Chapter Text
Will senses the car pulling up the drive before his dogs do. A slight raising of his head, eyes over the rims of his glasses as his hands still against the marking he has on the table in front of him. A week of finals for the students offers him more time at home, between office hours.
Winston whines next to him and claws click against the floor as he pads over to the door, tail swaying in preemptive excitement at seeing his favourite friend.
Will sits where he is, smile warming his features as he watches the car pull up next to his truck, watches the boy climb out of it to the cacophonous greeting from all the dogs, gathered at the door, now, for him. Will sets his pen aside and shuffles his papers together, pushing to stand just as Hannibal opens the screen door and greets the furry creatures swarming him. He holds the door open with his foot and gently ushers them all outside before closing the door behind himself and tossing his bag to the floor.
“Hello, stranger,” Will murmurs, happy to patiently wait for Hannibal to come to him, where he stands. Arms gently crossed over his front, glasses halfway down his nose where he hasn’t been bothered to adjust them.
He doesn’t need to settle them higher on his nose to see the shadow cast unmoving down the side of Hannibal’s face. He knows the shape of it by memory, could form it from thought alone, and so the swelling is jarring in its unfamiliarity, as startling as the sweetness of Hannibal’s voice.
“Hi,” the boy answers, and if Will didn’t know Hannibal better, he’d swear by the long sway of his voice that he’s drunk.
Will unfolds his arms and pushes up his glasses as Hannibal approaches with languid steps. One eye has puffed closed, his lips formed out of shape across the left side. He doesn’t have time to ask before Hannibal grins, darkness stained between his teeth, and he wraps his arms around Will’s neck to press a kiss against him.
He tastes like blood.
Strong hands settle against Hannibal’s shoulders and the cold panic that had started to curl itself through Will’s gut at seeing Hannibal pull up so early finally grows claws. Gently, Will presses against Hannibal to push him back, to break the kiss and look at Hannibal properly.
He knows who does this. He knew that somehow that boy would get to Hannibal again, and the guilt at breaking his own word to him eats at Will until he has to hold his breath and swallow down the immediate apology. He had promised. He will fix this, no matter what it takes.
He strokes knuckles gently down Hannibal’s swollen cheek, feeling the heat of it against his own skin before turning to cup his face gently with his palm. He watches Hannibal carefully, eyes seeking over his features as the boy continues to smile, seemingly entirely unfazed by the pain painted on his skin. Will blinks, tilts his head gently to the side.
“What happened?”
Hannibal touches his tongue between his purpled lips and grins, lazy and feline, turning his cheek against Will’s fingers. It hurts, it hurts enough to force a breath from the boy, but before Will can draw his hand away Hannibal catches his wrist to hold him there, palm to battered cheek.
“I am officially void of clientele,” Hannibal murmurs into Will’s hand, turning his open eye towards Will. The concern he sees stricken in his professor’s features is a salve and pain all at once, and as if to reassure the man, Hannibal presses little kisses to his hand.
Will does not return the touch, all but frozen.
“Hannibal,” he asks, “what did you do?”
“I did not wait for him to come for me. I met him on my own terms instead, alone.” Will’s eyes widen but Hannibal only presses closer, through the hands that seek to keep him at distance, to bury his face against Will’s throat and nuzzle softly.
“He wanted my mouth,” Hannibal says softly. “He always does. I did not kill him, but I ensured that this would be the last time he would ever have it. Or anyone else’s. Ever again.”
Will’s hands hover over Hannibal’s shoulders, unsure he is able, yet, to hold him, mind whirring too quickly, too many possibilities. And Hannibal’s injuries still tugging at Will’s conscience, that he did not stop them, that he should have, that he had promised to, and failed. After a moment, he settles a hand against the back of Hannibal’s head and one between his shoulders.
“You taste of blood,” Will murmurs, as Hannibal arches into him like a pleased kitten.
“It’s not mine,” Hannibal tells him, and at that, Will laughs, a nervous little bark of sound that he presses his lips over to contain. The thought it too ridiculous, too wrong, and yet…
Some sense of propriety snares the boy enough that he pulls back just a little, but it’s too much distance already and he leans in closer, heavy enough to force Will to take a step. Clumsy kisses drift along Will’s cheek, sleek fingers wind back through his hair. He is limber, loose with relief and pleasure, a satisfaction that weighs his body down into beautiful laxity.
“I should brush my teeth,” Hannibal sighs. “It’s rude, I should have done that before kissing you. Forgive me?”
He draws away, then, hips shifting with a predator’s grace, but there is no hunt in his step. He is sated, in nearly every way imaginable, and he sets a finger to his livid lips before breaking into a grin and ducking his head to make his way towards the bathroom.
Will watches, heart still beating too thickly in his ears before he swallows, presses his fingers to his lips and follows Hannibal down the hall, listening as the water runs, as Hannibal begins to brush his teeth. It occurs to him that he could have acted sooner, could have found out the boy’s name, his location, and shown him the pleasure of a fist against his face, over and over until he could barely move, and lost the ability to speak.
He could have.
