Chapter Text
In the aftermath of his visit to the cabin across the lake, Will became a ghost.
He knew it wasn't subtle. At first, Molly chalked it up to one of his moods; a regular enough occurrence for a man with so much hurt in his past. She was prone to lows of her own, after all. But the longer the dark cloud of guilt followed him from room to room, occupying every inch of space until even the dogs grew uncomfortable beneath its weight, the less convincing his shrugs looked even to them.
He wanted to tell her. Needed to, especially as the silences grew claws that plucked and peeled at his innards. He glutted himself on self-flagellation, denying his body and mind their basic needs as a form of punishment for his sins.
The loathing was indulgent. It sickened him. He couldn't stop.
Sleep evaded Will with ease. It laughed at his attempts. His stomach cramped with hunger despite his mouth's unwillingness to eat. Cold hands trembled on the flies he tried in vain to tie, shaken by a mix of nerves and overcaffeination that left him restless.
Even his showers—his usual respite from the world and its morals—were tainted by desires he could no longer write off as fantasy. He had tasted the apple, licked its juices off clever fingers, and asked for more. Greedy. Insatiable. Filled to bursting. The worst kind of man, the sort he'd promised himself he'd never be.
Not with her. Not to her.
In penance, he denied himself that, too. Kept his washing perfunctory and didn't linger. He avoided touching all the places Duncan had lit up, endless though they seemed. By the fourth or fifth day he was waking up painfully hard, boxers tacky where he'd spent the night leaking from dreams of teeth in his neck. Biting his lip, he'd roll away from Molly and breathe through a clenched jaw until his erection went away enough for him to sneak out of bed and hide his shame in the bottom of the hamper.
In short, he was a wreck.
Will hadn't seen Duncan since that afternoon, where he'd been sure he was caught. Positive that Molly would see straight through his ruse, or at the very least, the marks Duncan had made no attempt to keep from leaving all over him.
But she hadn't. She'd accepted his explanation, distracted by thoughts of her own, without hesitation. The shock had been staggering. Will had no idea what to do with the freedom she gave him.
He avoided Duncan at first, but then the man had done him a cruel favor by taking off to parts unknown without a word. Rusty went with him, leaving Will to pace holes in the yard. The little cabin's chimney remained inert, smokeless, its lights darkened. Will tried not to watch it like a sailor's bride gazing longingly out to sea.
He was going to tell her. He was. After a week of the filmy, absent half-life he'd condemned himself to, there was no mercy but to come clean. She'd be furious, he knew, and devastated, but that would pass. Even after she left, which he had to believe she would, she'd have the truth. She'd have Walter, and her sister, and a future without Will hurting her more than he already had. He could give her that, even when he'd taken everything else.
That particular train of thought was chugging along, careening towards the rickety bridge of confession, when Molly burst into the bedroom with her phone in her hand and a silent scream held behind her teeth.
"Will," she gasped, face white and eyes wide.
His stomach dropped. She was shaking. It had to be about Duncan, she had to have found out somehow. Stupid, he thought, you should have told her the second you—
"He's escaped."
Time tripped and fumbled over itself as Will's mind attempted, in vain, to come back online. He blinked, frozen, unable to process what she'd said. There was only thing it could mean, but that wasn't possible.
Molly swallowed, waiting for her husband to arrive at the conversation. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, still as a statue.
"Will," she said, more demanding now, snapping him out of his trance as she moved into his space. "Did you hear me?"
She knelt to match his height, finding one of his hands on his knees with her own. The phone was gripped in her left fist. Physical contact ripped him to the surface. He met her eyes with an appropriately haunted expression.
"He…"
"Hannibal Lecter," she grimaced, her worry blaring its way into his empathy like driving into the setting sun. "He escaped. It's all over the news, apparently. Jill just called, she's freaking out. I'm freaking out. You should be."
Will's breath rattled from him, lashes flickering. It was hard to see, hard to think, but he needed to. He needed to be there for her.
"A—are you sure?" was all that came out. It sounded detached, as if carried over from another room. Another life.
Molly gawked at him before wrenching her own shock under control. She unlocked her phone and held it up to him, the headline unmistakable:
CANNIBAL PSYCHOPATH HANNIBAL LECTER ESCAPES BSHCI: MANHUNT ISSUED FOR SERIAL KILLER AFTER "IMPOSSIBLE" DISAPPEARANCE
Below the headline, a photo of the man Will had done everything to avoid looking at for nearly three years.
It was recent. It had to be. His hair was cropped shorter. He wore a drab white jumpsuit that Will knew he must've loathed. Despite it, he looked as dangerous as ever, a monster stitched up in courtesy for the cameras. A gentleman killer.
All of Will's breathe left him at once.
"Yes," Molly demanded, curbing her frustration. To her mind, he must be in shock. Terrified. "I'm sure."
"Jack…" Will muttered, brows furrowing.
Molly leapt up, searching the bedside tables in a panic.
"Where's your phone?"
Will blinked. "Downstairs, I think. I don't know."
"You think maybe you should find it?"
On her raised eyebrow, the world slid back into place. He had a task. A problem to solve. No part of him had processed the truth of the headline, braced as he'd been for an entirely different confrontation, but that would come.
Will finally stood, grip on reality loosely restored. He placed a hand on her shoulder to let her know he was there.
