awaits most of them might be more appealing.

His nostrils flare. “Yeah. With God.”

“The only way to restore their innocence is by sending them to their creator. Anything less and they will fall to the predation of the world again,” Hannibal explains. He looks over at Will, his eyes a little wide, thin eyebrows raised.

“But it isn’t about them.” Will stands. His head dizzies but he doesn’t stumble. Hannibal shoots up next to him and does not falter. “There are… two people. His own children, maybe, he feels he can’t save. But only one of them is the stressor, the one he feels made the other stumble. The fighter.”

Jack nods. His agreement is good, it makes Will’s job easier. “Who are we looking for then? The team believes he’s a reverend.”

“Someone involved with the church, yes. I need to look at the previous crime scene photos to be sure. It could be a pastor, a youth leader, someone who just volunteers. Churches tie communities like this together, a regular member of the congregation can be as devout as their pastor.” Will sniffles. He needs to get out of the cold. He needs to get away from Hannibal. “We’ll know more when we identify the bodies, but he isn’t going to be pleased we found them so soon.”

“Do you think he’ll change the way he kills?” Jack asks.

“No, this is too important to him.” He pulls his glasses from his pocket. He needs space. “He’ll evolve but it has to be this way.”

There will be more if their killer gets his way. This is too early for him to go after his own children, he doesn’t have the courage to face his daughter, but he’s building to it, and he’s accelerating. Six months, then four, then two, then two weeks. He’ll be surprised if he doesn’t kill again within the next five days.

The children, the trigger, have likely done nothing wrong, maybe they left the church, maybe they’ve disconnected from their father, but he doubts they’ve committed a significant sin. To this kind of perpetrator, however, the size of the sin hardly matters, it’s about their souls. Whatever has happened has left them iniquitous, and worse than committing any transgressions against God, has embarrassed the killer in front of the congregation.

How can he show his face in church again? Will’s father said that to him for a sin Will still doesn’t know that he committed, and he can hear it now by this man, gargled, the twang of Deep South country, an accent Will has personally shed. He’s overcompensating, he needs to prove to those around him that he’s still devoted, that God hasn’t abandoned him, that’s his children’s sins are not his own.

Will steps away from the bodies. The image of Hannibal laying there flashes in his mind every time he blinks, a never ending cycle of love and disgust. He needs distance. He needs relief, whether it comes by alcohol or his hand. Both of which will end in self-loathing.

“Will,” Jack calls.

He has the police tape pulled up taut. Disgust aside, he needs quiet so he can think through the steps of this, preferably without envisioning Hannibal as his perfect, docile victim. With this level of control, he’s not sure they’ll find their killer before he strikes again. Especially with such a clear goal. He’ll need to save as many children from worldly pleasures before they come knocking, but that’ll be his downfall too. He’s going to get sloppy.

“Yes?”

“Take Doctor Lecter with you, you’ll be staying together,” he informs him. “New protocol since Thompson, sorry.”

He’s not really sorry. It’s cheaper this way, and he knows that they’re taking Hannibal’s accommodations out of their units yearly budget. Necessary, he heard Prurnell tell Jack that once. Keeping Hannibal content was of the utmost importance, but not this time. She must not know about it, or she’d never stick them in the sort of place they’re headed. Protocol be damned.

Thompson was an FBI Agent, not in their unit, but it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. He was killed in his motel room—not by a serial killer—, and now they’re treating them like children, implementing a buddy system for everyone, including Jack, although he won’t stay. No one can go anywhere alone, they can’t sleep alone, eat alone, drive alone, they probably can’t piss alone.

Will grimaces. “Got it.”

Hannibal turns, still beaming. His eyes sparkle so sweetly that the anger in Will feels misplaced.

Of course, Hannibal knew this well before either arrived at the crime scene, likely from the moment he was collected from the airport, and he let Will walk away anyway. To some degree, Will knew that his nights alone in midrange motels had come to an end as well, and that he knew it would be Hannibal that the FBI imposed upon him, but he wanted to live in the sweet fantasy of distance for a few more minutes.

Will keeps the police tape up and lets Hannibal duck under first. His eyes scan down his broad shoulders, over his slim waist, down to his pert ass. Another wave of nausea crashes inside of him, clenching until it burns through his throat, and he has to swallow bile down.

“Can you retrieve my things from Jack’s car?” he asks.

Will obliges. Hannibal’s luggage, three bags in total, sit in the backseat. He can’t fathom what could be in them, but he grabs each one and carefully moves them to his backseat.

If, and he thinks this with no intention of saying so, he told someone that he can’t be near Hannibal in this way, they might pair him with Beverly. But what could his excuse be? He can’t confess to this attraction, or the deeper feelings that hide beneath the surface—who would believe him? He wants Hannibal as badly as he wants to hold him, to touch and smell his hair, to press sweet kisses to his cheeks and lips. What does this matter when his lust is so prevalent? And he knows how it looks, he knows what people will say. They’d be right.

Hannibal’s own crush on him, which everyone (mainly Beverly) teases him about, is innocent enough. He’s sure if he confessed his feelings to him, Hannibal would want to dig into him and find the root of it. The desire to feel young or the desire to be wanted. Each time Will tries to brush away his feelings with these logical assessments, they feel stale. It isn’t enough, he’s accepted his inability to be wanted long before he met Hannibal, before he was born. To feel young does nothing for him too. He didn’t enjoy his youth and has no desire to return to those old memories. When he thinks about it for too long, he starts to convince himself that his feelings for Hannibal aren’t a degenerate fantasy, but then he thinks about telling Hannibal, and is reminded that he can’t. He’d stumble over the words, guilt would strike him, he’d turn cruel if Hannibal rejected him.

“You’ve grown pale.” Hannibal reaches for his arm. “Do you feel well?”

Will pulls away and slams the door shut. “I’m fine. Get in the car.”

Hannibal listens. On most occasions, and not determined by his general disposition that leans toward spoiled, he’s well behaved for Will, doing as he says, reporting information directly to him, going out of his way to be helpful. Whether obedient or not though, Will always comes to the same conclusion that he’s testing the waters. It’s rare that he’s particularly misbehaved, but he’s seen it once or twice, little faces and the snap of attitude, and he knows Hannibal’s seeking a reaction.

“This car has to be 20 years old,” Hannibal complains, his nose wrinkles. The vague scent of menthol lingers in the air, Will has come to accept this is likely the cheapest car available. “I have never seen a rental this old.”

“Sorry, Doctor Lecter, this is what we get. You can drive yourself to the next case if you want, then we’ll use your car instead.” He clicks on the radio hoping to find something to drown out this conversation.

The news has been talking about an impending ice storm meant to hit tonight or tomorrow since he got in—they’re monitoring the situation closely and asking residents to evacuate or stay put with the necessary supplies. There’s still the chance it won’t hit, of course, and the news is insistent it most likely won’t, but it’s better for the locals to be safe rather than sorry. They don’t have such luxury.

“Then I’d have to write off the miles, and I’d rather not. Have you done something to make them hate you,” he asks, settling down in the fuzzy old seat.

“Yeah, be a liability. You are too, you know, you’re—“ He doesn’t know what to say. Too rich? Too socially important? Too good at what he does?

They are equally as valuable to the FBI, as valuable as any of their agents, the only difference is that Hannibal has a better personality. Everyone talks about how charming he is, how good he is with victims and witnesses, how he can get any room of disdainful cops to come around to FBI intervention. He’s a smooth talker, he’s pretty. People want his approval. People pretend to know why that is.

Once an agent Will considered a decent enough person made a tasteless comment about Hannibal, about how he became a member of the team, and that perhaps being charismatic wasn’t the only thing he was good at.

“I’m just saying,” he said in the break room, laughing too loudly for 9 AM. He leaned against the counter next to Will, having caught the tremors of displeasure that course through him when Hannibal is near, but misinterpreting it to the fullest extent. “Everyone’s come to the same conclusion.”

“You don’t know that,” Will replied, his tight voice abruptly trembling. 

“I get he’s your partner, but I bet he’s fucked Prurnell.” It was so matter-of-fact it sent Will’s head spinning. “I’ve heard rumors about all of his antics with other higher ups. He’s either laying it down or laying on his back.”

Will slammed the cup down. The small room quieted. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Was it jealousy that spurred on this reaction or something more? He never interrogated it beyond the walk from the break room to the morgue, he decided it must be because Hannibal is his partner. It’d be wrong of him to let anyone talk that way about Hannibal. Besides, of what he knew of Hannibal then, and even now, Prurnell isn’t his type. 

Hannibal changes the radio station. The music crackles through until he finds one that works, old country. The familiar flat voice of Johnny Cash bleats through the speakers.

It saves Will from having to tell him he’s so young, that’s why he’s a liability.

He turns it up. “Do you know Johnny Cash?”

Hannibal leans back, he knows he’s lost this battle. “I’m aware of him. I can’t say I’ve heard his music.”

“This is the perfect time then,” Will says.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Hannibal relax into the seat. He’s cool, neutral. If he hates it, he’s kind enough not to complain about it to Will, and Will is smart enough not to ask. This is the sort of compromise that either of them will have to continue to learn to become accustomed to, he knows he won’t like whatever modern music Hannibal likes (and has yet to confess to), but if he can listen to the old Greats of Country then Will supposes he can listen to indie ambient drone music Hannibal plans to torture him with one day.

The motel is across town, verging on the outskirts, a time capsule shooting up through an encroaching woodline. From the 70s, he’d say, with a fresh mint green paint job. It’s a decent one, or is trying to be better than the decrepit ones they passed to get here, not the sort they usually put him in, but a motel nonetheless. One floor, gravel parking, a handful of children running around that he can tell consider this motel home. He pulls up to the front door. The small lobby area is locked with barred windows, and he knocks until the little man peaks through the blinds, his heavy brow lifted in suspicion.

“We have no vacancies!” he croaks out, his throat torn to shreds from years of smoking.

“I’m here with the FBI,” Will says back.

“Oh! Yes. One second.” He pops the door open and hands him the old key on an exaggerated tag, mint green with painted LOWCOUNTRY MOTEL in soft pink, and below that 3A. “We have quiet hours from 8 pm to 7 am. I run a decent business.” He looks into the car. “I don’t want any funny business.”

