Chapter Text
Don’t say it.
Will glared at Hannibal’s back as he strode from the kitchen, biting down on his lower lip as though he could physically hold back the cruel words ready to shoot from his mouth. It was a futile effort and he knew it.
“So after all these years, I only have to insult your cooking and you’ll finally leave me alone? I should have known… it could have spared me years of trouble.”
Will regretted the poisonous words as soon as they were loosed. He regretted them just as much as the jibe he had let fly at the dinner table, and the breakfast table before it, and all the other innumerable barbs he had recently flung in Hannibal’s direction. Will regretted every second of his vicious sniping of late, but he just couldn’t seem to stop.
He couldn’t stop his words any more than he could stop his legs from following Hannibal’s long strides into the living room, unwilling to let him go so easily, tossing the wet dishtowel onto the floor in the corner just to see if he could detect a slight curl to Hannibal’s lip. He couldn’t, but that only made him want to try harder.
What the hell is wrong with you? Stop. Now.
They’d been on the run for only two weeks, having only recently settled into the first of what would undoubtedly prove to be a long line of Hannibal’s safe houses. But no matter the genteel surroundings or the comfortable atmosphere Hannibal had done his best to provide, Will’s nerves had been on edge since leaving the dreamlike limbo of the house on the bluff. His mind spun constantly, entirely unable to relax, nerves on edge and reality just a little too real for comfort…
Truth be told, Will had been insufferable, even to himself, and yet he didn’t know how to fix it, or even how to stop from making it worse.
Hannibal had settled himself quietly into a chair in front of the fire and was busy pretending to ignore him, a book open pointedly on his lap. Will slumped down into the chair opposite him, arms across his chest, defensive and aggressive at once. Hannibal’s face was a smooth mask as it gazed down at his open page with deceptive serenity. Will knew him well enough to know that such a schooled expression spelled danger, even for him, but the slight droop he detected in Hannibal’s shoulders betrayed a hurt that cut Will to the core.
What are you doing? Why do you insist on provoking him every time your nerves get the better of you?
“If your goal is for me to leave you alone Will, I fail to see how sitting next to me will help you achieve it.”
Hannibal’s voice was clipped and tight but Will could still hear indulgence behind his words. For some reason Hannibal’s infuriating patience with him since leaving the cabin only served to frustrate him all the more. He didn’t want indulgence. Didn’t want patience. He wanted a reaction. He wanted to stop feeling this way. He wanted help. He wanted Hannibal. He wanted…
You don’t know what you want, and you expect him to give it to you anyway.
Will dragged his palms down his face in exasperation. “And where else would I go? We’re conjoined, remember? Murder husbands on the run? Jesus, I can see Freddie’s headlines now.”
Hannibal closed the book and looked up at him passively, a slight considering tilt to his head. Despite his calm expression, Will could see the effort that went into maintaining that poise, the smouldering anger shifting behind his eyes.
“You haven’t seemed quite yourself since leaving the cabin, Will. Perhaps you regret your decision to leave with me? To be Murder Husbands on the run, as you say?”
Will wanted to remind Hannibal how far past regret they were. He wanted his tone to soften, to tell Hannibal he was sorry, to tell him that while he may be riddled with regrets, choosing this life wasn’t among them — that he didn’t know why he was acting like this. He wanted to tell him he loved him…
But he could no more get the words out than he could will himself to stop baiting the one person in the world he loved even more than his own sanity. It was infuriating, and mixed with Hannibal’s falsely passive expression, the frustration in his gut concocted another volley of toxic words before he could stop them.
“Are you giving me your psychiatrist tone Hannibal? It’s quite demure. Perhaps I fail to see how you can just sit there and read your book when I’m being so patently rude. Have I finally got you on a leash, or has Hannibal Lecter finally decided that rudeness no longer requires a firm hand?”
Hannibal hesitated for only a second, but Will could feel his mind ticking around his anger. The pregnant silence was broken only by the hiss and pop of the fire, stringing out the tension between them until Hannibal leaned forward in his seat, coiled like a snake ready to strike, eyes snapping up to hold his own, his tone no longer passive.
“Are you asking something of me, Will?” Danger flickered and curled around him, the ghost of a predatory smile on his lips. Will’s breath caught, that dangerous purr shocking him with an electric jolt that went straight to his groin. “Because if you are, you’ll need to do better than this. I have no interest in wasting my firm hand, as you call it, on your tiresome sniping. I’ll not reward bad behaviour.”
Like pinching out a flame, Hannibal sat back abruptly and opened his book, leaving Will’s mouth to open and close around half-formed retaliations, denials, outrage — How dare you?! That is not what I meant. You think that’s what this is about? — all of them falling to pieces under the weight of dawning realisation. Will shut his mouth and slowly sank back into the chair like he’d been punched in the gut, face red and his eyes far away.
Fuck.
That was exactly what this was about and the realisation came like a slap in the face.
How many times will you hurt him because you can never admit what you want?
The thought sent every last, misplaced angry thought straight out of Will’s head.