"I'll get it. Sorry, I was—I won't let anything happen to you, Molly, or to Walter. I promise."
Relief broke over her lovely pale face, grateful to no longer be carrying the weight of the horror alone. She pressed herself to him desperately before pulling away, a hand on his cheek.
"Find your phone. Call Jack. I'm going to get Wally from school before this blows up."
Will frowned. "You sure? I can come—"
She shook her head. "Better if it's just me. You figure out the plan, okay?"
He nodded, opening his mouth only to be cut off by her ringtone. She flinched at the caller ID.
"Shit, that's his school," she hissed, then warped her face into a weak smile before answering in a higher register. She gathered her things, waving to him as she made her way out of the room and down to the front door past a sea of clacking nails and anxious huffs. "Molly Graham sp—yes, hi, Linda. Sit. Not you. Yes. I know. I'm on my way. Buster, stop—how is he?"
The click of the lock shot him into action.
Hannibal.
Hannibal had escaped.
Hannibal was free, and only a few states away.
"Fuck," he spat, bolting down the stairs to reassure his whining pack and find his phone.
It turned out to be an easy task—despite being on silent for the better part of the last year, the FBI's calls still triggered the vibrate function. His desk drawer buzzed angrily until he retrieved the half-dead brick. Tapping it, he worked to swallow a wave of nausea.
17 MISSED CALLS
29 MESSAGES
8 NEW VOICEMAILS
YOU HAVE NEW RESULTS FOR YOUR GOOGLE ALERT: ["HANNIBAL LECTER" + ESCAPE]
YOU HAVE NEW RESULTS FOR YOUR GOOGLE ALERT: ["HANNIBAL LECTER" + "tattlecrime.com"]
He could barely skim the notifications before it started buzzing again, Jack Crawford's name blazing across the screen like a shotgun pointed straight at his temple.
Will took a moment to brace himself, acknowledging the last moment he'd have before his life broke open.
"Jack—"
"WILL, about goddamn time. Christ. Have you seen the news? Where are you?"
Will rubbed a trembling hand over his unshaven jaw and blinked up at the ceiling.
"I'm here, Jack. At home. My phone was—"
"Start packing," the man barked, launching into a series of instructions Will could only half-hear over the thumping of his own heart.
Hannibal had escaped.
Hannibal was free.
No matter where he ran, Hannibal would find him.
When he inhaled, it felt like the first real breath he'd taken in years.
Molly and Walter were gone before sunset, packed into an Escalade with a suitcase and a dog each, headed for a safehouse in New Brunswick with a crew of very large, very armed men.
Jack, naif that he so often was despite his many accolades, believed the Canadian border would stop Hannibal Lecter—or slow him down, at the very least.
Will almost laughed.
The FBI had tried to ship them as a package deal, but Will used a little sleight of hand to convince them they needed Hannibal to see he was alone. He wouldn't go for Will's family first, he reasoned, not when the main event was on display. It was almost disappointing how easily he managed to make Jack think it was his idea to use Will as bait… again.
"He doesn't want them," Will argued.
Jack sighed over the phone, heavy and rough. "What does he want, Will?"
"We both know the answer to that."
He watched Winston sniffing out the officers Jack had stationed around his property. Like target practice, Will thought cruelly. They didn't break, too concerned with looking as bulky and stoic as possible. He thought, with a pang, of how easily Duncan had embodied the cool menace they could only play at.
"Why now?" Jack asked, frazzled, pausing to yell at an intern. "He's been a model prisoner for over two years, aside from tormenting Chilton. Even the goddamn orderlies like him, and they know what he did."
"He's a charming son of a bitch, Jack. You know that better than most."
The answering laugh was hollow, exhausted.
"Fool me once," Jack sighed. "I just want to know what changed."
A tight ball had formed in Will's throat. It worsened at Jack's insistence.
Because… part of him knew. Somehow, this had to do with Duncan. With what he and Will had done. The timing was too pointed, given Duncan's sudden absence. Maybe he was being delusional, or paranoid—or, as was so often the case with Hannibal, maybe he was right.
He did not share his suspicions with Jack.
"Maybe he got sick of the plastic cutlery," Will mused, knowing it was weak but that Jack would enjoy the barb. "Or Chilton wore plaid with paisley one time too many. You get a detail on him, by the way?"
He heard the gruff nod without needing to see it. "Alana, too. Don't worry, Will. We're locking down everyone he'd have reason to go after."
Will's lip twitched at the foolishness of the statement. He could so clearly picture Frederick blustering as a team of guards shuttled him to safety, arguing that he should be taken overseas, that he was a priority target. Will was glad, at least, that someone was watching Alana—not that it would matter if Hannibal decided he wanted to pop by for a chat.
Still, better to keep up appearances.
"Right," Will said, absently tidying the kitchen counter as he stared out the window, past the guards to the empty cabin. "Any news?"
"Nothing tangible. Hospital cameras went dark for twenty minutes the night after he got a phone call from a man called Sozë, who claimed to be his publicist. Security system clicked off like it was on a timer. Staff didn't register any of it because the monitors were playing looped footage. For all we know, he walked out the front door."
Will frowned, scraping a hand over the back of his neck. "Söze? As in, Kaiser Söze?"
