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"Now is my way clear, now is the meaning plain:
Temptation shall not come in this kind again,"
‘Murder in the Cathedral’ - TS Eliot
..........................................................
He loved the smell of gun oil in the morning. Smelt like ...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Sorry I’m late, Will - something... came up.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Of course, it’s my job to know. I’m an ex-Cop, remember? Sit down; I’ll get you a drink. You look like you could use one.”
“I could, as it happens. It’s been one of those nights.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not right now? Tomorrow. Maybe.”
“Drink this. It’ll help you relax.”
“Thanks. Aren’t you having one?”
“I’d rather not. So, Hannibal ... What did he want this time?”
Silence. And a heavy sigh.
“William ... Let’s not do this. Not now - I’m tired and frankly I’m talked out. Let’s just have our drinks...”
“Your drink.”
“OK, *my* drink. I just want to have *my* drink and go to bed.”
“As you wish.”
“No. Please, don’t say it like that.”
“Say what like what, Hannibal?”
“You know. ‘As you wish’, as if I issued you an order.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Oh Will, I don’t need this tonight. In fact, I don’t need this at any time. I‘m tired. Please, let‘s just go to bed.”
Hannibal rose wearily, made his way upstairs shadowed by Will, disrobed in silence and then slid between the smooth Egyptian cotton sheets of his king-size bed with an exhausted groan.
Will watched him, devouring the sight of smooth skin moulded so perfectly to sculptured muscle and enjoyed the simple grace with which the older man undressed. He closed his eyes and allowed his senses to be flooded with the familiar musky scent that clung lovingly and faithfully to Hannibal’s naked flesh, but recoiled from the faint but loathed smell of cigarettes that had leeched itself onto Hannibal’s clothing. Cigarette smells ... menthol cigarette smells and the really shitty aftershave that would have alerted Will, had he not already known, to the fact that Hannibal’s former protégé Randall Tier was back in town. Again. And Hannibal had been to see him. Without Will. Again.
Will sighed heavily, anger making his inner voice whimper like a petulant child. Hannibal’s seeming indifference made his heart ache with jealousy and fear and all his insecurities and notions of self-loathing squirmed beneath his skin like maggots. But they couldn’t be maggots, really. Maggots devoured decaying flesh, making way for the new. The rot inside Will only ever expanded - it never receded. He doubted that it ever would.
'Randall still smoking those stinking menthols, then? Huh. Figures.'
Hannibal’s eyes were upon him now, questioning. Will thought that perhaps he detected a glimmer of guilt in his perplexed gaze. Then again, maybe not. Hannibal had turned being stoic into an art form, and Will wasn’t sure that there was much patience in that cold, dark place for the pathetic, constant need for reassurance that Will practically bled.
“Are you coming to bed, Will?”
“Yes. Fine. I’ll be right with you.”
He went through the motions with his ablutions mechanically, cleansing and preparing. Preparing himself for the inevitability of being topped, because Hannibal rarely ever capitulated. Will paused then, surprised - blindsided by the jolt of resentment, the sharp sting of anger that the inevitability invoked.
He had dreams. Fantasies in which he watched the swell and flex of Hannibal’s taut muscles as he drove into him, the older man's strong back and shoulders rippling as his body was furrowed and ploughed by Will. The image of such strength and beauty beneath him, being taken by him, controlled by him, was breathtaking. Intoxicating.
Hannibal never faced him, in these dreams. Always he was on his knees, backside presented for use, his face hidden in pillows which captured his whimpers and moans, and frankly that was just the way that Will liked it. He had no wish to gaze deeply into Hannibal’s eyes, because then he would see himself reflected there, and oh *god* the very last thing that Will wanted to see mid-coitus was his own face, because who needed to be reminded what a damaged waste of a man he was whilst taking his lover? Who needed to be reminded that really, he was unworthy of topping such a magnificent beast as this monster of his? Will lived with this understanding every fucking day of his life, so no. He needed no reminding.
He wondered then, if Hannibal had ever allowed another man take him. Had he ever lay on his back, legs wrapped around some worthy, beautiful creature who rutted above him? Maybe, his treacherous fucking mind crowed ... maybe even Randall? Had he ever cried out in abandon, ever pulled his own legs wider apart to give greater access, ever given himself completely and utterly and without reserve to someone who wasn't Will?