He had never forgotten the intensity of their first time together, the relief and the release — how Hannibal had overwhelmed his cruel defenses, how he had taken away the whirring and buzzing in Will’s mind that he had never quite been able to shake on his own. Hannibal had taken away the burden of his doubt and fear and guilt and given him back a peace he had never known. That night in the cabin, their wounds recovered but their potential still a looming tension, Hannibal had forced Will’s hand and saved him from himself. He had given Will everything he knew he wanted but would never have been able to ask for. Hannibal had taken it all from him, roughly, viciously, lovingly, and he had replaced it with ecstasy — pain and pleasure and everything in between and Will could not have been more grateful.
It had been beautiful.
But though they had been together countless times since then, the dynamic of that night had not repeated itself. Since that first time, Will had never relinquished control, quite the opposite in fact, and Hannibal had been all too happy to indulge him as he tested the limits of his new-found power over the man he loved. But that first night had never really left his thoughts. Hannibal’s voice, his command — hands rough and firm and undeniable, the knife… The rope. The memory thrilled through Will’s guts as he remembered how it had felt, rough on his skin, binding him and freeing him in equal measure. Transcendent.
I need that again.
Will could barely breathe as the truth of that revelation settled in his stomach and prickled along his skin. It was as undeniable as Hannibal’s voice had been that night. When Will rose slowly from his chair his legs were shaking. The full weight of this admission to himself left him feeling both heavy and remarkably light, like he was floating up out of his seat while his legs remained firmly rooted, laden with apprehension. The heat of the fire added a smoldering glow to the warmth already threading through his veins, rising to kiss his skin. Anticipation beat in his chest, as he forced his legs to move, turning away from Hannibal to walk himself slowly out of the room.
As if the very molecules in the air connected them, he could feel Hannibal watching him leave — burning eyes boring a hole in his back, angry, frustrated, but still adoring. There would undoubtedly be a question bitten off behind tightly pressed lips, too proud to speak as Will left the room without a word.
But Will couldn’t bring himself to speak… not yet. Instead he made his way to the bedroom, eyes fixed on the doorway, forward momentum essential. There was nothing he could say to express this need, this admission, this desire to surrender, this plea for relief. Words would fail him. So often they hid behind their words — their play at artifice buffering the startling glare of such raw intimacy and understanding. No, now was not a time for words, it would all come out wrong. What Will wanted from Hannibal would have to be shown.
A sacrifice for a gift.
Will closed the bedroom door behind him. For some reason he needed privacy to strip himself bare — to shed his armour. The light from the moon bathed the room in cool silver. He left the light off as though that silken glow could soothe the burning he felt rising to his cheeks and pooling in his gut.
Will undressed, nervous fingers slipping on buttons, shaky limbs stepping out of his pants…
Are you really doing this?
He moved deliberately, defying the doubt still scratching at the back of his mind, each item of clothing removed and placed carefully aside. It was beginning to feel like the first occurrence of a ritual, a preparation, a readying of the body for… something sacred? Although his face burned brighter at how… overwrought… that thought seemed, it still felt right somehow, as though his heart had been mulling over what his mind had failed to admit, even after all they had been through together — that he needed this, that he had always needed this.
Completely naked now, Will stood in front of the full-length mirror, appraising. He put his shoulders back, shook out his curls. Despite the moonlight he could see the blush blossoming red over his skin, physical evidence of an impossible mix of fear and need, and an old shame he knew didn’t truly belong to him anymore. He wasn’t hard — although his heart beat a staccato of anticipation, he didn’t want to presume.
All he could offer was himself. It felt a paltry recompense for his horrible behaviour of late, but he could only hope that Hannibal would understand what he needed — that he would have mercy…
But I don’t want mercy. He won’t make this easy. He can’t, and I don’t want him to.
With a thrill of fear, Will strode over to the closet and took down a looped and knotted length of jute rope from a duffle on the top shelf. With a steadying breath, and one last look in the mirror, the rope heavy between his hands, Will left the bedroom and walked back down the hall to the living room, blood rising to burn his skin. His steps were measured, bare feet quiet on the hardwood floor. His muscles were already trembling, but he did his best to keep his shoulders back and his head up.
Don’t hesitate. Hesitation will only mean retreat.
Will didn’t pause before walking into the room, letting his momentum carry him past that point of no return.
Hannibal hadn’t moved.
Although his chair faced away from him, Will could still see his legs, elegantly crossed, handsome brown leather shoes polished to a low lustre beneath crisply creased navy pants. One hand still held open the book on his lap. The other dangled a glass of wine from his fingers, the fire shining through its ruby depths and glinting off his platinum watch, loose on his wrist under a rolled up white sleeve.
Will’s body couldn’t help but respond to that solid presence, already the pull inside him so strong. He crossed the room as if reeled in by an invisible line tied straight to his gut.
When it came down to it, Will couldn’t look Hannibal in the eye as he stepped around his crossed legs to stand in front of him. He couldn’t bear to see what might be reflected back at him in those liquid depths... at least not yet. All he could do was stand before him, naked, exposed, head bowed and skin burning — the rope stretched between both hands like a talisman, an offering that he hoped would say what words could not.