"From the movie, yeah," Jack grumbled, like he was tired of rehashing the detail. "We can't find a connection. The call was recorded, but when forensics went to scrub it—"
"It was already gone," Will guessed.
"Nothing but static," Jack confirmed. "The orderly doesn't want to talk. She said, and I quote, 'if that bastard's out there, I'm not putting myself on his shit list. I'd like to hang on to the goodwill I bought bringing him extra fruit on Sundays.'"
Will laughed into his palm. "Smart lady."
"She'll probably outlive us all."
"You should tell the press none of the orderlies had information. You might save her life."
Jack hummed. "He might send her an edible arrangement. We could trace it."
Will didn't bother telling him they'd never get usable evidence from one of Hannibal's courtesy taunts. They both knew it.
"All we have," Jack sighed, "is the word of a guy on the switchboard who's 'pretty sure' the caller was Russian, but that could be anyone. God knows, maybe a florist who finally got in some peonies he'd been waiting for. That, or another killer. We have no way…"
Jack's voice kept going, but Will had branched off and tumbled down his own twisted path. Russian. Of course. Of course. Jack's voice faded back up as Will's pulse rabbited higher and quicker in his throat.
"…more confusing is the second call he got the morning after he went missing. Scrubbed, too, but he gave a name. Tried to chat up the orderly, too—she had no problem sharing that little tidbit."
Will blinked. "Same number?"
"No. Romanian area code, of all things. Said his name was Nigel."
The corners of Will's lips turned down, confusion setting in. Who the hell was Nigel?
"I have to run," Jack told him, interrupting Will's state of puzzlement. "I'm sending you files. I'll be by in the next few days, once I can get away—"
"No, Jack," Will insisted, teeth clenched. "You can't be near me. Collateral damage. He'll take any opportunity to use you to… I don't know. To do what he does."
Jack huffed angrily. "I don't like you alone out there, Will!"
"I'm not alone. I've got Winston and a dozen of the bureau's finest trigger-happy meatheads keeping watch."
"It feels like a trap," Jack grumbled.
"That's because it is. It's obvious. He'll expect some double-cross, some Machiavellian scheme from me. He doesn't want to kill me, Jack."
"But you want to kill him."
Will paused, sucking his teeth. He rolled his neck to keep the beast in his belly from snarling.
"I want to stop him."
"So do I," Jack agreed. "Let the meatheads with guns do what they do best. They know the signal, and they won't hesitate. Check your email. I'll call back in a few hours."
He hung up before Will could mumble his goodbyes. Will felt almost nostalgic for the brusqueness that came with Jack's acquaintance.
With a guilty twist in his gut, he realized he'd forgotten to ask after Molly.
Hannibal didn't arrive on Friday, or Saturday. By Monday, Will was beginning to wonder how long he'd be made to wait. A terrible thought sunk in his gut like a stone; that maybe Hannibal would turn the tables and see how much Will liked two and a half years without so much as a letter.
The idea made him feel sick.
He tried to keep busy. He cooked, more elaborately than usual, as if Hannibal might smell it from afar.
The kitchen was spotless. Winston was treated to long walks within the safe perimeter of the property, accompanied by at least one guard in full body armor and winter gear at all times. Will was starting to get to know a few of his silent soldiers even with the balaclavas and sunglasses—Doug, whose Scottish brogue was as thick as his neck; Kev, never Kevin, who would accept a coffee when he was on front yard duty as long as it wasn't 'that fancy stuff' and he didn't have to break position; Kenny, Will's favorite, who only took two days to crumble and ask if he could pet Winston.
Otherwise, they maintained their distance. They were staying in town, switching off shifts every so often, staggered so as not to create an obvious point of entry. Will didn't mind their lack of pleasantries. The quiet suited him just fine.
He heard from Molly through Jack. They were safe. Walter was sullen. The dogs were enjoying Canada so much that they were considering applying for citizenship—a joke so painfully Molly it drew Will's chest tight with guilt.
Not tight enough, it seemed, to stop what was already in motion.
The news gave him nothing. Plenty of sightings and speculation, but no concrete evidence. Freddie Lounds was working overtime for the ad money, churning out hourly posts on his supposed whereabouts. One night, after a heavy pour of whisky, Will considered ordering a size small in her HAVE YOU SEEN THIS CANNIBAL? graphic tee. Only the image of Jack screaming himself hoarse about Will giving away his location to Freddie Lounds, of all people stopped him and put him to bed.
The whole thing was idiotic. Will felt ridiculous, posing as bait with the FBI's hopes hinging on him when he knew, deep down in the mirrored halls of his heart where he couldn't lie to himself, that none of it mattered.
Hannibal would find him. He'd kill every one of the guards with ease. When he was done, he'd have Will all to himself, to torture or kiss or devour or kill or maybe a mix of all four, depending on his mood. However Hannibal and Duncan were connected, Will would be made to pay.
He was impatient for it to start.
On Tuesday evening, three glasses deep and looking for something to distract himself from scrolling the headlines, he came downstairs to find one of the guards in his living room.
"Um, hi?" he blanched, bleary and confused.
The guard was on one knee, clad head to toe in his winter gear, ruffling Winston's ears. He looked up lazily at the sound, as if Will were an intruder who posed no threat. As he did, light glanced off his amber-dark irises and threw shadows into the creases by his eyes.