Once, just once, Hannibal had allowed Will to take him. It had been his birthday and he’d spent an excruciating ten minutes on the telephone, speaking to his father. It wasn’t a call that he had received, but one that he’d made. He doubted his father had even remembered that it was his birthday, let alone cared. No, he’d be too busy worrying himself with things of greater importance than his socially awkward (and one might even say 'strange') son - matters of fishing boat motors, baseball bets and the quality of the beer in his local tavern. Matters other than those of a failed Cop and the stranger that he'd made of his own son.
It had been, in Will‘s mind, a pity fuck. A gesture from a dominant master to his sub which gave the gift of capitulation just once, not as an act of love, but rather one of kindness. And that fucking choked Will on so many levels, that all pleasure that the act should have conferred on him turned instead to humiliation and pain. His mind was unable to accept the fact that maybe - just maybe, it had been a conscious act of love on Hannibal's part. Denial had replaced reality in much of Will’s thought processes. Denial was, on the whole, easier to live with.
Afterwards, he’d wanted to kill Hannibal. His fantasies about killing the older man were usually mutually shared and understood in their context, but this time ... this time, he'd really wanted to end him. Of course, he never did. Hannibal was his dark god, after all. His redeemer and his damnation. His hope and his despair. A symbol of all that he loved and all that he hated. Will martyred his body beneath Il Mostro night after night in the name of love - relinquished all for the modicum of comfort that Hannibal's body gave him, for the perceived semblance of love given that fed the craving within him. Will bore his stigmata on the inside, where it bled constantly, and the ache from it made him want to weep until he drowned in his own tears.
There were nights, lying awake in the darkness, that he’d visualized himself actually doing it. Overcoming Hannibal in some fashion and then cutting his throat. He tried to imagine how it would feel, not only the act of murder, but also the aftermath. Would he be euphoric, or instead driven to the depths of despair? He suspected some measure of both.
Once, he’d actually unfurled himself from the older man's arms as they huddled post-coitus in a haze of sleep and sweat and spent desire, and lay on his side beside Hannibal, holding a razor purloined from the inside of his pillow against Hannibal's throat. One that he'd kept there 'for protection', 'just in case' ... at least that what he'd told Hannibal when the older man had first discovered it. Hannibal had studied him, expression inscrutable as always and merely smiled. And oh god ... one part of Will had screamed for release from this man, this monster, and this self-defeating love. The other, for Hannibal to awake and embrace him and heal the wounds that he carried deep within him. But Hannibal had slept on, and Will had found himself unable to make an end of him. And so he had sat there, shaking with terror and impotence and a rage that was as much sorrow as anger and wept silently. His stigmata bled on.
“William?”
He flinched then, jolted from his musings.
“Will? Are you feeling unwell?”
Will ran his hands through his hair and gravely studied the face in the mirror before him. He noticed a few fine lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a year before, the odd grey hair that promised to bring more of its friends to the party at a later date. In reality, he didn’t look all that different now from when he’d first met Hannibal, although there was a hardness around his mouth and a cold, hard glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there previously.
Naivety had taken a flying fucking leap into the wide blue yonder shortly after Will had taken up Uncle Jack's work at Quantico. Any lingering innocence and pureness that he still owned was quickly swallowed and devoured by the nature of his life and employment, and the constant company of killers in his head. His thoughts were often not tasty - in fact, they scared the shit out of him when it got right down to it, because it became more apparent as time passed that transferring his feelings of horror and fascination to those of indifference was becoming ... untenable. As were the frequent erections straining against his trousers at crime scenes. Inside, he was still the insecure, unstable, lonely man that he always had been, but the darkness once buried so deeply inside him was rebelling - refusing to be denied any longer. The knife-edge that Will felt he walked seemed a little keener with every passing week and it seemed only a matter of time before it sliced him into a million pieces. He wondered if Hannibal could or indeed would be able to save him when that time came.
“Will?”
A whisper of a breath on the back of his neck told him that Hannibal stood behind him. Will shuddered and sighed. “I’m sorry, Hannibal. I got caught up in my own thoughts, I’ll be right with you.”
“Are you sure everything is alright, Will? I ... I’m sorry if I was a bit ... brusque.”
Will felt strong, warm arms encircle his waist and he couldn’t help but lean back into the embrace. “It’s ok, I understand - I was worried about you, that’s all. It just seems that these days you're ... distracted. Detatched. And now Randall has revealed his beast ...”