“I understand.” Will pockets the key. “If we come in late, we’ll be quiet.”

The motel manager presses his lips into a thin line, he believes Will has coward down to him, and nods once, descending back into the sanctuary of the lobby.

Will slides back into the car. Hannibal’s displeasure comes off of him in waves, permeating through Will. He imagines he’s never stayed somewhere like this, that he hardly notices motels as he drives down the interstate or through towns unless they’re particularly offensive. They are meaningless to him, and yet, he should be happy though, he doubts this one has bedbugs, and has at least a 3 star review. The last one they put him in had a 1.5 star review and smelled like his father.

(He thought he forgot what he smelled like, it’s been 17 years, but it came back to him as any other discarded memory might.)

Hannibal purses his lips before Will’s made it fully back into his seat. “I think I can find a decent hotel—“

“No, no, no Doctor Lecter, we’re a team. You stay where I stay,” he says. The last thing he wants to do is deal with the repercussions of not following protocol. It’s a headache with paperwork, and that includes staying at the designated motels the Bureau puts them at. “They’ve paid for this. You’re staying.”

Hannibal’s face pinches and he glares out of the window. His heart pitters, he always thinks there’s a cuteness about Hannibal when he pouts like this, but he’s good and doesn’t stare. 

The back half of the motel, which boasts 12 rooms in total, is for those people who stay here full time, and the front half is for travelers. There are several heavy-duty work trucks lined up, linemen, he supposes, here to help if this storm comes, and Will parks between two of them. Cigarettes litter the ground, but none of the workers are out. He’s lived in these motels enough times in his life to know that the chance this storm doesn’t hit them like the news keeps insisting, is slim to none.

Hannibal doesn’t assist with his luggage, but this doesn’t surprise Will. He shoulders on his duffel bag and manages to balance the smaller bags on top of Hannibal’s suit case, rolling them over the small hump of concrete, and then to their wooden door.

Will hesitates when he steps inside. Despite the cold, a sticky sweat breaks out across his neck.

The inside is not spectacular, barely refurbished beyond necessity. Newer carpet that he suspects is the same color as the original, an old box television set atop the peeling dresser, original burnt umber wallpaper and batten wood. A mirror on the wall, likely the latest addition but a little dirty. At the center there’s one bed, ancient as the rest of the room, wooden with a thin plaid blanket and two pillows. Cheaper to make them share a bed, he guesses, but no less offensive.

In a feeble attempt to settle the growing anxiety in his gut, Will leaves Hannibal’s things next to the door and makes himself busy with the television set, his duffel bag discarded on the old table shoved into the darkest corner.

Originally his priorities would have been to first put himself as a remove from Hannibal and then concern himself with the storm, but since that’s no longer an option, he focuses more on the ice storm. Anything to keep his mind from his temptations. He doubts a small Southern town this tucked away from the heart of any city has the necessary infrastructure to clear every road. They’ll do their best to clear main roads, but any side roads will be frozen and scattered with tree limbs. The motel will have a generator, the sheriff’s department, but there are no promises for other places.

They won’t be stranded, this is too important. Whatever it takes, the FBI will ensure they make it to work in the morning.

“Shall I make a nest on the floor?” Hannibal asks, moving past Will to make himself as comfortable as he can be, which Will assumes isn’t comfortable at all.

He wants marble, gold, mother of pearl, plush bedding, a walk-in shower and porcelain tub, a Nespresso machine, and the finest room services money can buy. He’s seen the places they usually put Hannibal in, and he almost feels bad that this is such a downgrade, but it’ll be good for him. A little humbling never hurt anyone.

“Pick your side,” Will directs. The news channel is quiet, but they’re running 24 hour coverage. Their killer is an afterthought to this. “I don’t bite.”

“And what if I do?” Hannibal asks.

Will rolls his eyes. For all of Hannibal’s implications about sex, he’s never tried anything. It’s better that way, but he knows it can’t be easy for Hannibal. Everyone, including those that snicker about his supposed sexual behaviors, throw themselves at his feet and grovel for a chance. It’s pathetic, and he knows Hannibal feels the same. Whether he gives them what they want or not, Will doesn’t know and he’s never asked.

“Pick. Or I will make you sleep on the floor.”

Hannibal begins to unpack his things, laying them out on the left side of the bed. A thick blanket, a silk pillow, a pair of pajamas for tonight.

A sigh of relief escapes him. He’s always preferred the right side, and it’s nearest the door in case anything does happen like the Thompson situation. A thought, not wanted or needed, comes to him — this is a sign, proof that they’re meant to be together, that something as trivial as sides of the bed sit as a determining factor in their relationship. Stupid, he thinks and sets his duffle bag on the floor next to his side of the bed.

Luckily, he’s packed his own blanket, so they have no reason to share.

Will crosses the room to crank the heat up as high as possible. He clicks the on button, but the little thermostat screen stays blank. Beneath it, a taped flat sticky note reads that it’s meant for maintenance next week and the motel staff apologizes for the inconvenience.

He purses his lips.

“We better hope the ice storm doesn’t come, the thermostat is broken,” he says.

Places like this leak warm air like a sieve. He’s stayed in enough through the years to pinpoint the exact spots in the room it’ll come through, starting with the crooked door and cracked trimming. They can run hot water to fight it, but it’s unlikely the nights won’t be unbearable.

Hannibal looks up from where he’s putting his products on the sticker-granite counter. Hair and skin alike. “Do they intend on freezing us?”

“I’ll get a space heater if we need it,” he assures. “Let’s hope we get this case wrapped up quickly. You’ve never seen such bad driving as Southern men in the snow.”

“You could call Jack and have him speak to Kade or Jeffery about this,” Hannibal suggests. He switches two products around. “Perhaps they can find us more hospitable accommodations.”

Burnt heat races through him at the suggestion. Asking for a different motel would be smart in this situation, but he hates how familiar Hannibal is with Kade and her ilk. Jeffery Smith is directly under Kade, and he knows Hannibal is his friend, or his associate, it’s not often he ever refers to anyone as his friend, but Jeffery, when attached to Kade, is common enough to get thrown around when anyone wants something. Out of the two of them, he’s the one easiest to persuade.

He wonders how personally Hannibal knows Jeffery. It’s wrong, it isn’t his place, but his mind goes there anyway. Hannibal is an adult, he can sleep with anyone he wants, whether for pleasure—he never denies himself—or for business.

“You’ll survive,” Will says. Maybe he would have agreed to the suggestion regardless of the familiarity in Hannibal voice if he hasn’t already made a fuss about Hannibal staying here, but it’s too late. He’s committed, and he’s not unfamiliar with chilly motel nights. 

Hannibal huffs, but doesn’t argue.

Strange that Hannibal won’t reach out to him directly to have this situation resolved, perhaps he realizes Will’s distaste, or he knows that only one of them will be moved to a better part of town and doesn’t want to miss this opportunity. To what? Convince Will of their compatibility? It would take an act of God, and even then, Will has never been keen on listening to higher powers, Kade included.

On the last case they worked, Hannibal made it clear that he would happily share a room with Will, that they are partners and therefore should be fine sharing a room as is common with agents and special investigators alike. That was his mistake, he had to be unaware of how drastic the differences were in their accommodations, only that he imagined it would be cheaper, and that it made sense to him that the FBI should put them in the same hotel rather than different ones. It’s been at Will’s insistence that they haven’t.

“I don’t want to be in a room with some kid, it’ll change how I work,” he told Jack when it was first mentioned. “I like Doctor Lecter, I like my space more.”

Will grabs a change of clothes and his toiletries from his duffle bag. Hannibal is still arranging his things around their singular sink, he’s pulled his toothbrush and accessories out, so he showers first. It’s small, the bathtub is yellow from age, and there’s a plastic shower liner without a curtain. He could get used to having Hannibal at his heel, as long as he never tries to get closer.

He turns the water on as hot as it’ll go and gets in. It’s screaming through the pipes but he can still hear Hannibal just on the other side of the door. Bottles clinking against each other and the counter. With Will hidden away in the shower, he openly complains to himself. The words are muffled, floating in here and there, but of what he catches, he understands what Hannibal means.

Cramped. Disgusting. Subpar.

His hackles raise. Hannibal isn’t talking about him, he’s never said a bad word about Will in the months that they’ve known each other, but he feels as if this is a personal attack. That he sees these things—things Will logically knows are an attack on the FBI’s cheapness—and associates them with Will.

Years of living in motels, of being those children playing in the gravel parking lot, making friends he’d never see again, comes back to him. He grips the vinyl walls and coughs until his lungs hurt and the memories blur. Running up and down stairs, walking on the grassy shoulders of roads, eating sour grass from ditches.

A second later Hannibal knocks.

“Will?” His calls, voice soft. His complaints are over.

He steels himself before he snaps at him and clears the tickle of anger from his throat. “Yeah?”

His cock jerks, barely hard but dripping fluid, he ignores it. There isn’t time for that, Hannibal will smell it, and he knows himself well enough to know he isn’t going to be quiet, not without biting his fist.

“Should we get groceries? The stores will close if the storm comes,” he says.

He closes his eyes. His insides knot like a tender bruise. “I won’t let you starve, Doctor Lecter.”

It’s quiet for a second. “Okay, thank you.”

He scrubs down his body and hair then allows time for the heat to work its way into his bones. His body releases, the muscles soften, and his lust ebbs away. The motel has splurged on good towels at the very least, and he dries and dresses. T-shirt and boxers. He wishes he thought of this before now, a pair of sleeping pants could conceal what of his body he can’t control this close to Hannibal.

Hannibal goes in immediately, a catty of products and his night clothes folded into the crook of his arm.

On the dresser, with the old television set, he finds the menus for local restaurants that deliver and starts to rifle through them. There’s pizza, a tiny seafood restaurant, Chinese, and a diner. They’re cheap, easy, meant to get the job done.

All of them look good to him, but it’ll be up to Hannibal what they eat. He does place an order for groceries from the Food Lion, and pays a higher tip so that someone is more likely to get it (he knows everywhere is packed), and only orders a handful of items to hold them over. The room only comes with a mini refrigerator and a microwave, so he orders apples and bananas, a half pint of milk, a box of apple cinnamon oatmeal, a case of water, and all the fixings for ham and turkey sandwiches. It’s not what Hannibal will have expected or wanted, but it’ll keep them fed.