Will went numb.
"Hannibal," he breathed, heart thundering against the cage of his ribs. He gripped the banister for balance.
Even with the ski mask obscuring his features, Will could make out the wolfish grin.
"Not quite, gorgeous."
Will's brows furrowed. He wasn't armed. He should've been. Instead, he was standing in his slippers and socks, still clad in threadbare pajamas, his hair wild from pulling at it nervously. Defenseless, save for his wits.
"D… Duncan?"
The not-guard rose slowly so as not to startle either Will or his hound. Will's heel hit the bottom stair as he backed up, nearly stumbling. He cursed himself for the liquor slowing his reactions even as the fear-fueled adrenaline did its best to sober him up.
The stranger scanned him up and down in a way that sent shivers trickling over Will's spine. It was a flaying look, openly hungry. Wilder than Hannibal, brighter than Duncan. Feral in its intensity.
"Guess again."
That sent Will spiraling. There was another one?
"Who—?"
Something akin to pity finally nudged the man to pull off his headgear. It caught on his chin and mussed his hair, but when he'd peeled it free, there was no question Will was face to face with a second doppelganger.
In the split second before he spoke, Will catalogued the dozens of similarities and stark differences. This lookalike seemed younger by at least half a decade. His hair was sandy, with only a few gray threads catching the dim kitchen light. Stubble peppered his distinctive jaw. Will couldn't be sure from the angle, but what might've been a tattoo peered out from his shirt collar.
"Name's Nigel," he grinned, eyeing Will's curls like he wanted to grip them and pull. "Such a pleasure to finally meet the man that has my dear brother in such a twist."
Will swallowed, not missing the way Nigel followed the action with a flick of pink tongue over his lower lip.
"Brother," Will repeated.
Nigel's grin was vicious. Crooked teeth all lined up to tear into Will at a moment's notice.
"Hannibal's the middle child, if you can fucking believe it," Nigel smirked. He was tugging off his gloves now, making himself comfortable as Winston nudged lazily at his legs. "Not that we had much time together as kids."
Gravity had abandoned Will. The information made no sense, didn't slot into the picture he'd built of Hannibal at all.
"He didn't… he had a sister," Will countered.
Nigel's lupine demeanor clouded over, a wound prodded in a soft place that Will could tell would never quite heal. It made them look more alike than ever.
"We did," Nigel confirmed. "We lost her. It was…" He caught his voice breaking and coughed through it, a smoker's cough, forcing a half-convincing smile. "We went our separate fucking ways, didn't we? Ten years it's been since that prick darkened either of our doors and yet here we are, on the verge of a family fuckin' reunion just for little old you."
Will was trying his best to swim upstream in the current of revelations. "No. No. Duncan, he left, he—"
Nigel's smirk grew more convincing at the name on Will's tongue. "My sweet, misguided frate. Han thought he could send Duncan to watch over you while he was up the creek, but you…"
His eyes trailed like clawed fingertips across Will's neck, his shoulders, down his stomach to linger pointedly between his legs.
"You, gorgeous, seem to be the one thing we all have in common."
The words, thick and silky in Nigel's gruff accent, shot a spike of heat straight through Will's distress into the stormy sea beneath. It hadn't been long enough since Duncan pulled him apart for his body not to react to that face, that voice, already predisposed from his history with Hannibal. Telling himself that this was just a sleazier, flirtier version of both men that had upended his life did absolutely nothing to help.
Will frowned. So much for that. He assigned himself a new topic: if Nigel was here, the guards must be—
"Relax, sweetheart," Nigel soothed, peeling off the vest of his body armor, dumping it heavily onto the growing pile on the kitchen table. He'd followed Will's nervous gaze out the darkened windows. "Your fan club is fine. Having a little nap while you and I get to know each other, that's all."
As if on cue, a burst of static drew both their gazes to a duffel bag parked by the door. Will hadn't noticed it, too distracted by the intrusion. Nigel grinned, amused, hauling it up onto the table. He unzipped it lazily, revealing a stash of walkies, guns, and assorted weapons.
One of the walkies buzzed again. "Thirteen, come in. Report. Over."
Nigel cleared his throat, leering at Will shamelessly as he affected as neutral an accent as he could manage. "All clear. Over."
Will could've yelled. Could've given the signal, his code word—anything other than standing stock-still with his knuckles white on the banister.
"You heard from Eight?"
Eight was Doug. The Scot. Will bit the skin behind his lower lip, flinching at his instinct to help Nigel cover his tracks.
Without looking away from Will, Nigel clicked to button to respond. "Taking a piss."
A tense moment elapsed before the voice called back, laughter curling around it.
"Roger that."
Smug as a cat, Nigel sat the walkie back in the bag with the rest. So the guards were disarmed, stripped of their gear. Someone would notice before long; at least one of them changed shifts every few hours.
"Clever pack of goons," Nigel huffed. He twisted his wrist, checking a tackily expensive gold watch. "By my calculations, we've got at least… two hours and thirty-eight minutes until one of the boys in town comes a-knocking."
Well, so much for that theory. Nigel leaned down to pet Winston a final time, gesturing to the dog bed next to the wood stove. Satisfied that Nigel wasn't a threat and looking more than a little annoyed at being woken in the first place, he loped over and settled in.
Traitor, Will thought.