And there it was - the flinch. Whenever Randall's name was spoken or his crimes screamed across the pages of Tatler Crime, Hannibal never failed to flinch. It was ironic in a way - because Will just knew that he had the same effect on his own father. Mind you, Will wasn’t a psychopathic, homicidal killing-machine. Well, not yet. He’d often mused that perhaps dear old daddy would have respected him more if he had been.
Warm lips nuzzled his throat and Hannibal’s voice purred in his ear.
“Don’t worry about Randall. I’ve a feeling that his trouble-causing days are coming to a swift end.”
And then the lips and the arms were gone as Hannibal walked back into the bedroom, and Will could feel his lover detach himself, pull himself back into his impenetrable fortress of calm.
A last sigh and Will followed him, slipping into their bed and lying on his back staring at the ceiling. He felt Hannibal beside him, tense, waiting.
“I wish you wouldn’t shut me out, Hannibal. We’re supposed to be...” And god, could he ever stop sighing? It seemed that every thought and every word was balanced precariously on a sigh, these days.
Hannibal turned quickly onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow. “We’re not *supposed* to be anything, Will. We *are* lovers. I’m your lover - not your master, not the boss of you. Your lover. Your equal. Why can’t you see that?”
“I can. I do.”
“No, you do not. You see me as a controlling monster. Which, granted, I am. A monster. Except I'm not controlling. Am I? Is that how you really see me?"
“Of course not.”
“There was a pause, Will.”
“What? No, I was just...”
“No William, there was a definite pause. Is that what I am to you? Controlling? Unfeeling? The monster hiding beneath your bed, intent on devouring you?”
Silence.
“I am better than that, Will. That is not what you are to me, you are more than just meat. Please, don't get me wrong, I want to devour you, to savour and taste you. But I want more than a one-time deal. I want you at my table, sharing with you. Then I want to take you to our bed and devour you in my own way ... in a way that ensures I can do it again, night after night.”
Despite himself, Will smiled.
'I love you, Will. As much as I am capable of loving anyone or anything. It pains me that after all that has gone between us, you can't seem to see that.'
And suddenly, Hannibal was on him. Hot, insistent lips met his and strong arms enfolded him and oh sweet Jesus it hurt so much inside. He should be yearning, rejoicing ... he should be melting into Hannibal’s touch, and he was. But the wounds within him were so raw and the agony so unrelenting that instead of melting, he sobbed. Just once. But once was enough.
The sudden grief and pain in Hannibal’s eyes startled him. 'God, I'm losing my grip' Will thought. And it frightened him. More control relinquished.
“William. Please ... What's going through that head of yours?”
“I’m sorry. I’m ok. I’m all right.”
“No you are not. You’re very far from ‘all right’. It’s Randall, isn’t it? You’re worried about tonight. About Randall. About the relationship we have.”
“I smell him on you. His damn menthol cigarettes and his fucking aftershave. I smell it all over your clothes. Your hair. Your skin.”
“And you thought... Oh no. No. Never. I would never do that. Not to him. Not to you.”
“To *him*? I don’t care about him! I care about me! About us!”
“Of course. No, that’s not what I meant. It’s... complicated.”
“Too complicated for me to understand, I suppose. Another fucking serial-killer Master Class type of thing?”
“NO! No. It’s just... Randall. He needed my guidance tonight and I...”
“I needed you. I need you every night.”
“He is becoming, Will!”
And there it was. Another kick in the fucking guts. Another shitty little fact to further undermine the crumbling foundations of Will Graham. Randall was becoming. Evolving in the way that Hannibal craved for Will. Now Randall had something that Will had not. Randall had the advantage, the upper hand. Why the fuck would Hannibal want a frightened, indecisive, shell-of-a-man like him, when he could have Randall to hunt at his side. To share his bed and do all the dark, delicious things that Will was, as yet, unable to accept and act upon?
That Hannibal had allowed Will into his life at all had never ceased to amaze Will. Perhaps Hannibal thought that Will evened out the balance a little - made it that bit easier for Hannibal to sin and slaughter and devour whilst keeping his carefully constructed people suit pristine. After all, who would ever suspect that the Chesapeake Ripper was partnered with the very man tasked to catch him? For all of his life, Hannibal hadn't just broken and ignored societal rules and norms, no ... he had ripped up the rulebook and ate it. With a nice Bordeaux and someone's fucking liver. Will wondered what was left for Hannibal now? What debauchery was left unmolested, what soul and mind unsullied, un-manipulated. Was this the truth of what Will was to Hannibal? Was he merely Hannibal's last temptation?