Hannibal comes out of the steamy bathroom fifteen minutes later. Shirtless and in red sleeping pants that accentuate every part of him from ass to thighs. No underwear. Pressure forms low in Will’s belly and he has no choice but to look away until Hannibal makes himself busy, or lays down. Anything, he begs to the empty mass of the universe, or God, or whatever might grant him reprieve from his lewd thoughts.

His prayer goes unanswered, and Hannibal sits across from him, legs spread, the imprint of his groin visible. He chooses to believe that this is not deliberate. It’s his filthy mind focusing on his exposed skin. He can call himself a pervert, he can self-flagellate, it doesn’t take his eyes away from Hannibal’s supple body.

“I’m going to order to go,” he says flatly, “do you want something?”

“Is it fast food or from a restaurant?” he asks.

“A diner. That would be the easiest, but we can get pizza or Chinese if you’d prefer.”

He takes a breath. “I’m not sure I have eaten at a diner in my life. That does seem like the best option.”

“I can decide for you,” Will offers and Hannibal nods his agreement.

There are a lot of normal dishes on the expansive menu, but he knows Hannibal would get caught up on the stranger ones. He’d order one too, despite being warned against it, and hate it, and Will would have to swap with him.

Will pushes up from the table and goes out into the cold, to order, and to kill his lust. Their groceries will be here in 20 minutes, and as he finishes ordering dinner, the woman on the other end says it’ll be there in 30, weather permitting. The night sky is grey. The cold is good for him. He’ll wait for the food, and his baser desires will turn dormant as he freezes, and when he returns to their little room, the suffocating need for Hannibal won’t pulsate as strongly. He leans against the cold hood of the rental and sucks in long breaths.

He can manage dinner and then bed. If he works quickly tomorrow, he might be able to get them home before the weekend.

One of the linemen stumbles from his room some minutes later. A little younger than Will, maybe mid 30s, and red headed. He hits a pack of cigarettes against the heel of his hand and leans against the bulky tailgate of his work truck.

“Want one?” he offers, no preamble.

He hesitates and then nods. He doesn’t smoke often, he finds it all to be a bit disgusting, but he’s been known to indulge on rare occasions, and without whiskey to ease his mind, he figures a cigarette will suffice.

“You here for work?” he asks.

Will brings the cigarette to his lips and has his first drag in nearly a year. It burns, the menthol coats his mouth in the sickly familiar flavor of young adulthood. “Yeah.”

“The storm?”

Will shakes his head but doesn’t explain further. It’s unnecessary, and he has no desire to go over the gory details of his job with a stranger before bed. The last thing he needs is to have a nightmare so close to Hannibal, he’ll take it upon himself to comfort him, and in his vulnerable state, he might surrender to him. Worse than his standard fare of nightmares, he’s sure he’ll see Hannibal in lace and flowers, dead eyes staring at him from where he lays in the bed.

The door cracks open. Hannibal peeks through, his hair has been dried and sticks up fluffy. He doesn’t come out though, his eyes slide between Will and the lineman, their cigarettes. His nose wrinkles.

“Is something wrong, Doctor Lecter?” he asks and taps the ashes off.

“No,” he says.

Will looks him over. His maroon eyes are wide, his mouth pursed. He’s watching Will with careful intent. He thought he left. Where he would have gone, Will doesn’t know. To get dinner? His cool anxiety doesn’t feel like that’s his worry.

“I’m just waiting for dinner.” He takes another drag. “You don’t need to sit out here in the cold.”

There’s a moment of hesitation on Hannibal’s part. His eyes slide over to the lineman one last time, he regards him with such apparent distaste that Will almost laughs, and he disappears back into the room. Aftershocks of Hannibal’s jealousy, an overwhelming pressure at the center of his chest, tingle through him. He doesn’t have to worry—Will isn’t his to worry about, he corrects. But this man next to him can’t tempt him either. He’s tried with a few people since they met, and he’s never left satisfied.

“He looks young to be a doctor,” the man chuckles.

He takes his final drag of the cigarette and stubs it out. Unlike any of the other men here, he flicks the cigarette butt into one of the supplied ashtrays.

“Don’t I know it,” Will grumbles.

Dinner and their groceries arrive within five minutes of each other, and Will manages to get all the bags inside in two trips without help. Hannibal never offers, however he immediately goes for the paper to-go bag and sets the table.

“It smells good.” Hannibal pops the lid on the two styrofoam cups to find his.

“I hope it is.” He puts what he can away into the mini refrigerator. Ham, turkey, condiments, the milk, and a few bottles of water. “The groceries aren’t anything grand, but we won’t have to worry about what we’ll eat if everything closes.”

“Thank you, Will,” he says earnestly.

His heart thumps. He coughs. “Don’t worry about it.”

They settle at the little table in the corner and Will divvies it up. A grilled pork chop with mashed potatoes and seasonal vegetables—purple and yellow carrots—for Hannibal, and fried catfish with spaghetti for him. Two drinks, a sweet tea and a water, and he got them both apple cobbler for dessert.

Dinner is fine, but Will is hardly impressed with the execution. The catfish is fried nicely, it reminds him of his grandmother’s, but the spaghetti is flavorless. Canned sauce, he thinks. The sweet tea is perfect though, toeing that line of almost too much sugar. He squeezes two fat lemon wedges in it and offers Hannibal a taste. He sips.

“Thank you.” He places it between them. “You can have it back.”

Will laughs. Hannibal’s mouth is puckered, a pretty little pout of displeasure, his eyelashes fluttering as the saccharine flavor works its way out of his palate via a forkful of mashed potatoes. Will’s throats tighten, his smile wobbles. It’s so hard to look at Hannibal, and it’s so hard to look away.

They eat the cobbler then, thick and sweet. It needs a scoop of vanilla ice cream and he wishes he considered that before ordering it, but he enjoys the richness. Hannibal hums, scraping up the thick glaze.

Once they finish, Will shuts the television off and they lay down on their respective sides of the bed, full and chilly. The temperature has already taken a mild plunge, he doesn’t want to imagine what the morning will be like. They’re lucky the motel has kept carpeting, the sticker vinyl that many have now would have made their future endeavors unbearable. If Hannibal woke up and the floor chilled him, Will would never hear the end of it.

“It’s stiff,” Hannibal complains, and pulls the blanket up to his chin.

Will rolls away from him. “You should be happy it doesn’t have bedbugs.”

Hannibal makes a noise and the bed moves as he nestles down. Will doesn’t look back at him, a sudden awareness of this intimacy they’re sharing dizzies him. Beds like this are smaller than average, meant for closeness, meant for two people who want to hold each other and can. His arms itch for his weight, and in the recesses of his mind, he feels it. Heavier than he expects, colder too—his slender fingers curling around Will’s hips to soak up his warmth, his fine hair tickles his cheek. Will just wants his weight to put his arm to sleep.

He wakes up before sunrise, the air is so chilly his sinuses hurt, but there’s warmth pressed to him. He blinks awake, confused in the darkness, until he remembers where he is. The motel, the bed, and the warmth against him. Hannibal is snuggled to his chest. His blanket is bunched at his thighs, and his face is buried in Will’s neck. He touches his arm, meaning to push him away, but finds that he’s ice cold, goosebumps prickle over his skin everywhere he touches. He should have predicted this, Hannibal would take the opportunity to be close to him, but this feels innocent enough.

This may be it. His desire to be loved by someone who sees him, this piece of him he doesn’t like, may be the innocence he’s picked up on. Everyone wants to be held, and Will has him in a tight embrace.

He could leave him like this, it would be the right thing to do, but his eyes adjust in the darkness and the sharp features of Hannibal’s sweet face start to come together. A squished cheek, fluttering eyes, a quivering lip. Will sighs. It’s okay as long as Hannibal’s asleep. He’s doing the right thing, maybe it’s not right by his feelings, but Hannibal’s freezing. Will pulls the blanket up, tucks it around his shoulders, and pulls him a little closer, careful not to wake him. Such tenderness can only exist in these neutral areas, the moment he wakes, this will have to end.

Heat returns to Hannibal’s body slowly. The shiver eases, and he relaxes in Will’s embrace until he’s limp and rosy with warm and Will can move him without worry of waking him. He lays him on his back, brings the blanket up to his chest so the freezing air doesn’t assault him again, and shifts out of the bed.

The carpet is the warmest part of the room. Will dresses, thick pants, a flannel, a heavy canvas jacket. He’s at the sink when Hannibal rouses, mumbling something under his breath.

“It’s freezing,” he yawns, his accent thick.

Will spit. “The ice storm hit. We’ll need to be careful on the road. Go ahead and get dressed. I’ll turn the car on.”

He goes out, turns the heat high, and comes back. Hannibal has the blanket hanging from his arms at the sink, smearing creams and oils on his face and in his hair. His clothes are laid out on the bed, a suit as always when he’s on the job, not nearly thick enough for this weather, and a cashmere coat with a matching set of gloves.

Will almost offers him a sweater but stops himself. Rumors are easily spread, he doesn’t doubt the agents that have accompanied them will whisper about the untoward behavior of such a young man wearing the clothes of his partner, one that they all believe to be disturbed or perverse anyway. Everything has been innocent, even the few minutes of cuddling this morning, but he knows how it looks. Some of their colleagues might whisper about Hannibal, but they’d never imagine him wanting Will. They don’t see the flutter of his eyelashes, the gentle smiles, the lunches, the few times he’s rubbed his shoe against Will’s—and he lets him. He lets him every time.

His tongue loosens and Will has to tear his eyes from him so he doesn’t vomit. He knows what he is, he doesn’t need people reporting back to Jack and hearing it said in his stern professional tone while they sit in his office. As much as he wants them to stop bringing Hannibal on cases, he doesn’t want it to be his perverse thoughts, and he definitely doesn’t want to see Hannibal paired off with anyone else.

Once they’re home, he’ll put distance between them again. He’ll bar him from his classroom, he’ll stop accepting lunch.

The work trucks are gone when they make it out, and the children are peeking from their rooms at the glittering icy expanse, but none of them dare come out. It isn’t snow, he knows they all went to bed praying to wake up to a layer of fluffy snow.