"They check in," Will told him, cursing himself for offering up information. For conspiring. "There are codes. Protocols."
Nigel's appraising look prickled him. He was gruff and unpolished, but clever. He had no qualms about making Will uncomfortable as he stripped himself of the many holsters and belts on his stolen uniform.
"Well then, gorgeous," he grinned, "I guess you'll have to help me keep them out of our hair."
Will squeezed the banister so hard his nails pierced the varnish. Without the bulk of his disguise, the trashy pin-up girl tattoo on Nigel's neck was unmistakable. He was down to a sweat-stained gray tee and the standard-issue black cargo pant/combat boot pairing of the guards he'd infiltrated, meaning that either he'd had help or was as skilled and dangerous as his brothers.
Will couldn't be certain it wasn't both.
"You got any more of whatever you were drowning your sorrows in upstairs?" Nigel pointed up behind Will playfully as he said it, leaning a hip on the table. He flicked his finger toward the kitchen with a chuckle. "Or are you still thinking about making for the gun in the pantry?"
Will sighed as Nigel produced Will's pistol from his back pocket, twirling it casually before dropping it with the rest of his things. Will's lips drew into a tight line, his jaw working, brows eventually lifting in a trademark gesture of fair enough.
"What makes you think that's my only gun?" he said after a moment, his first proper sentence all night. It was delivered with a shocking amount of disdain for how electrified he felt.
Nigel's smile broke wide, his eyes crinkling. He laughed with his whole chest, more easy and open than Hannibal had ever been in Will's presence. It was infectious. Will craved more of it with a greed that surprised him.
"Fuck, darling, you're even lovelier than sweet Dunc-y said." He paused for effect, showing his intrigue. "…And he said quite a bit."
Will flushed pink, eyes darting away. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. There was nothing to do now, no signal to give. He could try for the hunting knife in his desk, but with Nigel's veritable armory in front of him, it was unlikely to do him much good. None of this meant Will was defenseless; it was pretty clear Nigel hadn't come here to kill him.
His intentions were far darker than that.
So, fuck it. Will would do what he did best—play the game. He let the standoff draw tense, let Nigel think he was rattled.
"Whisky's in the cabinet over the sink," he shrugged, tensing his shoulders for a long moment before throwing his hands halfway up in mock surrender. "But I'm guessing you know that already."
Nigel's eyes sparkled as he grinned. "Clever boy. Pour us a couple glasses, would you? Bring the bottle."
Will swallowed around the jagged lump in his throat, finally breaking from his position to do as he was told. There was a hunting knife in the back of the cabinet, sure, but he didn't even bother.
"Did he send you?" Will asked, pouring the cheap liquor into two shallow tumblers, not bothering with ice. It was cool downstairs, the fire long-since dead.
"Which one?" Nigel chuckled. He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs to slump heavily into it as Will placed the drinks between them. "Duncan? He's not that fucking clever. Told me months ago Han had him staking out some pet project of his. Fucking idiot, letting that psycho boss him around, but what the fuck else is he doing, y'know?"
He jerked his chin towards the chair to his right, diagonal from him. With a sigh, Will sank into it.
"Sănătate," Nigel offered, raising his glass for Will to clink. Will obeyed. Nigel downed most of it in one swallow, licking his lips, then poured another. "Fuck, that's better. You mind if I smoke?"
Will tensed, fending off a hot rush of arousal in his gut. "Would it matter if I did?"
Grinning wickedly, Nigel reached into one of his many pouches and pulled out a crumpled pack. There was a disposable pink lighter tucked into one side.
"Of course, gorgeous. It's your house. Wouldn't want the missus thinking you weren't behaving while she's tucked away up North."
His smile was devilish, cruel, eyes sparkling with satisfaction at the way Will squirmed. Nigel lit his battered smoke with a wink. The scent filled the room, different than Duncan's brand, less acrid, but just as overwhelming. Winston looked up from his bed blearily before settling back in. Guilt crashed against desire, a roiling ocean of feeling that sent Will restless. Itchy. He grabbed a nearby dish Molly usually stored her keys in, setting it out as an ashtray.
With a grateful, superior flash of teeth that told Will his act of service hadn't gone unnoticed, Nigel changed the subject.
"Duncan called me up one night last week so pissed he could barely form a sentence to brag about how he'd… Well," Nigel teased, gesturing with his cigarette. "Fucking stupid, I said, to fuck with Hannibal's things. But he never could resist a pretty face."
Will half-hid behind his glass, sucking at his teeth. "I'm not—"
Nigel waved the thought away, flicking ash into the little dish. "Guess he got in his cups and decided to tell the bastard what he'd done. I thought I'd have a word, maybe talk Han down, but by then he was already fucking gone, wasn't he?"
"Hannibal… he escaped because Duncan and I…" Will blanched. He'd suspected, but hearing it confirmed was a hell of a thing.
Nigel poured Will a second glass without being asked, smoke tucked between his teeth. "Don't act so surprised, angel. Dunc fucked up. So now here I am, baby brother come to sort out the Lecter shit again and make sure you don't get your tight little ass killed in the crossfire."
He set the bottle back down and wedged the cork of the cap back in, ignoring Will's stunned expression. Two drinks were apparently the limit. Nigel was nursing his now, swirling it between drags.