But it would hardly have served justice for either of them. It would have meant more hell for Hannibal once the boy recovered, it would have meant trouble for Will had charges been pressed. He thinks, with a cool clarity, as he leans against the doorframe and watches his boy, that Hannibal would not have forgiven him fighting a battle for him.
The guilt still stifles him, but it subsides with every breath and every swallow.
“You are a wonder,” he tells Hannibal gently, catching his eyes in the mirror and holding them as the boy smiles again. “Brave and terrifying.”
If Hannibal were anymore leonine than he already appears, he would purr at the praise. Fingers set against the counter, a crooked smile lingers around his toothbrush, dark gaze holding Will’s through their shared reflection. He spits, delicately and low to the sink, and quickly rinses away the foam streaked with bright scarlet from his split lip and the dark clots of old blood that is not his own. He rinses from a cup, never his hand, but washes them after.
There is an efficiency to his cleanliness that should concern Will, and might have, once. He recalls Hannibal’s desire to kill this boy, and despite the money behind the Verger name, watching Hannibal now remove any trace of his doings from the bathroom sink, Will wonders if they ever would have found the boy if Hannibal had disposed of him.
He turns to Will, languid, all the tension erased from his body. His fingers curl beneath his collegiate sweatshirt and the one beneath, both pulled free above his head and folded loosely to rest on the sink.
“I’ll get rid of these,” Hannibal promises, a smile narrowing his eyes. He approaches again, slower than before, and spans his hands against Will’s chest. A pause, a breath off-beat, and Hannibal asks, softly, “Are you proud of me?” His fingers tighten, just a twitch. “Or have I disappointed you already?”
A hand finds its way through Hannibal’s soft, silky hair and Will regards him where he presses close against him, mint mingling with iron as Hannibal bites his lip and waits.
Will’s expression gentles by breath, not a lie to ease from the worry and surprise and mild disgust that something like this would have to happen for Hannibal to be safe. Never disgust at him. Will strokes Hannibal’s uninjured cheek and leans in to kiss his forehead, just a languid press of lips there.
“I have never been more proud,” he says, and means every word. Hannibal had fought his own battles, had won, and had insured, with his cleverness, that this information would not come to light. And if it ever had, no proof would exist. He knows Hannibal will graduate away from the past that got him to college, he knows he will never forget it, but he will learn to not linger.
And Will will remain by his side to make it easier not to.
Hannibal’s sigh shivers from him, his pleasure unfurling in a wild bloom of racing pulse and blushing cheeks. “I’m proud of myself,” he admits, before his boyish grin breaks into a laugh and he slips his arms around Will’s neck again.
He lifts to his toes and when strong hands snare his thighs, lets himself be lifted entirely. He curls his legs around Will’s hips as his professor carries him out of the hall, peppering Will’s face with little kisses and endless adoration. He strokes his hair and touches his mouth. He fixes his glasses and then removes them entirely to kiss him without smudging their lenses.
“No more,” Hannibal promises. “No more bruises unless I ask you for them and you wish to give them to me. No more fear or apprehension or dread or obligation. No more touching,” he sighs, pressing his brow to Will’s and letting his eyes slip closed. “Except for you. Only you.”
Will just kisses him, gentle and deep and long, a forgiveness and reassurance and everything in between. He is just happy to have him home, to have him safe, if harmed in the process. He thinks how he will press so close to him when they sleep tonight, how he will spoon Hannibal back against him and not let him go until he stretches, sleepy and fussy, in the morning and turns to kiss Will awake.
“I love you,” Will tells him, smile wide when Hannibal smiles at the words. Carefully he turns them to press Hannibal into the bed and kiss him into it, deeper, hotter against him as Hannibal ruts up with soft little sounds and clinging hands. “Remarkable boy.”
He laughs, almost shy, and lets his arms rest above his head. He is Will’s to kiss and move as Will pleases, knowing that whatever Will wishes for him in this and everything else will be right and welcome. Despite the injuries, despite the fact that a prominent part of the heir to a porcine fortune is still heavy in Hannibal’s stomach, despite it all, when Will kisses him, Hannibal feels extraordinary.
Beautiful.
His.
He lifts his his hips when Will loosens his pants, letting himself be made bare, displaying himself with a preening stretch for Will to watch. Brave and terrifying - the words’ echo sends a shiver down Hannibal’s spine and he arches with a moan, lowering a hand just to twine through Will’s curls. As with all the praise that Will has paid to him, it took time for Hannibal to believe it, but he does, he is everything Will has always claimed him to be.
“I love you,” Hannibal murmurs.
Will’s hand seeks up Hannibal’s body in a slow, stretched touch, heel of it pressing down against taut stomach and warm chest and splaying his fingers up just beneath Hannibal’s throat as Will levers himself up to kiss between them, to move his hand aside entirely and kiss beneath Hannibal’s jaw, up to his earlobe to tug it between his teeth.
He can feel how entirely responsive Hannibal is, more so than usual, still high on his victory, tired from the beating and from the surge of every kind of emotion through him. He can feel how he willingly spreads his knees and draws them up around Will - still clothed - as he settles against his boy.