Hannibal hurries into the car, and Will stares out into the dark distance, stifling his nauseous attraction. His mind isn’t only there, these roads are such a hazard it may be more dangerous to drive than to face their killer. There’s hope that they, and essential workers will be the only people on the roads, but he knows better. Some of the cars that were parked at the far end are gone.

“You okay?” he asks as he slides in.

Hannibal’s shoulders are hunched over, his body curled toward the vents. To the untrained eye, he might look tired, but Will knows better.

“Yes,” Hannibal answers.

He’s wilted, but he won’t confess to whatever has upset him. He’s fortifying the thin spots in his closed petals, but they’ll never be thick enough to hide from him. He can beautiful, strengthen, and change any part that’s wilted, but Will can see through it, or peel back the silky layers if he feels it’s necessary. (He would never. The guilt would only intensify and he can hardly stomach it now. He’s too good at abusing his gifts.)

Will throws the car into reverse and eases out.

The roads, however slick, are not as horrible as he imagined they would be. Some efforts by the county have been made, less than any state often slotted with snow and ice, but enough that the drive doesn’t feel dangerous. No one else is on the road either, at least, not in the direction they’re headed, so they manage to get to the police station without incident.

Hannibal is quiet the entire time, although he uncurls his body to sit properly, and when Will pulls up to the county sheriff’s office, he hesitates to get out of the car. It takes Will coming around and opening the door for Hannibal to get out, and even with that he trudges along like he’s been kicked.

“You’re starting to worry me, Doctor Lecter,” Will says. He hits the buzzer on the back door so someone can let them in. “Watch the ice.”

“Not fond of the cold.” He dodges a slick of ice and nestles closer to him.

Every decent fiber in Will’s body itches to put distance between them, but he stands still, allowing Hannibal this small affection. Given their morning together, Will doesn’t think he should allow this, but he’s pallid, and the loss of vibrancy reminds him far too much of the vision he had yesterday.

“I assumed the South would be warm,” he laughs weakly.

He understands. “It’s January, and they’ve had a historic ice storm. We came at the worst time.”

His body curls closer to Will. His shoulders jump and his hands dig under his arms. He’d be warm against Will’s chest again.

Without thinking Will starts to wrap his arm around Hannibal to bring him closer. It’s true, he is scaring him. In the months that they’ve known each other, he’s never seen Hannibal this puny. In the heat he might complain, he might sit in the car, but this is pathetic. It makes him look much younger, and the need to protect him takes over.

The door opens and he jerks back, his hands shoving into his pockets to feign nonchalance.

Beverly huffs a breath. “Sorry, for such a small town, this place is a maze.”

Will grabs the door, letting Hannibal hurry in. “The county’s bigger than you think.”

As he suspected, they’re running on generators. The sheriff’s department is warmer than it is outside, but it isn’t comfortable. He sighs and can see his breath in front of him. (If Hannibal has a difficult time dealing with the cold, being stuck in here is not going to do him any good. He could tell him to go back to the motel and curl up under his blanket, but the promise of paperwork for breaking protocol gives him pause. Maybe tomorrow he can convince him to carry his blanket in.) Neither of them shed their jackets, and they follow Beverly through a maze of grey and brown halls until they come to a little office space with their names taped to the door.

Inside is a table, more of a desk but he understands they intend for them to use it as a table, with pictures of each crime scene, a selection of bagged evidence, all reports regarding the findings, magnets, and colored yarn. A decent sized whiteboard is pressed against the far window with two dry erase markers. This room is a box, it barely fits the table, whiteboard, and chairs, but if this is what they have, then they can make do.

Next time he sees Jack he’ll say something about this. The motel, the car, this tiny room. He’s fine with all of it, none of this is the worst he’s ever dealt with, but it bothers Hannibal and he won’t complain because he knows that hat the answer will be. He can have a different partner, one that’s better, one that they appreciate more than Will, who can’t work like Will. They need him more than they realize, he’s their saving grace, their hound dog, but they’d understand if Hannibal wanted to work with someone under better conditions.

Hannibal splays the photos out like playing cards.

“Do love and hate exist within each other?” he asks, eyes trained on a photo of one of the victims. “Or are we restricted to believe one must exist without the other? Can you hate your child for perceived sins but love them enough to send them to God?”

Will plucks the photo from the table and sticks it to the whiteboard. “I can feel the love, but it’s threaded with hatred. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Hannibal brings the second victim in this pair to the whiteboard and sticks it next to the girl. “Did you feel hated when you assumed his perspective?”

“No. I just see it in the acts. I can be biased sometimes too,” he says and turns away.

Around lunch, he goes to find the coffee machine. The day has warmed, they hear falling ice through the window, but none of the heat that was originally trapped in the building has stayed. Whoever is in charge of the generators turns the heat off at some point this morning, to conserve gas he supposes, but it’s freezing them both out. Hannibal has grown quieter as the temperature has dropped but remains helpful. He offers connections, but his recession disturbs Will.

He makes two cups of coffee. He considers the packets of hot chocolate on the counter, something sweet might lift Hannibal’s spirits, but it’s never as good through a coffee machine, and their refrigerator has sweet cream but no milk.

After this, they’ve agreed to head down to the morgue. Will needs to be up close with the bodies, and the cramped office space has him feeling flighty. 

“You’re Doctor Lecter’s partner?” one of the deputies asks. She’s sitting at the round table in the corner, drinking soup straight out of a thermos. A mousy girl, he didn’t notice her when he came in.

Will spoons sugar into the bottom of Hannibal’s cup. He asked for two scoops of sugar, but he actually wants three, and a generous helping of milk or cream. “Yes.”

She slurps more of the soup. It sounds thick. “What’s he like?”

“He’s smart,” Will says flatly. Another spoonful of sugar and he pours the coffee into his cup.

“He’s kind of pretty.” Another long slurp. “Cleaner than most guys, you know?”

Will pauses. “He’s put together, yes.”

She means to say more, but Will turns his back to her.

In the ten minutes it takes Will to make their coffees and return, a gaggle of young deputies have collected around Hannibal to listen to him talk. He’s animated, although he’s resting in one of the uncomfortable chairs the sheriff’s department so graciously supplied. None of them see that he’s wilted from the freeze, they see the color of his cheeks and the light in his eyes. 

Will has to push through them to get into the office, and he finds another handful packed in. Whatever he said to the deputies at the scene yesterday has filtered its way through the different shifts and all of them want to get close to him. This has happened three other times.

“I brought you something warm to drink.” He sets the cup down hard. “We need to go look at the bodies down in the morgue.”

The young deputies gawk at him. They can’t believe that he’s come over and cut their conversation short.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Hannibal dismisses them. “My partner requires my assistance.”

All but two of the deputies disperse.

Hannibal pushes up from the seat so they’re toe to toe. Will has nothing he wants to say, they need to do their job and leave. He knew they liked him, the young police always do, and under their attention, he’s perked back up. Having a reason to perform always serves him well.

“Their interest is so brazen,” Hannibal says quietly enough that the two lingering don’t hear. “Although, from some of the older deputies, I sense hostility.”

“Don’t worry about it. You have a clean face and a lot of money, stuff like that can make older people wary,” Will assures.

“Does it make you wary? My money?” he asks. “Or my clean face?”

He frowns. “No, you just make me weary.”

Hannibal smiles, a flash of teeth, more than he gives anyone else. “You believe you’re funny.”

“No, Doctor Lecter, you remind me enough that I’m not.” He steps back. There are eyes on them, he can feel the two deputies monitoring their every move.

For the younger members of the force, Hannibal is a worldly distraction. He has culture they can never dream of, all they’ll ever have is Beaufort or Charleston, maybe Savannah on a drunken weekend. He cannot deny that these cities have some of what they want, but Hannibal is the heart of all they believe they can be with the right friends. He’d consider Myrtle Beach as their typical epicenter, the closest any of them will ever see of a metropolitan area, but that offers little in the way of the worldliness they crave.

By the time he was their age, early 20s he guesses, he had seen more of the United States than they can dream of, and he still doesn’t consider himself cultured in the way that Hannibal is. From back home in Louisiana to Colorado, to Maine and Mississippi. It doesn’t take money to travel, that’s what they don’t understand.

“Doctor Lecter,” the young woman from the break room, one of the two who linger, calls, “do you think y’all will catch the killer?”

“We hope so,” he says. “Could you help us find the morgue? We need to observe the bodies of the previous victims directly to make a more complete assessment of their final moments.”

She nods. Her and her partner, a stocky man covered in freckles, lead the way through another maze of halls. The building goes on forever, filled with empty rooms that house fake plants and the old smell of wood siding. This county doesn’t have any major cities, only a larger town, some 5,000 residents in and around town limits, but there’s nothing extravagant about it. The county itself may have a lot of people in the rural parts, but the longer they walk, the more he agrees with Beverly. This building has too much space. Perhaps a high crime rate, but he’ll check when they return to the motel tonight to be sure. To him, this all feels like fraud rather than real work, but what can they do? From his experience most police are frauds, and the rest are committing worse atrocities than the people they arrest.

The young woman and her partner chat with Hannibal the whole way. Conversation about the case dies down and they begin to discuss personal affairs, relationships, rumors, which restaurants to go to and which to avoid. Hannibal is strategic about what he reveals to them. They divulge anything they think might catch Hannibal’s attention and he never tells them anything personal.

When they arrive at the morgue, having taken what must be the scenic route through the department building, Beverly and the rest of the team are gone. Lunch somewhere warm, he’s thinks. However, six bodies are laid out for them. He hoped she’d be here so they could go over what was found so far, but this will have to do until tomorrow. It might be good for their own perception of the bodies not to hear the facts, they can come together tomorrow and put it all together.

The two deputies tuck themselves against the parallel wall to observe them up as they work, and as annoying as they are—standing closest to Hannibal, fawning, their desire for his singular attention to fall on either of them choking the sterile air—he imagines they have their own protocol about leaving people unattended, especially those not from their force. Still, it’s obvious that the woman wants him, and maybe the man does too, but Will can’t tell in what way his desire has formed, and he refuses to acknowledge it beyond this fleeting observation.

Jealousy claws through him, a rabid animal dying to bite, except he knows why. They may not see Hannibal for the delicate but resilient bloom he is, but they can have him in some way. Maybe only bodily, but isn’t that enough? He turns away, and looks down the line of bodies. The latest two victims are still in their coolers.