"There's just one fucking problem," he sighed, tapping more ash into the dish.
Will swallowed. The buzz he'd been fighting when Nigel arrived was back, making him feel far too languid and receptive.
"Should I guess?"
Nigel beamed. He stubbed out his cigarette pointedly, smearing ash around the dish. Will tracked the motion with one hand digging into his own thigh beneath the table. Duncan was imposing, yes, but Nigel was crude, and fuck if that didn't just light Will on fire.
"I never could resist a pretty face, either."
When Will met his gaze, the simmering heat inside him flared. Nigel had none of Hannibal's self-control, none of Duncan's stoic imposition. Where the two older brothers were blissfully tricky to read, Nigel's raw desire bludgeoned Will's empathy into pulp. It was impossible not to feel the pure, scorching want radiating from him; harder still not to reflect it back.
"Is that why you're here?" Will asked, insecurity taking its cut, words loosened by drink. "Some kind of… sibling rivalry? Pissing contest?"
Nigel chuckled again, openly fascinated by the spiky creature lightly swaying in front of him. "Can't say it doesn't factor in, darling, but I'm pretty sure that little mind-reading trick of yours can tell it's not that fucking simple."
Will couldn't look any higher than Nigel's broad shoulders, the tattoo flexing on his neck. His shirt stuck to him in places from where he'd sweat beneath the body armor and winter jacket. He could feel Nigel watching him, enjoying his attempts to hide his interest. The humiliation of it only quickened Will's pulse, and the shame of that made everything worse.
Where was all his resistance now? He was in danger. His family was in hiding. His plan was in shambles. Yet here he was, drinking with the enemy, mouth watering at the question of what Nigel and Duncan might have in common. How they might differ.
"He'll kill you," Will offered, unsure if it mattered enough to cool the heat rising between them.
Nigel huffed a laugh, sweeping their glasses aside to grab Will's arm and pull it from where it fidgeted beneath the table. A short gasp bubbled from Will's lips as Nigel turned his wrist over to pet his thumb across the translucent skin.
"He'll want to," Nigel grinned, drawing it to his lips as if it were simply the next course in a meal they'd been sharing all night. "But he won't. We're family."
Will's mouth parted to respond, to argue that Hannibal's idea of family sometimes involved exsanguination, but then Nigel was kissing the underside of his wrist, tracing his tongue firmly enough over Will's pulse that he could feel the flick when it passed over. The sensation shot straight to Will's cock, startling in its intensity. His eyelids fluttered.
"Fuck—"
"Mmm, you even taste like heaven, angel," Nigel hummed, nipping at the skin. "Come here. Let me get a proper mouthful."
"Nige—" Will started, inhaling sharply when he was maneuvered easily from his seat into Nigel's lap, his back to a firm, full chest. He bit back a moan as his ass was pulled tightly against the hard heat of the man's own arousal. "Oh, Christ."
His gaze fell automatically to Winston asleep in his bed across from them. It struck him as odd, then alarming, that his loyal hound hadn't reacted to his master's distress. It was hard to focus on the issue, but Will's love for his dogs had always superseded all other concerns. His lips pursed.
"Did y-you—what's wrong with Winston?"
Nigel made his voice sweet, calming. "Just having a nap while we sort things out. Don't worry, baby. I'm a soft touch when it comes to pets."
Will forced his heartbeat to steady just enough to check that Winston's flanks rose and fell gently with breath. They did. He was out, but in no danger, slumbering softly.
"You drugged my dog," he frowned.
"Only a little," Nigel promised, satisfaction limning his gruff tone. He nuzzled into Will's curls, hands wasting no time exploring his chest, trailing up to his collarbones to hold him still and trap his arms at his sides. "Couldn't be sure he'd be as well-behaved as you. Duncan tells me you're a fucking dream with a firm hand on your leash."
Will shivered. Goddamn him.
Nigel savored the feeling, humming in response. "Relax, angel. Let daddy see what all the fuss is about."
Will nearly choked on his own saliva, furious with himself when his cock filled at the words. He was a grown man. Why did all of these fucking Lecters seem so intent on—
"Fuck, Nigel," he groaned, whining at the end of his name, squirming in his seat when that greedy tongue found the side of his neck. Nigel's hands were everywhere, none of Duncan's slow, careful seduction to be found. This brother was ravenous, his cock grinding insistently. "God, you can't, we can't—!"
Nigel broke away from licking and sucking at the sensitive spot behind Will's ear just long enough to purr against his skin.
"Can't we?" he grinned, one hand holding Will close by the sternum while the other found his nipple through his soft shirt. Nigel stroked it back and forth with his thumb, teasing one and then the other to hardness as Will whimpered softly. He reached down, voice rumbling with mirth when he found Will hard and leaking in his pajamas. "Seems like your body disagrees pretty fucking strongly, sweet thing."
Will bucked, arching against the sensations, but couldn't move. His fingers flexed at his sides, biceps straining helplessly. He was strong, but Nigel was stronger, and far less distracted. He cupped Will's cock, thumbing the wet patch above his slit through the fabric.