He is extraordinary.
He is beautiful.
He is free.
By his own hand, Hannibal is free. And in his freedom, he still chooses Will, still comes home to him and bares his body for him and whimpers and moans so beautifully for him.
Will lifts his hips enough for Hannibal’s hands to seek down to the button and fly and start to peel them down Will’s legs. He kicks them to the floor behind himself and grins as Hannibal’s hands find his shirt next, to unbutton and work from his shoulders.
Hannibal kisses the scar across Will’s shoulder, the curve of his neck, upward to his scruffy cheek. He kisses beneath his eye, his brow, his nose, and finally him, properly. Their bare bodies press together, rubbing as much to pull pleasure between the other as to simply feel skin against skin. Hannibal buries a moan against Will’s jaw, grazing with his teeth, when Will works dampened fingers between his legs. He grins, pressing his sharp smile to soft skin.
“I am glad I waited for a Friday to do this,” Hannibal murmurs. Will casts him a curious look, brow lifted, and with youthful delight Hannibal writhes up against him and spreads his legs wider. “I do not intend on leaving bed tomorrow,” he says, adding with a wry smile, “with your permission, of course.”
“You’ll need to rest,” Will sighs in agreement, spreading his fingers just to feel Hannibal shiver and arc, throat working on a swallow as he bares it to Will.
“Exhaust me,” asks Hannibal. “Tire me. Use me until I sleep and then wake me to have me again. Only you,” he says, again, because he does not imagine he’ll ever tire of saying it. “Please, Will - I want only you.”
Will kisses warm against Hannibal’s uninjured cheek and turns his face aside with the motion, nuzzling him after as he lets his eyes close and his body work to bring Hannibal pleasure, first his fingers, until he’s writhing and begging, laughter catching between his words and making him shudder, then with his cock as he slowly presses into his boy. His. Only his, now.
Will holds Hannibal like he’s made of glass, hands splayed against either side of his face, eyes to his wide dark ones before settling closer, forehead to forehead, lips just brushing as Will starts a slow, languid rhythm. He makes love to Hannibal until he’s panting, until they are both restless and desperate for release and Hannibal’s skin is marked with sucked bruises against his chest and neck.
Only then, does Will relent and bring his hand between them to stroke Hannibal quickly, not easing his grip even as he spills with a cry over Will’s hand and his own stomach. He keeps stroking, keeps thrusting, until Hannibal’s voice breaks saying his name again and Will’s body tenses with his own release. He whispers praise against him, truths, all truths in his soft words. He tells Hannibal he loves him. He tells him he is strong, and extraordinary. He tells Hannibal he is his, Will’s voice curling a low-toned growl when he says it, repeats it, kisses Hannibal and holds him still beneath him as they both come down from their orgasms.
Only after scaling so many peaks - adrenaline and endorphins and serotonin and Hannibal can’t even be fussed to think what else - does the pain finally begin to register, and when it does, it hardly matters. Hannibal strokes Will’s hair as his professor rests against his chest. He keeps his thighs around his hips to feel their sweat-slick skin cool together. He whispers ceaseless affections, for everything Will is and everything Will has given him, admiration and praise, and love.
So much love that it fills Hannibal with a far sweeter and stronger pain than his injuries ever could.
“Let me make you dinner,” Hannibal offers, stroking a thumb across Will’s lips when he draws a breath in inevitable protest. “I want to. Please let me. I promise to ice my eye, after, no matter the discomfort.”
A pause, and mischievous, Hannibal fights down a grin.
“But you’ll forgive me, I hope, if I sit with you and do not eat. I’m still rather full.”
Will snorts, he can’t help it. Still shocked, certainly, but so genuinely proud of this boy beneath him that he can do little more than worship his body with little kisses, with soft nuzzles and sighs before he levers himself up to look at Hannibal properly.
“You will ice your face,” he agrees, “and you will sleep. You will sleep, Hannibal, until you are rested.” He smiles at the little pout that meets him, the boy still ravenous for this warm pleasure they have together, the taste of freedom sharp and fresh between his teeth and his entirely body vibrating to experience that with Will while it lasts.
Will leans up to kiss chastely against Hannibal’s lips and gestures with a sweep of his hand for the boy to get up as he wishes, make whatever he wants for dinner. He doesn’t resist the little slap to Hannibal’s ass as he stretches, and just smiles, eyes narrowed, when the boy looks back.
“Don’t forget your apron.”
“Only that?” Hannibal asks, feigning convincing surprise.
“Only that,” agrees Will. “And you’ll remove it as soon as you’re done.”
“Rather a new meaning of ‘dressing for dinner’.”
“Not only for dinner,” Will responds, as their eyes meet. “For the whole weekend.”
Hannibal tilts his head with a soft smile, and studies the look he receives with a lingering fondness. It is thrilling and impossible, all at once, to think that this is his, now. This home and the dogs, the desk and the bed.
The man who watches him, now, with admiration and respect.
Hannibal releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and it sounds like a laugh as he genially inclines his head.
“As you wish.”