Will was incensed. Jealous. Frightened. “Becoming? How the fuck is that pathetic bastardisation of a bear and a fucking cat 'becoming'?” And no, he didn’t just imagine the sudden flash of anger in Hannibal’s eyes, but he chose to ignore it. He could do that if he wanted to, couldn’t he? Ignore? Deny? Maybe, thought Will, he’d created an art form of his own.
“Its not as simple or banal as you would present it, Will. Randall has stepped outside his limits ... outside society's limits and you would mock him for that? Mock him whilst you, in all your potential and wicked glory hide behind your grey morality and weep for your diminishing humanity? Cringe and cry when the darkness inside you makes your body and mind scream, whilst you hide in the corner like a small boy and weep for something that you never actually possessed. I’m the only one who can help him, Will - and it is happy coincidence that he wants my help, whilst others, more deserving, break my heart by denying and thwarting me at every turn.”
Will shook, tears threatening to ravage and dissolve him. “You bastard. YOU BASTARD!”
And again, that tilt of the head, that unreadable expression. 'And exactly why is that, Will? When have I wronged you? When have I laid any conditions upon our relationship? I have never insisted or cajoled. I have been patient ... will continue to be patient ... will be here, whether or not you decide to ascend, because you are mine. And I am yours.”
Hannibal leaned closer and lightly brushed Will’s lips with his. “Enough about Randall. Enough about everything. I’m tired.”
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::
A change of position and some minutes later, Will sat astride Hannibal, massaging oil into stiff shoulders, his strong, lean hands kneading the knots of tension away and making Hannibal groan in enjoyment and relief. The older man squirmed a little beneath him, a sure sign that the massage was definitely perking up more than Hannibal’s mood.
If Hannibal was surprised when Will suddenly snapped a pair of handcuffs over his wrists and attached them to the wooden bedpost, he did a great job of not showing it. Will looked infinitely more shocked. He was sweating lightly and his hands trembled - not just with the exertion of the massage.
Beneath him, Hannibal chuckled.
“Darling Will, you do know that I can break out of these things just about any time I want to?”
Will didn’t miss the underlying warning, mild though it was. Hannibal wasn’t accustomed to being tied down - it wasn’t something that was initiated, unless Will was the one being restrained.
“Possibly. But you have to ask yourself, Hannibal... Do you really want to?”
There was silence beneath him.
“I mean... Who knows, you might even enjoy it, someone else being in charge for a change. Someone else being in control.”
Will was sweating profusely now, and more than a little shocked at his own actions. He hadn’t thought about restraining Hannibal, it had just sort of happened. The handcuffs had been in their usual place, in the bedside drawer beside the lube and massage oil - although they weren’t used on Hannibal. That privilege belonged to Will alone. But Will suddenly found himself calm - surprisingly unruffled. He felt cool. Collected. He felt in control, and the feeling was exhilarating. Not to mention sexy as hell.
Hannibal’s voice was quiet, deceptively calm, but Will could nearly feel the inner turmoil as Hannibal tried to decide whether or not to continue humouring his lover. Hannibal might have a perfectly tailored person-suit, but beneath his skin he was still an alpha who didn’t take well to being fettered like a pet. There was a hard edge to Hannibal’s normally smooth voice and it went straight to Will’s crotch making him harder than he’d ever been before.
“Is that what you want? To be in control?” Hannibal tried to twist his body around to face his lover, but Will leaned heavily on him, preventing him from moving.
“Don’t move, Hannibal. Stay just like that. I want to touch you. I want to look at you, see you lose control. I want to know what's it's like, being you. I want to see through your eyes. Taste with your lips. Touch with your hands.”
Slowly Will slid down Hannibal’s body, relishing the feel of warm, smooth flesh against his. When his face was flush with Hannibal’s throat he whispered. “And I want you to know what it is to be me.”
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::
Will thought that the expanse of flesh beneath his tongue would never end - that it would flow unerringly for miles. Hannibal's skin was like peach skin - the smooth hide covering shoulder muscles that were taut and stretched and trembling, swelling over buttocks and hips to dip again into the shallow valleys of thigh and inner-knee that felt downy as silky hairs tickled Will's lips and teased his tongue.
Downwards to the wrinkled soles of Hannibal’s feet and the smoother pad of his largest toe, which, with its smooth underbelly and bulging tip, felt like a miniature penis in his mouth. Will sucked it gently, teased it with his teeth and revelled in being able to make the beautiful creature beneath him whimper and beg.