"Been wanting to get my hands on this since poor, mopey Duncan rang me up about it," Nigel murmured, ghosting over Will's length with barely more than his fingertips. He twisted his accent, the Russian lilt deeper and more pronounced in imitation. "So beautiful, Nige. His skin, like milk. So tight, and the way his perfect, cut cock drips when he's about to burst…"
A punched-out whine followed Will's reactive thrust. He rolled his hips, seeking friction Nigel refused to give. It had all happened so fast. The man was so insistent. Will hadn't had time to fight back, or so he told himself.
If he was honest, every part of him was screaming to get back a fraction of what Duncan had given him. His week of self-imposed suffering crumbled like a half-formed wish, leaving behind the cold realization that in his penance, he hadn't touched himself in days. He felt pathetic, weak, ashamed of how quickly the pressure was building—it burned hotter, knowing Nigel had gotten a play-by-play of how thoroughly he'd given himself to Duncan. What had he said? What had he omitted? The truth swept away all Will's hiding places, leaving him entirely exposed.
"I can't, fuck, Nigel," he moaned, hissing when a hand snaked up under his shirt, sliding through the sheen of sweat forming on his stomach to pinch roughly at a sore nipple. The contrast against how delicately his cock was being teased was maddening. "Christ, you all have a death wish."
Nigel chuckled darkly, grinding against Will's ass. He was painfully hard, and either as big as Duncan or damn close.
"Maybe we do. You like to play with fire too, though, don't you, angel?"
His fingers trailed from Will's nipple down to the scar across his abdomen, tracing it reverently. Knowingly. Will grimaced as his cock twitched up to meet Nigel's thumb.
"Fuck," Will snapped, jerking his hips again, seeking more.
Duncan had been the first to touch him there, to break the unspoken rule. As if ingrained from that day, the sensation snapped something in Will right down the middle. All his mournful little denials fell away in a firestorm of need.
"Please," he murmured.
"Please, what?" Nigel hummed, sounding pleased and victorious at Will's shift into active participation. He dragged his fingers along the ridges of the scar suggestively. "You need something?"
"Jesus, yes," Will answered, sharp and breathless.
Nigel pulled the hand teasing his cock away, causing Will to mewl embarrassingly. He ran his palms up and down Will's trembling thighs.
"Tell daddy what you want, gorgeous."
Will cursed under his breath. Asshole. He hated what it did to him, how casually Nigel said it, like it was obvious how Will would respond. The fact that he did, that Nigel was right, had Will gritting his teeth. He couldn't stop moving, bucking, struggling against the impossible hold.
"F-fuck you," Will managed, drawing a warm laugh from the lips brushing his neck.
"Maybe some day," Nigel purred, "but not yet. First thing's fucking first—" One of his hands returned to the scar, stroking it like it might open for him, wet and inviting. The thought had Will panting. "Doesn't seem fair that I'm only one of us who hasn't been inside you, does it?"
Will shuddered against him, leaking in the only way his body knew how. He felt it seep through his boxers. They stuck to the soft flannel of his pajamas, uncomfortable and humiliating. He ached. One of his arms was no longer caged. He could've moved, could've reached for his own cock, but he knew he wasn't…
Wasn't allowed.
"P-please," Will stuttered again, "touch me."
"Touch you where, gorgeous? Here?"
Nigel traced Will's lower lip, two fingers pushing their way in without warning. Will gasped, swallowed, licking and sucking instinctively before he'd even processed the action. Nigel hissed with satisfaction.
"Goddamn, baby, you are starving for it," he growled, shoving deeper, playing with Will's tongue. He tasted of cigarettes and whisky. Like Duncan, but not. "Get them nice and fucking wet for me. That's it."
There was something violently addictive and freeing about being captive to Nigel's attentions. Trapped as he was, overpowered, Will couldn't be blamed for giving in. He could almost convince himself he hadn't asked for this. Dreamed of it, or some version of it, every night that week.
The second Nigel squeezed him through his pajamas, two sounds filled the room; Will's desperate, breathy whimper, and a crackle from one of the walkies.
"Eight, you there? Come in."
Will froze, lips parted around Nigel's fingers. Saliva pooled behind his teeth.
"Hhuck," he swore, keening when Nigel fondled the damp spot in his lap.
A gruff laugh tickled the nape of his neck. "You want to get that, or should I?"
Nigel peeled his fingers free, dragging them over Will's chin, spreading the crude wetness down his throat. Will sputtered, half-sunk into that hazy place Duncan had brought him.
"Eight is—ah," he gasped, writhing as Nigel groped his length through the wet fabric. Of course, now he was generous with pressure. "Doug. The, the Scottish, McDougall, oh, fuck, Dunc—Nigel—!"
He cringed at the slip, but Nigel only seemed delighted by it. Proud lips nuzzled his neck, nipping at his earlobe.
"Can you be good for me, gorgeous? Keep those big bad soldiers from spoiling our date?"
Will whimpered again, wondering where his spine had run off to before remembering it was pressed to Nigel's broad chest. Despite the common sense raging in the back of his mind, he nodded. It was hard to think. He didn't want this to stop.
"Eight, come in."
The message spurred Will into motion, fumbling though it was. His limbs felt heavy. Nigel didn't let up, stroking and teasing him, pressing hot, wet hisses everywhere he could reach. It was a struggle to lean forward enough to reach his free arm out and pull the duffel closer. Luckily, there was an '8' marked onto a piece of duct tape on the side of one of the walkies. As soon as he'd grabbed it, Nigel yanked him back fully into his lap.