Each body resembles the last. Their hair, their eye color, their build. The killer prefers girls with straight noses and boys with flatter ones. Each of the girls have destroyed nails, their fight being vicious. The man they’re looking for will have wounds on his hands and arms, but the DNA will have no matches in the system, and he’s smart enough to avoid facial wounds. He likes to feel them struggle, he likes to know that ultimately he (God, his excuse) won. His hatred (his need to save) for his daughter likely interferes with his familial relationships. They may need to look into religious leaders with estranged wives.

A list of possible sins has started to form in his mind. Leaving the church, disavowing the father, leading the younger brother astray, convincing the mother to leave. There’s a root cause in all of this that their killer doesn’t want to acknowledge, he is not a sinner in his eyes. If he were, doing what he does would be murder, and he couldn’t ignore what he’s don’t to spur on all of these things. He wonders what might happen if their killer is presented with his own doctrine, it’ll say he’s a sinner, that they all are, and to consider himself not, is blasphemous.

At the far end, the third young man melts into a puddle and reconstitutes into the shape of Hannibal. His body has been shaved, he lays on the cold metal exam table. He isn’t cold, he doesn’t shiver. Nonetheless, Will feels the need to cover him, to rub life back into his papery skin. Innocence still clings to him despite all the horribleness in the world. It reaches out to him, demanding things he can’t name or give.

Will looks at the girl’s body next to him, tongue between his canines, but she stays as she is, and he sighs through his nose in panicked relief. If he looks at any of the young men, all he’ll see is Hannibal, and his bias will interfere with his ability to accurately profile their killer. He can leave them to Hannibal, and it would be good for him, he’s never fond of the hand holding some people offer because of his age.

“They’re all runaways. None are local. North Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee, but I imagine he picks them up from the city. Charleston, we’re closer to there than Beaufort or Savannah. His church might be there too, but I doubt it.” Will pulls a glove on and goes down the line checking teeth. “Runaways from decent families, at least in terms of medicine. They all have good teeth. He views them as deserving. Those runaways from broken homes are tainted, they don’t deserve his compassion, but these have been…” He makes a vague waving gesture. “Seduced by sin, but are capable of returning to their previous innocent state.”

“He offers them the security they once had, and then abuses that power. By the time they realize he is not what he seems, their leg is caught in a snare,” Hannibal agrees. “Perhaps when he takes them in, he doesn’t plan to kill them, but he wishes to fill the void left by his own children. He is secretly recreating a family he lost.”

It could be. He picks a girl and a boy, likely around the age his children were when they left, and tries to keep them. To groom them into what his children should have become instead of whatever they are now, but he has a firm hand, and the moment one acts out enough to cause a reaction from the other, he has to purify them.

He wonders how he picks them. So far, none of them have been related, but maybe he finds pairs who have created a tight bond and takes them in, maybe he cultivates that bond over months, maybe it’s completely at random. So far, no one knows anything about how each pair knows each other. Of the homeless shelters and other runaways that have been spoken to, it appears random. Maybe they all end up at his church and meet in youth group, maybe that’s where he sees the connection, but they’ll need a foot in the door at the churches in both the town and all over the county, and that will not be an easy feat.

“But it doesn’t feel like a secret. He has, or he believes he has, approval.” Will chews the tip of his tongue. “I doubt his congregation knows, but he’s asked their permission. Maybe to house runaways that attend their church.”

“If he was a reverend as Jack proposed, why would he have asked?” he questions, his voice a touch quieter. “He leads his church. He would not grovel for their permission.”

Hannibal has circled around, their bodies mere inches apart. The two young deputies watch them with intrigue, but he doesn’t sense jealousy coming off of them. He’s no threat to their plans.

“There are six Methodist churches in this town. Probably closer to 30 in the whole county, and churches are… particular about giving away their members.” Will looks back at him. Hannibal is right there, if he took a half step back, they’d be pressed together. He should pull away, but he doesn’t dare move. This isn’t a subtle attempt at flirting, Hannibal is shivering. “But a Youth Pastor might.”

With the help of the two deputies, who he discovers are named Ackerman and Croft, he doesn’t ask for first names, they return to the small office. They’re luckily called away, actually having to do their jobs rather than bother them, and Will shuts and locks the door to avoid any further interruptions before he delegates tasks. Hannibal skims through reports, looking for the names of any Youth Pastors that may have inserted themselves in the earlier investigations, while Will reorganizes the board.

If they’ve met at the same church, and their faces have been shown on the news, someone does know them. The first two may have been recognized by their crosses they bore, but the rest, even if they stick to themselves, have gone noticed. Not by an entire congregation, but someone has seen each face and knows who’s doing this.

Churches keep too many things private. They’ll be trying to help him without involving the police.

He puts the pictures of their cross necklaces at the top. The FBI can have the news run a story about the crosses, not about the murders, but maybe about the ice storm. If they present it as these handmade necklaces being on the bodies of two victims of the ice storm, someone may reach out from the church. It might take a little persuasion on his part, but he thinks it will be their best shot.

“They’re leaving us alone. Jack and his team. They seem to believe we have this under control,” Hannibal says after a while of working. He’s making his own list.

“Jack isn’t here right now, he had an emergency meeting about the Chesapeake Ripper.” Will huffs, “but it’s fine, you garner plenty of attention to keep us preoccupied.”

The door knob shakes, neither of them move to grab it.

“They’re not so entertaining. Is it wrong for me to enjoy the attention?”

He shifts another picture. He’s started lining them up based on the most common features between the six. Their killer will have similar ones. “No.”

They work in silence again. The clock on the wall ticks, the sound reverberating through Will’s ears. Up until now, it’s been background noise, but it mingles with Hannibal’s soft breaths, and his head pounds. Their time in a professional setting is coming to a close, and soon they’ll be squished in that bed together, pretending the other isn’t there. Or, Will is going to be pretending. Nothing is going to happen, but Hannibal won’t let this pass without enjoying it. He knows that it won’t happen again.

If only he knew he was asleep in his arms last night, it might satiate him, but that’s a memory for Will to keep and not share. He can call on it in a few months or years when Hannibal has moved on, remember the weight of his body in his arm, and the feeling of his face pressed to his neck, and know he’s done the right thing.

“I prefer your attention,” Hannibal says then. “Do you think that’s wrong, Will?”

The marker squeaks as Will jots down similar features. Hair color, skin color, face shape.

He wets his lips. “It’s normal to want the approval of someone older than you. Try and hurry up, we’ll have to present all of this to Jack tomorrow, and the roads are going to get bad again soon.”

He feels Hannibal’s eyes burning into him, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Jack calls Will ten minutes to 5 and he ducks outside to take it. He asks about the weather—it’s only gotten colder, and the wind has picked up—what they’ve discovered, and what they have yet to uncover. If Will says what he thinks, that he has a perfectly good team, with years of training and experience, that could have figured all of this out without pulling Will from his classroom or Hannibal from his patients, Jack would never let it go. It’s the truth though, and it itches inside of his throat. They’ve grown lazy.

The door opens as he’s ending the call. Hannibal scurries out, his coat wrapped tight around his middle, his gloves have reappeared.

“You might not want to be out here,” he says. The cold has seeped into Will through his layers, and Hannibal doesn’t nearly have as many. “I can get you when I’m ready to go.”

Hannibal stands close to him. His cheeks and nose are already red. “If you share your heat I can manage.”

He frowns. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You are my partner, being out here alone is against protocol. I would hate to have to tell Jack about this lapse in judgement,” Hannibal scolds.

He narrows his eyes at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“You are forcing me to stay in that motel,” he retorts, “then you have to follow those protocols you intend for me to.”

Will sighs through his nose. God. He thinks he hates this kid.

“You know that you’re wrong for that. I was on the phone with Jack. I’m sure he realizes we weren’t together, he didn’t hear you in the background.”

Hannibal grabs Will’s jacket pocket, his fingers slip in, and he doesn’t stop him. “Is it wrong to want to be near you?”

Yes, he wants to say, yes, it’s wrong that he wants to be near him, that he wants his attention, that he curled into his arms last night, and it’s worse that Will wants him close, or doesn’t, he doesn’t know. He can’t begin to understand where the line is between what he wants and what he should do. It’s beginning to blend.

“Listen—“

The door slams open. Hannibal doesn’t move from his side, but his hand slips from Will’s jacket pocket.

“Doctor Lecter,” Ackerman sighs, relief floods her mousy face. “Some of us will be off duty soon. We wanted to know if you wanted to come with us to a bar in town. It stays open during storms and everyone on day shift is going there.”

“If Will can come,” he tells her without hesitation, “new protocol with the FBI, we must remain with our partners.”

Her face flashes with displeasure but she hides it well. Whatever to get what she, and so many others, want. “Of course. The more the merrier.”

“We’ll follow behind you,” Hannibal says and she nods and heads back inside. 

Hannibal turns his grin to Will.

This is what he gets for ever indulging him. As much as all the previous police have liked Hannibal, so few of them have made attempts to get him. He’s the most interesting thing that has ever happened to this town, and he’s going to take it and run with it.

He blows out a breath, but Hannibal has already agreed, so he passes the keys to him. “Go get in the car then.”

His grin widens, and he practically prances to the car, victorious. It’s such a small win.

The door opens again, a half dozen deputies come out in plain clothes. They must have expected to have to stay the night, but they’re lucky that conditions in the building are so bad.

“Is he single?” Ackerman asks. She’s in jeans and a t-shirt. That’ll never impress Hannibal, and if she thinks her small town charm might, she’s misjudged him.

His eyebrows knit together. “I think so.”

Nearly a dozen people stream out of the back door before Will gets into the car. Whatever this bar is, it’s going to be packed. He only hope they have plenty of gas and don’t have to be stingy with the heat. 

Hannibal has the heat all the way up in the car. He wonders why the cold bothers him so much. They’ve discussed so little of his life before Baltimore, he knows it has to relate.

The bar is only twenty minutes from the sheriff's department. Packed. It astounds him what people will do for alcohol, but he knows his judgment is asinine. It isn’t a rare occasion for him to do the same, even now, he’s happy for the invitation. A strong glass of whiskey will do him some good, it might help him untangle his feelings and work the rest of the case in resignation rather than pain.