His teeth and lips made the journey back, pausing momentarily as Will firmly nudged Hannibal's legs wider apart. Then the tongue returned, tickling a path from buttock to perineum before plunging wetly into Hannibal’s anus.
Beneath him, Hannibal gasped and cried out and Will couldn’t help but wonder why Hannibal had never given himself up to this before. After all, the pleasure to be had from receiving was considerable. But then again it was a matter of control, was it not? And for Will, having no control, not ever, had left him feeling detached and inanimate. This act of taking made him feel more alive than he ever had before, and made his past capitulations seem all the more agonizing and emasculating.
He wondered now if there could ever be a way back for him after this night.
Will paused in his ministrations, tongue aching and lungs begging for oxygen. Hannibal moaned quietly.
“Oh god... Is this what it’s like? Is this what it’s like to be you, Will?”
The statement hit him like a slap in the face. No. This wasn’t what it was like, not at all. Because Hannibal sounded confident. Assured. In control. And when Will was fettered below him, he felt none of those things. Anger sent little jolts of electricity rocketing through his veins and his tongue suddenly tasted of ashes. He gritted his teeth hard enough to make his jaw cramp and closed his eyes, fighting back the acidic bile that threatened to make him vomit.
Reaching up, Will grabbed a handful of his lover’s hair and pulled back his head, pushing himself upward along Hannibal’s body with his free hand. The older man hissed in pain as Will increased the tension on his scalp and he leaned forward, bringing his lips close to Hannibal’s ear.
“Are you sure you want to know, Hannibal? Are you sure you want to know what it is to be me?”
Another hard yank coaxed a groan of pain from his partner. Will could nearly feel the sudden anger radiate from Hannibal, but surprisingly he didn’t try to break his restraints - rather he lay perfectly still beneath Will.
“Why don’t you show me?” Hannibal hissed.
Will thought that he might lose it, then. Something dark and howling and ravenous finally burst free inside him and he could barely see he was so blinded with sensation and lust and burning, insane desire. He let go of Hannibal’s head and leant over the end of the bed. Reaching underneath, his trembling hand found what it was looking for, and he pulled the small box up and onto the bed.
“What are you doing, Will?”
Hannibal’s voice sounded strained and Will wondered for a second how Hannibal must have been feeling right about now. He found he didn’t give a fuck. Opening the box, he removed a cloth bundle which he unwrapped unhurriedly to reveal a gun, gleaming and slick with oil.
“What do you think it is?” Will pushed the box to one side and straddled Hannibal again. Then he traced a large figure of eight on his lover's back with the barrel of the gun.
Hannibal flinched. “Will ... is that a gun?”
Will lips twisted in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Top marks. What gave it away? The chill of the barrel? Or maybe, it was the smell of the oil? What was it, Hannibal?”
Will was gratified to feel his lover quiver beneath him and he knew that Hannibal was more aroused than afraid.
“The smell. It was the smell.”
“Ah, I see.” Will trailed the barrel slowly along the curvature of Hannibal’s spine and over the swell of his buttocks, then leisurely along the thigh to the back of the knee before pausing and raising it to eye level. He inspected the gun slowly, opening the chamber and peering inside. He flicked it closed and stared at it intently for a moment, before spinning the chamber. Reaching over into the box he retrieved a can of oil which he liberally sprayed over the barrel of the gun.
“Do you know what type of gun this is, Hannibal? I’ll tell you, shall I? It’s a .44 Magnum, beautiful piece of workmanship.”
He trailed the barrel of the gun in lazy circles around Hannibal’s buttocks leaving a shiny trail of oil. Then slowly he slid the barrel between Hannibal’s legs, lightly brushing his perineum with the tip. His lover arched upwards with a growl.
“It belonged to my father - it’s the only thing of his that I’ve ever possessed. He didn’t give it to me, not exactly. Actually, I rather doubt he even knows it’s missing. But then, he never could appreciate the truly fine things in life. He never gave real, honest beauty its due. I’ve always found that very... sad.”
Will’s brow furrowed in concentration and he pressed the blunt tip of the gun against Hannibal’s anus, slowly working the barrel inside him. Millimetre by millimetre.
Hannibal hissed, his broad shoulders flexing as he strained against his fetters. His back arched into Will’s touch and small droplets of oil leaked from the barrel as Will rotated the gun in Hannibal’s ass, stretching him.