"Don't be stupid, now," Nigel warned him.
Will could've given the signal. Could've slipped the word—padlock—into a sentence and Nigel might not have been the wiser. The cavalry would've come quietly, knowing Will was in danger and unable to say so freely.
But he didn't. Instead, he cleared his throat, steeled himself as best he could with Nigel kneading his cock, and pressed the button.
"Eight here," he answered, surprising Nigel into stillness with the sudden, flawless accent. Will had heard them talking to each other for a week now, here and there, and had a solid grasp on the way they interacted. "All clear. Nothing to—hn—report, sir."
When he released the talk button, Nigel snarled into his curls. It was a proud, possessive sound.
The voice crackled back. "10-4. Oh, and Doug?"
Will's eyes fluttered as Nigel cupped a hand around his balls through the soft fabric and tugged. He bit his lip and took a breath before replying.
"Yes, sir?"
"Don't leave your walkie, even if you're going to piss."
"Copy that," he huffed, clicking off before the moan blooming in his throat could interrupt.
He practically threw the device on the table, melting back against Nigel. The danger, combined with the buildup and how long he'd denied himself, was threatening to push him over the edge before he even got undressed.
"Fuck, that was—"
Nigel's entire body rumbled with approval as he shoved two fingers back into Will's mouth, nearly gagging him.
"Such a good boy," he praised, sending Will's eyes rolling back into his skull. "So fucking well-trained, aren't you?"
Will nodded loosely, muffled confirmation bubbling around Nigel's fingers before he could think better of it. Duncan's brand of control had made him fuzzy, but Nigel seemed to have a direct line to his hindbrain—or maybe it was just easier for all of them now, having broken Will in. The relief of abandoning himself to it was too good, too powerful. He hadn't forgotten about the danger he was in, it simply… didn't matter. Not as much as Nigel's cock rubbing against his ass, or his own imminent release.
"Hlease," Will gurgled. Please. "Onna, honna—"
Nigel stopped again. He squeezed beneath the head of Will's cock cruelly, cutting off the build up of sensation. Will would've cried out, were his mouth not occupied. Nigel used his grip on it to jerk Will's head to one side.
"No, no, no. Not yet, baby boy," he scolded gently, his sharp teeth raising goosebumps all down Will's chest and arms. "Not 'til daddy says so, yeah?"
A grunt of true frustration vibrated from Will's throat, his hips rocking. He'd been so close. Maybe if he could come, he could think straight. Make a plan.
"Hleaze," he repeated. His jaw was starting to hurt.
Spittle ran down his chin, mocking him. Nigel seemed to love making a mess. What little reasoning Will had left told him to change tactics, appeal to Nigel's ego, his baser urges. He pitched his voice higher, rubbing his ass against the erection still tenting Nigel's pants.
"Hlease, ah—y," he whimpered, teeth almost meeting around the rough digits as he tried his best to form the D sound in 'daddy.'
He felt ridiculous, childish, and then painfully turned on as Nigel let out a guttural moan and rocked forward. He ripped his fingers from Will's mouth and within the span of a breath had shoved them beneath the waistband of Will's boxers and pajamas, circling his aching length. The change was so severe, his hand so wet from saliva and precome as it stroked skin to skin for the first time, that Will was shocked he didn't come instantly.
Not that he was far from it, now.
"Fuck, baby, that's my good boy," Nigel snarled, fisting Will's cock like he'd been training for it for years. He ground himself against Will's ass with renewed fervor. "My good little slut, so fucking wet for me, so needy."
The pressure in Will's belly tightened like a knot pulled in steel wire. His feet scrambled on either side of Nigel's boots. He was undone by the crass pillow talk he knew Hannibal would abhor, then held together by Nigel's unwavering strength. Nothing could've stopped him from fucking up into the tight tunnel of Nigel's fist. It was the only thing that mattered.
"Nigel, Nigel, fuck—"
"Yeah, gorgeous. That's it. Fuck daddy's hand. Gonna get you nice and loose before you take my cock, mm?"
Will groaned. His head rolled against Nigel's shoulder. He was gone, so deep in the act of chasing his orgasm that he didn't know which way was up. Didn't want to. Would've torn out the jugular of anyone who tried to show him. He thought he heard a noise, but he didn't care, it was probably Winston, he didn't—
"Fuck, daddy, I'm gonna come!"
At the word, unmuffled and raw with need from Will's lips, Nigel sank his teeth into the nape of his boy's neck. Will's hips shot forward as far as they could, muscles seizing as he came so hard he thought he might black out. With his eyes clamped shut, he could only brace for impact as he spilled over Nigel's hand, coating the inside of his clothes. The wave crested and began to retreat, but Nigel didn't stop; Will shuddered as his warm spend was slicked back over his softening cock.
"Beautiful, messy boy," Nigel grinned.
He finally eased off when Will whined and squirmed from the overstimulation, but he wasn't done; his dirty fingers rose to Will's lips to be cleaned. Still lax and dizzy, Will accepted them without question. He licked and sucked obediently even though the taste and its source made him wince. Nigel liked him dirty, and he liked being dirty for Nigel.
The spell was broken, Will thrown out of orbit, when a thick Russian accent pierced the sound of wet, labored breathing.
"You have some nerve, брат."
*