“Two hours max,” he instructs as he parks at the back of the parking lot. “Jack plans to meet us at 7 tomorrow.”

“Yes sir,” Hannibal chuckles and gets out of the car.

Neon lights burn, the faint sizzling noise rings through his ears as soon as they enter. The generators that keep this place going are older than most of the people in here, he’s sure of that, but it’s warm, and that counts for something.

The inside is as lackluster as he expects. Wood, the scent of beer, sticky plaster floors that will never wipe clean. For once, Hannibal doesn’t seem perturbed by it, but if he had invited him somewhere like this, it would have been catastrophic. It’s the victory that keeps him happy, and the promised attention. He gives it an hour, then Hannibal will have drunk up all he can of this place and they’ll go. He doesn’t say this though, he lets it be.

A small pocket of deputies are sat at one of the tables, the ones that have shown Hannibal the most attention, and they call for him. Will rips away from his side before he can be dragged over and heads straight for the bar. He’s going to entertain the deputies and their friends that have crawled out from the warmth of their houses despite the danger the roads impose. Will doesn’t want anything to do with that. In his own experience, people from towns like this offer nothing of interest, and worse still, his jealousy will not allow him to sit near Hannibal while so many people engage with him in the way he wishes he could. They will touch his arm, make vulgar comments passed off as jokes, try to convince him to come to bed. He can’t stomach it.

Rumors have always circulated, he usually handles those well, but it’s hard enough for him to see Hannibal in the newspaper on someone’s arm or with someone in his arms, he can’t face it directly.

He slides onto one of the cracked barstools and orders five fingers of whiskey neat. It isn’t like he’s in the position to get drunk, but he needs something to take the edge off and last night’s cigarette isn’t cutting it.

Different deputies he’s seen poking around the department today come up and order drinks. Shots of all kinds, glasses of cheap wine he can’t believe Hannibal drinks, cocktails named after sexual positions. This isn’t like him. This erratic behavior is meant to get a reaction, just as his little comments and occasional snaps of attitude. Will checks his watch and his phone. Anything to not give Hannibal what wants. (It’ll be more than he wants if Will relinquishes control.) Alana has his dogs and they’re fine, sad she says, but okay, Beverly agrees to meet at noon, Jack is on a flight there now.

He starts scrolling apps, adding things to his Lowe’s cart, checking his email, looking at the one social media app he has and never uses.

A cacophony of laughter erupts from across the bar. His gaze flits up to Hannibal, smiling sweetly, red faced. He’s had too many shots, he’s not sure Hannibal has ever had a shot before tonight, and while he trusts him to gauge how much he can take from any usual glass of wine or liquor, he knows Hannibal is pushing himself too far. Any time he has the chance, he flounces around and draws more attention, and people feed into it. They love him, the way he talks, his intelligence, his stories about travel. He’s something they’ll remember in 10, 20 years time. The Count that visited once, that told them of Paris and London and little towns in Italy.

Their eyes meet. The guilt in Will mixes with a tender ache he knows as well as the pain that comes from first seeing Hannibal again after so long. He wishes he was holding him by the hips and listening to him talk rather than sitting across the bar allowing him to do whatever he pleases until the two hour mark is up. He wishes, more than anything, he never started to feel this way.

It was so sudden. Their first case together, Hannibal stood shoulder to shoulder with him as they observed a body. There wasn’t anything extraordinary about it, Hannibal looked over, and in the sunlight he could see the maroon of his eyes with such clarity. Hannibal smiled genuinely and the pain started. The beginning was intoxicating, a bruise he pushed on with fantasy to feel the tingle of pain, but now it’s grown necrotic.

Will turns toward the bar to sip his whiskey in peace. If he can’t see him, then it can’t bother him. This is his punishment, this throbbing heartache. Of all the things he’s done that he regrets, not removing himself the moment he started to feel something for Hannibal has to be number one. He thought it would go away.

A pair of heavy arms slip over his shoulders.

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal purrs in his ear. “Do you miss me?”

He sniffles. “Are you ready to go?”

“No. I thought I could convince you to sit with me. You look like a kicked dog, and I would much prefer your presence at the table compared to anyone else’s.”

Will turns around, Hannibal’s arms drop. “I don’t want to get in the middle of your fun. They don’t like me.”

Somehow this is taken as an invitation. Hannibal wraps his arms around Will’s shoulders and slides onto his lap. He leans in until their breaths are mingling, scented with whiskey and cheap wine. Will swallows.

“You don’t need to be on me like this,” Will says, stiff but not unwilling.

He can’t push him away. The desire comes up inside of him and then collapses, a pile of silky ash low in his belly. Over the rim of his glasses he takes a quick look around, nervous to be caught, nervous about the young man lounging on his lap.

“Why? Is our friendship so sterile?” he murmurs. His fingers comb through the curls at the base of Will’s neck, his eyes shine with intoxication. “I always find you looking at me. How strange, there are so many pretty young women here, but I have your attention.”

“We aren’t friends, Doctor Lecter, and we aren’t here to fraternize with these… people,” he grits out.

“Should I deny myself any experience because of a job? Or are you jealous they aren’t showing you attention? Is that why you watch me?” His hands slide up Will’s chest. His heart quickens; Hannibal knows why he’s watching him, why he’s hiding away in this corner. Doesn’t he?

He grabs Hannibal’s wrist but does not pull his hand away. He lets him touch as he pleases.“I don’t care about them. You’re my responsibility, and you don’t know how to act. The Bureau kill me if anything happened to you.”

Hannibal leans closer, the subtle scent of his cologne strangles Will, and the hand rubbing across his chest undoes him. “Your responsibility, you talk about me as if I’m one of your dogs.”

“My dogs are better behaved.”

“Do you hate me, Will?” he murmurs, his voice gentling. It doesn’t sound like one of his many performances, it sounds as genuine as he’s ever been. As that first smile. Why doesn’t he know?

Will’s face creases, his hand rubs over Hannibal’s back so he doesn’t accidentally slip off of his lap. “No, of course not. That… isn’t what this is.”

“You behave so cruelly to me.” He presses their cheeks together, whimpering in his ear. “I try to bridge the gap between us, and you will give, and then take it away again. What have I done to deserve this?”

“I’m trying to do the right thing, Doctor Lecter. You have to understand that, you have to see,” he insists.

Hannibal cups his cheek, thumbing under his eye. No one is looking, but his heart races. If someone notices them, if they care, they could tell, and he knows how Jack feels about inter-team relations. He knows how quickly they’ll be separated and this can’t be why.

He stomach churns. He’s wanted to shake Hannibal for months, but the thought of losing him hurts. If he just never came to another case, he could handle that, but he can see one of those deputies reporting to Jack what they see now, and the separation would not be an easy wound to stitch together again.

“The right thing would not have you so disjointed.” Hannibal kisses his neck. One soft kiss to test and when Will doesn’t jerk away, he’s all teeth and tongue, rubbing across his chest, licking his pulse. The bulky collar of Will’s jacket is clutched down in his hand. They blend in this way, there are plenty of people behaving obscenely. “It must hurt you, keeping us at a remove.”

“Hannibal—“

“No one is looking,” he says against his skin, “no one cares. Only you.”

He sucks in a breath. A pinprick of pleasure is forming in his belly. “You’re too young for me, Hannibal, please…”

“I dream about you, Will, and you put on this performance, as if you hate me. You want our colleagues to believe it so they are blinded to the truth. You want to believe it.” Hannibal’s hand rubs up over his neck, his lips brush his jaw. “I nearly believed it.”

Will squeezes his side. “Someone needs to keep you humble.”

His cock throbs, hardening under Hannibal’s weight. He knows Hannibal is hard too, although he hasn’t dared look. In his mind, he feels their lust match equal. This may be the first time in his life he’s sure of his own attraction, and not just someone else’s bleeding into him. He can’t do this, he needs to stop it, but Hannibal kisses him beneath the curve of his jaw and it takes everything in him not to moan.

“Will you take me back to our room? Or should I find someone else here to go home with? I have had plenty of offers, both from the bar patrons and deputies,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to see him, “someone said they would take me to the bathroom if I wanted it now.”

“Watch your mouth.” He grabs him by the jaw and squeezes before he can think better of it. “You sound vulgar.”

“Why, when I could have any man or woman here? If you cannot give me what I want, then someone will.”

Will squeezes his body until they’re flush. He wants to tell him to go, to snap at him and make him think he’s wrong about Will not hating him, but Hannibal returns to kissing his neck and Will can’t bring himself to do anything. He glances around the bar again, but no one is looking at them. The people here are either used to lewd displays or don’t care what’s happening outside of themselves. People of the police are behaving worse.

“You’re testing my patience,” he sighs out, teetering the line between calmness and anger. Sweltering heat laps up inside of him, over his belly and across his ribs. “Get off of my lap.”

Without argument, Hannibal slides from Will and glides off to mingle with the deputies that brought them here. They cheer for his arrival, as if he has done some grand thing by returning to them. Hannibal glances at him, a funny smile on his face. He wants Will to come to him, he expects it now, but he doesn’t give in.

Will shoots back his whiskey hoping for relief. His breath trembles. His guilt isn’t something he can discard, it exists within him as any other defect, but it hasn’t kept him from Hannibal. 

He scrubs his face, his fingers dig into his jaw and into his eyes. He has another five fingers. Just one more.

They’ve already passed acceptability, he knows there are pinprick bruises on his neck from Hannibal’s mouth that are going to darken, and he allowed him to do it. Instead of thinking about the case, instead of putting what’s right first, he let Hannibal lounge across his lap in public and touch him like a lover.

He turns back to Hannibal. It’s almost been an hour. Hannibal has started rejecting their free drinks—how does he do it? One day and he already has them frothing at the mouth for him. A few more and they’ll be making proclamations of love or lust or both. He rejects a shot and it isn’t taken with dismay, but humor. He has to work in the morning, he can’t suffer from a hangover when the boss gets here. They laugh as he says it, understanding.

They don’t see him though. They see what he wants, charismatic, young, sharp. They can’t see the innocence, the redness in his cheeks that make him look younger than his years, how his eyes keep looking to Will for approval. That he wilts or blossoms depending on how Will reacts to whatever he’s doing. They’re too enthralled in the performance. Both of their performances.