He heard Hannibal’s sharp intake of breath, a single hitch, that brief second stringing the tension taut between them. Pride burned through him at that small noise, brief but hot, a memory of the power in surrender. Will couldn’t help but visualise how he must look standing there, firelight silhouetting naked skin, his silence speaking volumes, poised again on the edge of a cliff and waiting for Hannibal to pull him over this time, needing him to.
Before Hannibal could speak Will knelt before him and laid the rope at his feet — the rope and his naked body both offering and entreaty, request and demand — both himself and more than himself.
Please.
Hannibal didn’t move. Will slowly sat back on his heels but kept his head lowered, staring daggers into the rope as if he could will it into Hannibal’s hands. His breath was fast and shallow, muscles thrumming, fists clenched on his thighs — so tightly coiled that Will felt as though he could just as easily stand up and flee as strike Hannibal dead if he refused him.
Please, I need this from you. I need you to take this from me.
Will felt the silence string out between them as if his very breath were being sucked from his lungs, each second of tension mounting like a desperate sob at the back of his throat. Hannibal sat completely still, not a muscle moving, not even a hint of breath since that single gasp, but Will could feel his eyes on him like an icy burn, claiming… assessing… testing…
At the precise moment Will felt that the tension inside him would tear him apart, Hannibal finally moved, setting his wine glass slowly on the side table, the delicate clink of glass hitting glass remarkably loud in Will’s ears. Hannibal paused a second more before reaching out to grasp Will’s chin, tilting his head up, fingers soft but undeniable, burning his skin like a brand. Will allowed his head to be lifted, but still couldn’t bring himself to meet Hannibal’s eyes.
“Look at me, Will.” Hannibal’s voice was quiet, even, but his tone brooked no argument.
Will lifted his eyes with a sharp intake of breath, blue meeting amber, almost ready to beg if necessary… but the look he saw reflected there rose and swam in unshed tears of relief that softened Hannibal around the edges through a reflected halo of firelight. Those eyes understood. Hungry… loving… cruel and kind and everything in between. Those eyes saw him. They knew.
Please. I don’t know how else to ask. Don’t make me say it. Not yet.
“Remarkable.” Hannibal said it to himself, but the word sent a tremor through Will’s body. He tried to keep still as Hannibal’s thumb dragged across his lower lip. Otherwise Hannibal hadn’t moved a muscle — legs crossed calmly, the book still open in his lap, Will’s gaze held captive by his own.
Will could do nothing but do as he was told… to return Hannibal’s penetrating gaze as best he could, to wait, to ignore the voice in the back of his head that balked at even this small surrender and screamed at his exposure. In defiance of that voice, Will brought his hands up behind him, grasping his elbows behind his back in wordless supplication. He could feel Hannibal’s appreciation of this gesture, his approval, eyes predatory but proud.
“I know what you want from me, Will, and your… eloquence… is beautiful.”
Will felt himself preen slightly at the compliment, a fierce blush following almost immediately as he realized that he had done so. But when Hannibal’s voice came again, it was suddenly sharper, darker, his tone commanding and undeniable, coiling around Will’s heart to squeeze and quicken and coax…
“But make no mistake, Will, what you ask of me has no middle ground. If you want this, I intend to give you what you truly need… not just what you think you want. Nod if you understand me. I want no more words from you until I ask for them.”
In a hot rush, opposite poles of fear and desire and gratitude pulled at Will’s heart, while a surprisingly sharp sliver of indignation sliced through its centre, leaving him trembling with sudden defiant indecision. How dare you…
By its very nature, sacrifice must be dear. This was never going to be easy.
Will felt his eyes harden in a defiant stare, but he nodded his head slowly.
Will watched Hannibal take note of his hesitation, that knowing twitch of his lip and slight narrowing of his eyes spelling out a certain predatory amusement at Will’s contradiction, chastening him and his demanding defiance.
Hannibal uncrossed his legs slowly and leaned forward in his chair, mouth hovering hot at Will’s ear, the sudden closeness of his body filling his senses, thrumming through him like an electric current. Will gripped his elbows tighter to stop himself from reaching out, to touch, to grasp, to close the circuit.
“I’ll take it from you, Will.” Hannibal’s hot breath on his face — that resonant purr reaching inside him to settle warm in his belly and rapidly stiffening cock. “I’ll take more from you than you think you can give, and give you more than you think you can take. And in the end, you will thank me.”
Yes.
Need and power and fear surged through Will’s body, he could feel it burning behind his eyes as he all but demanded Hannibal to pick up the rope still coiled at his feet.
Yes. Do it. Now.
But instead of bending to pick it up, Hannibal lithely settled himself back in his chair, hands resting comfortably on the armrests, one eyebrow raising when he heard the frustrated sound that slipped from Will’s mouth — his eyes roved over Will’s naked skin, settling on his cock standing hard and red and insistent, a demand Will quickly realized betrayed his impertinent expectancy, his impatient greed.
He had presumed after all, and Will knew instinctively that he would pay for it.
Not knowing if it was in spite of that thought, or because of it, Will’s cock only got harder as he watched a menacing smile spread slowly across Hannibal’s lips.