“And this, Hannibal, is a truly beautiful weapon. It’s got an 8 and 3/8" long barrel - did you know that? It used to have a frontal sight, but I’ve filed that down - it detracted from its sleek lines, I found. Nevertheless, it’s still quite an impressive piece. It’s rumoured to be the most powerful handgun in the world - this thing could down an elephant. I’ve often wondered how it would fare against Randall and his bastardised bear-cat.”
He worked the gun deeper now, thrusting and then revolving the barrel inside Hannibal. He licked his lips, watching the cold steel disappear into the older man's flesh; flesh that was quivering and slick with the oil leaking from Hannibal’s hole as the gun plunged ever deeper. When Hannibal howled, Will knew he’d gotten the angle of his thrusts just right.
"I've never thought that using a gun could be such an intimate act. Have you, Hannibal?"
Hannibal twisted and growled beneath him. "For God's sake, Will ... please ..."
“So Hannibal, do you like being me? Do you like being fucked like this? Do you like staring death in the face, never knowing if the gun will go off, never knowing if the bullet will pierce your heart and make an end of you? Do you like walking on a knife-edge?”
Hannibal could only moan.
Will was panting so hard now that he could hardly speak. His free hand was busy in his lap, stroking his cock in time with the thrusts of the gun inside his lover. Hannibal was whimpering, begging for release - muscles trembling as he pulled back on the handcuffs and bore down on the gun. Will could smell blood. Blood that flowed from deep welts on Hannibal’s wrists as the cuffs dug deeply into his flesh. Will wondered how much longer the restraints would hold him, and prayed for just another few moments.
Holding the gun steady, Will pulled back the hammer with his thumb and locked it into position. Beneath him Hannibal cried out as he recognized the sound of the weapon being cocked. Releasing his own cock, Will reached around and took Hannibal’s in his fist, stroking him hard as he drove the gun into Hannibal's anus.
He knew Hannibal was close now and he tightened his grip on his cock, his other hand thrusting wildly, fucking Hannibal hard. He felt Hannibal stiffen beneath him with the onset of his orgasm and at that moment Will pulled the trigger. There was an audible click as the hammer struck home and the thud reverberated throughout Hannibal’s body, a perfect accompaniment to the Hannibal's howl of pleasure as he pulsed cool ropes of semen over Will's hand.
Pulling the gun from Hannibal’s body, Will took its place, mounting him and ramming his cock into the vampire’s oil-slicked entrance. He rode him hard, his fingernails tattooing half-moons in Hannibal’s hips as he drove his cock into him again and again, fucking him viciously. His orgasm was so intense that he thought he might pass out and he called out Hannibal’s name, tears drenching his cheeks as he rode out the spasms and then collapsed heavily onto his lover's back.
Hannibal’s knees finally gave out and the two men fell in an exhausted heap onto the bed, the gun sliding over the edge and landing with a loud clatter on the floor. Will lay dazed, his body unable, unwilling to move. But Hannibal squirmed beneath him, and with a sickening crunch he wrenched the handcuffs from the remains of the ruined bedstead, tiny wooden splinters showering his hair like confetti.
"See?" Hannibal chuckled “Could have gotten out of them any time I wanted.“
He sat up and slid Will from his back onto the bed, and leant over, shaking the splinters from his hair.
"I think we can dispense of these now, mylimasis.” Hannibal rattled the cuffs, little droplets of blood splattering the bedcover like scarlet tears. He didn’t seem to notice.
Wearily, wordlessly Will complied. Then he lay down and Hannibal gathered him in his arms.
“My darling boy, my Will. That was... you are a revelation. You are truly divine.”
Will lay in his arms, sweat soaking every inch of his body. He felt... powerful. Brutal. He felt in control.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, it was very good, wasn’t it?”
Hannibal’s lips searched for his. “You were very good” he whispered, before gently freeing himself from Will’s embrace and getting out of bed. “I’ll be right back, I need to freshen up. Can I get you something?”
Will smiled and shook his head. “Please. A glass of water, I’m parched. And hurry it up, will you?”
Hannibal grinned back and then chuckled. “Just be thankful that thing wasn’t loaded, otherwise you’d have to get it for yourself.”
When the door slid closed, Will arose quickly and retrieved the gun from the floor. His smile was gone now and he felt as if ice had replaced his blood and was chilling its way towards his heart.
He flicked open the chamber and tipped the gun to one side, catching the lone bullet as it fell from the gun.
“Yes” he murmured. “Thank your lucky stars.”
And the knife-edge Will Graham walked became a razor.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
He loved the smell of gun oil in the morning. Smelt like ... Hannibal.
FIN