Hannibal is telling some story about a previous case. Will’s name lingers in the air, rolling off of his tongue with ease. The murders are a background detail to what he focuses on, but somehow no one notices. Too drunk or unconcerned by such an older, plain man. After all, there’s plenty of Hannibal to go around.

One of the older men, not a deputy that Will can tell, grabs Hannibal by the waist mid-story and Hannibal laughs strangely at this unexpected contact, but rubs his hands over this man’s shoulders anyway. Will’s body moves of its own accord, leaving cash for his drinks, shoving his wallet and phone away, stalking across the room until he’s pushed his way between the man and Hannibal.

“Come on, we need to go,” he states. This man, one who has only arrived in the last twenty minutes, stares at him with that look that begs for an apology for his rudeness, but Will doesn’t spare him a glance. “The roads are only going to get worse.”

Hannibal’s grin widens and he turns to the people around them. “I’d rather not, I can find a ride. Or perhaps I’ll see you in the morning. It can be our secret, you went out before me earlier and I—“

Will takes a fistful of his shirt collar and hauls him off. His coat and suit jacket are laid over a chair, and Will snatches them up, kind enough not to leave Hannibal’s things, and pushes him toward the door.

Hannibal doesn’t fight. Will knows he’s folding, he can feel the spindly desire unraveling inside of him; he needs to send Hannibal somewhere else. He should drop him off at one of the nice hotels nearer Charleston, give him cash for a room, but he shoves him into the car and comes around with no intention of doing what’s right.

What he should have done, and what would have saved them both from this, was push him off his lap the moment Hannibal’s lips touched his throat. After seeing him so withdrawn throughout the day, it’s hard to deny him anything, whether that be a few hours at the bar or a few minutes on his lap, but Will should have, and they could have gone about their typical dynamic without change, but everything is different now. He’s let his attraction for Hannibal get in the way of his control—this morning, coupled with the two visions of him as the bodies have turned him upside down—but there is no stopping now, however much he hates himself in the morning means nothing as the car rolls out of the parking lot.

“That was very rude, Will,” Hannibal chastises. “To cut me off in the middle of a conversation. I expect better of you.”

Will taps his thumbs against the steering wheel. There are more people on the road now than earlier. Trees and limbs have fallen, everything is coated in a shiny sheet of ice, and they pass several work trucks heading back from what they’ve done today. So few people care about the danger.

“I’ve always been rude.”

Hannibal sucks his teeth. “I know. I told you, the way treat me. As if I’ve done something to offend your person.”

He bites his tongue, and his face pinches at the petulant behavior. The pain shoots through him but the jealousy doesn’t disappear. It’s bursting out of the seams. He has him all to himself, he has plans for him, since he wants to offer himself up to any and everyone that wants him, and he still can’t contain it. It isn’t enough.

“That’s exactly the problem. You haven’t done anything. I wish you would.” His teeth cut into his tongue. “I wish you’d free me from this.”

Everything Hannibal has done from the moment they met has been an attempt to get his attention, his approval. When Hannibal asks Will to look over everything he does, to his classroom, to lunches. It hasn’t gotten the reaction he hoped. Will has managed to distance himself from Hannibal each time, it’s taken work, but he’s tired now. He doesn’t have it in him, not if this is how Hannibal plans to get his attention every time until he gives.

The linemen are outside smoking when they get to the motel. The one from the night before waves but Will pushes Hannibal along without acknowledging him. A cigarette isn’t going to calm him down enough not to fuck sense into Hannibal. If he wants Will, then he can have him.

His breath mists in front of his face. He should have picked up that space heater, but the nearest home improvement store is over an hour away and all the small ones in town are closed. They’ll have to share heat, that obviously isn’t a problem for Hannibal, he’s willing to do so with anyone.

Hannibal starts to turn into him, his teeth catching on his lip. He has something to say, cruel or bratty or both. Will wraps his hand around his throat and snatches him toward him, their bodies slot together. He forces his tongue into Hannibal’s willing mouth, the sweetness of grenadine and bitterness of cheap liquor clings to his teeth and tongue, but Will doesn’t care. Hannibal moans, a sweet little whimper that goes straight to his cock.

His hand slips from Hannibal’s throat and over his chest, popping buttons open until his skin is exposed, and he gropes him as he pleases.

“I’m cold,” he whines. 

Will undoes his pants, backing him up against the bed until Hannibal falls against it.

“Take your pants off and lay on your stomach,” he directs. “And be quiet.”

Hannibal obeys, removing his shoes, his pants, underwear, and socks until he’s nude. His cock is slightly smaller than he expected, uncut, and twitching with how hard it is between Hannibal’s legs.

Will watches him slide over their blankets and the one supplied by the motel, legs parted enough, his cock laid flat between them, the head dribbling clear fluid. Goosebumps form over his thighs to his pert ass.

He walks around the bed and spits on his fingers, barely coating them before he presses two into Hannibal. His legs quiver, his hole squeezes around the intrusion of his fingers. He pumps in and out a few times, less than two minutes, and then removes his hand and steps back.

The sight in front of him is ecstasy. All of his fantasies have come to fruition, inch after inch of perfect skin waiting for him, and the guilt is stuffed down enough due to his anger that he can enjoy it. Hannibal has laid his head on crossed arms, his dark eyes shining up at him, begging for what’s to come. He undoes his pants and crawls over him.

“Look at yourself.” He takes him by the hair and forces him to look into the dirty mirror. “You think you’re pretty.”

“Yes, I do,” he says without shame.

Will drops his head back. He spits into his hand again, slicks his cock, and guides it down. The head catches on his hole, the muscles of his body squeeze Will as he pumps into him. Each roll of his hips brings louder sounds from Hannibal. He should’ve known that telling him to be quiet wouldn’t work, but he isn’t quiet either, and could never be. 

Once he’s a decent amount of the way into him, he flattens his chest over his back, his knees pressing against Hannibal’s to force his hips up slightly, and he locks his arm around his throat. They’re both looking into the mirror.

Another thrust and they’re flush, Hannibal is so warm and soft beneath and around him, the feeling tingles through Will. The haze of pleasure after wanting him for so long almost overshadows the little choking sounds Hannibal makes, but he doesn’t dare miss them.

“It’s—so much,” he cries out, clawing at sleeve.

“You needed to show off, didn’t you?” Will breathes against his ear. He watches as he slides in and out of Hannibal, the supple body beneath him twitches each time Will buries his cock to the hilt. “Your fine suits and expensive cologne, the face you put on every morning, it isn’t enough.”

“Yes. It’s for you. I wanted you to see me, to want me,” he moans. 

Hannibal tries to push up against him, but he’s crushed, and Will pulls almost all the way out. Hannibal cries, begging for him to come back, and then he slams into him.

“You’ll sit on my lap on the bar and then promise some cop you don’t know that he can take you home,” he sneers, “I didn’t realize you were so easy, Doctor Lecter. Do you want me, or do you just want anybody with a working cock?”

“You, only you,” he whines.

To some degree, he believes him. Hannibal wanted his attention and he was willing to do whatever it took to get it, and he’s won, but he doesn’t believe he wouldn’t have gone home with any of the people there. If Will didn’t give, why not find what he’s looking for with a younger man or woman? Why not let an older cop take him and pretend it’s Will?

Will shoves his nose in his hair and breathes him in. Heat is building low in his belly, but he doesn’t worry about orgasm. He’s never been quick to come, and he isn’t done with him. If he finishes before he’s ready, he’ll sit Hannibal in his lap and touch him until he’s begging for release. He can give him his attention if that’s what he needs so badly. 

He thrusts faster, their bodies smack together hard. His tears soak Will’s flannel, and his fingers find the flesh of his wrist and draw blood. The pain is nothing, it turns him on.

Hannibal looks at him in the mirror. Tears stream down his cheeks but he sees that glint of victory in his eyes again. He knows he’s won, and he knows they can’t take this back. “Do you think I’m pretty, Will?”

His nostrils flare. The answer is easy, it comes to him all the time. He’s known that there would never be another person for him, never someone he would look at and think compares. Even now, face red and tear stained, he’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

“Do you think any of those cops could’ve fucked you like this?” Will demands. He can’t answer Hannibal’s question. He can’t give that much away.

Hannibal blinks. He’s quiet for a long moment. “No.”

“But you would’ve let them take you home,” he snaps.

“No.” He moves his face enough to kiss what of his arm he can. “I wouldn’t have.”

“That’s not how it looked to me.” He frees Hannibal’s throat and presses his face to the mattress. Like this, he can almost see his cock sliding into him in the mirror, faster with every thrust. “You let some perverted old man put his hands on you.”

“No. It couldn’t be—with a stranger,” he mumbles, his mouth squished from Will’s hand.

Will freezes. He’s halfway inside of him, cock throbbing, but neither of them move. His eyes move from the mirror to the side of his face under his hand. “What?”

It’s quiet. The linemen outside are talking, but their voices are muffled, and Hannibal is breathing hard. Will doesn’t feel the thundering of his heart, or the quickening of his breaths, he only focuses on Hannibal.

“Hannibal.” He’s gentler now. His anger bleeds out quickly and in the void it leaves viscous guilt to return. This is what Hannibal wants, he knew this was the sex they would have, but is it the sex they should have? “What does that mean?”

But he knows. It’s in the quiver of his voice and the slackness of his body. It’s his delicate petals, the innocence he’s tried to hide. It should have always been apparent, it feels like it has been, and that Will has been oblivious. 

“I’m a virgin.” He looks up at Will from the corner of his eye. “Or I was.”

“Fuck.” Will pulls out and moves away from him. He sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the door. The air is colder, or maybe it’s what he’s done. Dark, thick self-hatred consumes him. “Oh my God, you’re so stupid.”

“I got what I wanted,” he says, and Will knows he’s trying to soothe him. His foot edges toward him until it’s pressed to his side. “All I wanted was you. Come back, Will. I need you to finish inside of me.”

“You should have told me,” he snaps and recedes. “Don’t you get it? I would not have—“

He wouldn’t have fucked him nearly dry, and Hannibal just let him do it.

His cock hasn’t softened though. If anything, he’s only grown harder since his confession. He’s special, Hannibal gave him something he’s held tightly to. He wanted him to have it, he’s trusted with it. He knew this is how it would be, with anyone he guesses. With all the rumors, he knows no one would have gone into this gently.

“You’re lying,” he decides. “You want to upset me.”

“I’ve only known my own hands,” he tells him earnestly. He doesn’t reach for him, Will doesn’t understand why. “Not a man or a woman. I thought… I knew I would eventually, but when we met I wanted it to be you.”

Will rubs his face. A droplet of precome rolls down his cock. He can’t shove his desires down anymore, they’ve taken hold of him, he has to finish this, he needs to, and he needs to make it right. 

Hannibal moves, kneeling on the edge of the bed. “I’m cold, Will.”

He forces his eyes from the door to Hannibal. He’s shivering, his eyes wide and hoping, his little wilted flower. This is worse than anger, isn’t it? It must feel close to rejection. 

“You didn’t think I’d want you,” he surmises. So much of their previous interactions make sense now. Why he made his comments, but never tried anything. Why he’s let this go on for months. All his interactions with other people, hoping to prove to Will that his inexperience doesn’t matter. That he could play the part, and was willing to be whatever it took. “You thought I knew that you were a virgin.”

It’s quiet again, Hannibal doesn’t have to say so, Will knows it’s true. He must have only realized that Will didn’t know it while they were fucking. That’s worse to consider, how Hannibal would ever think Will would fuck him that way while knowing. It’s sick.

Will slips from the bed and pulls the near empty bottle of lube from his bag. He undresses slowly—it is freezing in here—and slicks his cock. 

“Lay on your back, baby. Not on the side of the bed,” he says and sits back on the bed, waiting for him to do as he says.

Hannibal listens, easing back onto his silk pillow. Goosebumps have risen all over his arms and chest, his nipples are hard. Will follows him. He doesn’t slide into him immediately, although he knows it’s what is expected, he kisses him instead, and lays his full weight over him. His shivering slows, and only then does he push his cock between his legs. Slow, careful. Hannibal relaxes quicker than the last time and wraps his arms around Will’s sides.

The tight warmth of his body feels better like this. Silkier, gentler. Despite how it started, he’s never preferred rough sex to this, not when it’s deserved. Their bodies feel better this way, the pleasure encompasses them both rather than pricking fast and hard.

“That feels good,” Hannibal mumbles against his cheek.

“I know.” He turns his face to kiss him. “Better?”

“I would take anything you wish to give me, Will.” But he sighs as he thrusts back into him, “Better.”

The pulsating guilt doesn’t allow for anything but slow, calculated thrusts, and with Hannibal clinging to him, mewling in his ear, he doesn’t want to do anything more than this. It doesn’t make sense to him, but Hannibal likes to subvert expectations. Why would he wait so long to have sex though? He’s a self declared hedonist. As special as he feels to be the one to cut his last thread of innocence, it’s unmooring. All the things he would have done differently play through his head. Hannibal’s assumption was right, Will would never have touched him if he knew. 

Hannibal doesn’t turn his face from his cheek as he starts to tremble. “It feels strange, Will. Not like my, hah, hand.”

Will pushes up enough to kiss his face, his lips and tear-soaked cheeks, the bridge of his nose, the side of his forehead. It distracts Hannibal from the hand pushing between their bodies, he wants to bask in his affection too much. Will starts to rub his cock in time with his thrusts, he’s soaking wet, he has to be close.

Hannibal squeezes his eyes shut. “Wait,” he groans, “I don’t—“

“Just breathe,” Will shushes. His body tenses under him, Hannibal’s legs wrap around his hips, and hot fluid spurts out between them. He cries, cursing, gripping Will’s hair too tight. “I know, baby, I know. It feels so good.”

The tightening of his body makes Will come. Hannibal’s body is sucking his cock in, and he can’t fight the mounting pleasure. It sharpens and warms, hot and fast through his cock. He buries his face in his hair, his hips moving fast to chase the pleasure, slamming into him over and over until he starts to soften.

Hannibal clings to him when Will slides out, shivering again. Will kisses his hair until he’s able to peel away from him and get a wash cloth.

“It’s too cold,” Hannibal complains. “You promised to buy a space heater.”

His voice is dreamy and wet. He’s barely caught his breath and he’s already complaining. Will sighs, but he’s content with it. If Hannibal stopped complaining, even after that, he’d be worried. 

(Maybe that’s what Hannibal wants, he’s being trying to worry him this entire time.)

“One second. I’ll get you warm again.” He wipes him up, the wash cloth is warm, but Hannibal sighs as he runs over his belly and cock.

Hannibal lays his face on Will’s thigh, tears still wetting his eyelashes. The shivering has worsened, and he starts to curl up into himself. He tosses the wash cloth onto the nightstand and pulls up the closest blanket to wrap Hannibal in, and then he lays beside him. He expects to sleep with Hannibal in his arms, but Hannibal keeps moving. He flips to face him and then flips away.

“Stop squirming,” he chides and pushes him flat on his back. He can just lay on top of him if he needs to.

“I find your gentle attention difficult to handle,” he confesses and tries to stop, but Will can tell it’s impossible. His legs move or his arms, he licks his lips and shivers although he isn’t cold anymore.

He lays half on top of him and presses chaste kisses to his throat and jaw. “Why’s that?”

“You’ve never been this gentle with me before,” he says.

The honesty strikes Will. He hesitates to say anything, there’s no adequate rebuttal. Of course, he has. Several times, but as he thinks it over, these moments of gentleness come in the midst of stern direction. He can’t blame Hannibal for his inability to adjust when the majority of their physical interactions have been one sided. 

So much of what they have, it seems, has been set in the wrong context. 

“Your body is probably still recovering from earlier,” he reassures, and that probably is some of it. “I wish I would have known.” 

Whether Hannibal ever admits to it or not, he knows he has to hurt. It may be less now, a dull throb, but it’s there. He can feel the way Hannibal’s emotions fluctuate because of it. Not sad, per se, but he’s going through the motions of acceptance. 

For the next six or so months, he knows Hannibal intends on using this against him. If they argue, if Will becomes distant, if Will says no to dinner, he’ll remind him how he took his virginity and he’ll bend to whatever request he has. He’d be forgiven for thinking this is why Hannibal behaved that way, but he the longer he considers it, and without anger and as much lust coursing through him, he knows in his drunkenness, he wasn’t considering that Will might fuck him with a little spit and nothing else. Of course, he accepted a long time ago whatever sex they had would have to be rough, but there’s no way he could have predicted that.

“I hardly feel as if I’ve lost anything,” Hannibal hums. “This is nicer than anything I could have hoped for.”

“I think you have,” Will says, sighing, a new wave of guilt engulfs him, and he does believe he’ll always feel this way. There’s nothing he can do except live with it. He’s already gone too far to take it back—but he doesn’t know what they’ll be like moving forward. Together? He feels like they should, he wants to be, but he isn’t sure, and right now isn’t the time to ask.

It takes time, but Hannibal starts to doze. His fingers loosen on Will and his squirming stops. Will watches him, they only have the lamp on, and he’ll get up to turn it off soon, but he takes the time to admire Hannibal’s calmness. There’s a sweetness to him still, although he never doubted it would leave. His breathing slows, and he feels his heartbeat become indecipherable from the rise and fall of his chest.

A few minutes later, when he thinks he’s asleep, Will rolls over to turn the lamp off.

“I’m cold,” Hannibal murmurs. “Will you hold me?”

“I am holding you.” But he pulls him flush and strokes his back anyway. Hannibal isn’t warmed natured like him, he’ll absolutely have to get the space heater tomorrow. 

They’re both almost fully asleep when Will’s phone rings. Hannibal jerks awake and Will scrambles to answer it. Half-asleep and he knows it’s Jack, he knows why he’s calling.

“Hello,” he answers, and Jack starts immediately.

He listens to him talk, Hannibal presses his face to the hollow of Will’s neck. His fingers glide over his chest, tugging him closer. 

He sighs at the end and sets his phone on the other side of Hannibal. “There are two more bodies, discovered about thirty minutes ago.”

“Nothing will be contaminated by the morning, it will all be frozen,” he argues. “We could go then.”

“Do you want Jack to come get us?” He certainly doesn’t. 

“Maybe he should,” he teases and squeezes Will a little closer. “He would be pleased to know we’re getting along.”

“I’d rather not do that,” he mutters. Hannibal kisses the corner of his mouth, he’s trying to persuade him, but he’s won too much tonight for Will to entertain the idea of not going. “You don’t want to deal with that.”

It takes a moment before Hannibal lets Will go. He’s already sulking. Will picks up the clothes he dropped on the floor and starts dressing, if they go without any fuss, there’s a chance they can make it quick. Hannibal crawls from the bed and opens his suitcase for something that hasn’t touched the floor when he accepts that Will isn’t giving in. He’s pouting. Will’s heart thumps.

“I have an extra sweater,” he offers, “you need the layers.”

Hannibal’s eyes brighten. “That would be very helpful, thank you, Will.”

It’s a grey sweater, soft, more expensive than he typically buys. He planned to wear it tomorrow, but he has other sweaters, and his jacket is better than Hannibal’s is for the weather. He helps Hannibal into it, he doesn’t need to, he isn’t sure Hannibal wants him to, but he feels like he should, and he’s glad to be obliged.

“Do you feel okay?” he asks.

Hannibal pulls his coat over his shoulders. It bulks him up nicely, he shouldn’t freeze now. “Yes, I feel great, only tired.”

There’s no reason to argue with him. He’ll watch him though, just in case he starts to emotionally deteriorate.

“We’ll talk in the morning about this,” he promises. 

He checks behind the curtain. A few of the linemen are lingering around their work trucks still, and the neighbors from the other side of the motel have come out to ask for cigarettes. 

“I know what I want,” Hannibal tells him, there’s no room for debate. “It’s only a matter of what you want.”

What he wants isn’t that simple, but this close post-sex is not the appropriate time to talk through every worry he has in regards to his wants. He’d like to still have Hannibal in the bed, he thinks he needs it after what happened, but there’s no excuse he could give Jack that would suffice. He’ll have to make it up to Hannibal somehow, maybe find a breakfast diner to take him to in the morning, or let him sleep in.

Will takes a sharp breath and adjusts the collar of the sweater, rubbing his thumb over Hannibal’s slow pulse. He’s warmer now, he thinks he has a mild fever. “Then I guess we’re on the same page.”