Work Text:
1
It’s oddly cold for early October, so Will stands outside wearing his longest robe over wool pajama pants and his usual sleepwear--briefs and a white tee. The morning wind bites at his nose.
The dogs seem mostly unaffected by the cold, Zoe the exception as she scrambles to do her business then buries herself in the gap between Will’s feet for warmth as they wait for the rest of the pack. Zoe’s old joints ache when it’s cold so he gives the warning whistle alerting that it’s almost time to go inside and that the dogs should make their way back to the porch.
He’s glad for Zoe’s company at his feet, having forgone shoes and socks to keep from overheating. He allowed the rest of the pack too much time outside for him to not feel the need to hop from foot to foot to try and generate heat, the urge stifled somewhat by Zoe’s small body.
He knows that had he deigned to wear slippers this morning, he’d struggle worse with sensory overload. He always got awful tingles when he gets too warm. It is, in part, why he moved from New Orleans to Wolf Trap. Knowing that being too warm would be more uncomfortable than his current position doesn’t diminish the mild shiver that wracks his body.
His fingers tap out the melody of the overplayed pop song of the month onto his legs from where they’re tucked away in his pockets. He watches Buster, having been the farthest from the house when he whistled, zip through the underbrush at the edge of the treeline, skidding across the ground as he narrowly misses running headfirst into Ellie who continues merrily trotting toward Will despite the near-collision.
The dogs finally settle in a line on the porch so Will grabs the paw-cleaning towel and gets to work wiping off the muddy snow from each dog’s feet before letting them inside one at a time. Finally inside, Will scrambles to take off the robe and pants before he overheats. The robe he haphazardly hangs on the coat rack by the door, the pants he tosses into the not-quite-dirty pile of clothes to the right of his bed. The pile accumulates near the dirty clothes basket, for when the not-quite-dirty becomes definitely-dirty.
The dogs settle in their beds near the fireplace, already lit before they went out so it could heat the room for their return. They eagerly watch as Will heads to the kitchen to make them all food--an assortment of fresh and frozen raw meats and fruits, as well as some supplemental vitamins, for the dogs and then a granola bar and a mug of coffee--a splash of cream and all too much sugar--for himself.
He settles on the sofa after breakfast, Winston at his side and Harley in his lap. Each hand curls into the dogs’ fur, mindlessly tangling and untangling as he gets lost in reliving the most recent crime scene. The sensation grounds him, keeps him from losing himself as his mind is enveloped in the headspace of the killer’s.
2
… mutilated his victims in such a manner because of an abusive childhood, his aggression stemming from untreated mental illness.
Will sighs. This is the third essay to claim that the killer he had his students analyze had a rough childhood. They ignored the glaring fact that the killer’s victims all were muscular young women who had recently changed gyms to the same gym, hinting that the killer scouted for his next target there, likely because he felt emasculated by women who were strong and competent gym buffs.
These essays each assumed that violent tendencies tend to stem from instability caused by a rough childhood when, in fact, the killer was raised in a loving family and inherited his violently sexist mentality from the teachings of his parents.
Three more students stumbling their way towards failing my class, pathetic, Will thinks to himself, slumping forward to rest his head on the desk. Do they even listen when I speak? We covered this killer in class, you just had to pay attention and you would’ve caught on to the fact that I gave you all the answers three days before I assigned this essay.
As Will grumbles to himself about the incompetence of some of his students, his hands snake their way up to rest on his head, patting it in a soothing motion of left, right, left, left, right, left, right, repeat.
If not for the dead silence in the room other than his stimming, Will would’ve missed the sound of his classroom door swinging open. His hands slam back to rest on either side of the paper he’s supposed to be grading while he jolts back into a fully upright position in his chair.
He watches as Beverly Katz darts into the room, her red leather jacket draped over her shoulders and a folder in hand.
“I wanted to warn you before Jack whisks you away to the labs, Zeller found some insect pupae in the vic’s throat and I volunteered to drop off the images on my way to the cafeteria. Jack’s convinced it means the killer’s got a signature that local police missed, but I wasn’t sold. I think it’s too on the nose for a man wrapped in a rug to intentionally have silkworm pupae in his throat but Jack insisted I check with you.” She props herself on his desk next to him, dropping the file into Will’s extended hand.
Will internally breathes a sigh of relief, partially for the distraction and partially because it’s obvious Bev didn’t notice his stimming. She’s the closest thing he has to a friend--Hannib-Doctor Lecter aside because he isn’t quite sure what his relationship with Doctor Lecter is--and Will would hate to have weirded her out to the point of ditching him, as was frequent for his friends to do before he realized that having friends just to lose them for being odd was worse than being alone.
He flips the file open, peering at the brown chrysalis of the pupae and considering the unsub’s means of disposing of his victims.
3
Chewelry: jewelry designed specifically to be chewed on, often to relax or release excess energy through oral sensory input.
Will doesn’t often use his. He keeps it in his car to chew on while driving. He isn’t otherwise in prolonged stressful situations where his means of stimming are limited. In the classroom, he paces and uses the sound of the clicker switching slides between presentations. In conversations with people he’d rather avoid, he has the frame of his glasses to focus on and the glasses themselves to fiddle with.
He is, sadly, not in his car or nearby to grab it from where it hides in the middle console of his car, tucked away in between the side and a pile of rarely-touched CDs, and concealed from above by a small travel-sized container of tissues.
Bev invited him to lunch. With Price and Zeller. He would’ve had his glasses but Bev’s called him out on his bullshit before, pointing out that he doesn’t need to hide from her behind their frames. She’s perceptive but in an understanding way, where he feels foolish trying to stifle the urge to stim around her but so unused to doing it around other people that he just freezes up.
Price talks a lot. Zeller is usually quieter, but Will suspects that’s because he feels awkward around Will in the lab. Price and Zeller in public talk nonstop.
It’s not even an issue, he just feels so awkward, like the odd man out, infringing on their typical party-of-three escapades, that he doesn’t know what to do or say. For most of Price and Zeller’s heated discussion about their cats, Will sits silently next to Beverly, chewing anxiously on the plastic straw in his lemon water.
“-But I’m not saying you need to give Barney a bath, just that he could benefit from some playtime in a tub! He’s a Maine Coon, they’re notorious for enjoying the water!” Price rants at Zeller, not listening to his few attempts at arguing his own side as he argues.
Bev sighs deeply, finally turning away from the two men arguing to take in Will’s hunched-over figure. She raises an eyebrow at him, but he just shrugs her off. If he had any clue about what he was feeling besides a generic icky, she would be the first to know. Instead, he takes another sip of his lemon water and makes the muscles in his ears rumble to muffle the sound of his coworkers’ argument.
“Hey, Will, you’ve got dogs, right?” Bev chirps suddenly. “How do you get rowdy dogs into the bath and how do you get them to like it more? Jimmy’s convinced that Barney would love baths but if he doesn’t, how might Z get him interested? I mean this in the nicest way possible, that cat smells garbage on a good day.”
Z stutters out a half-assed attempt at defending his smelly cat as Will mutters “First and foremost, I make sure I’m set for treats. Think of a number of treats that’s too much for one situation, then double it. Or, if they have a bit of a personality, triple it. Then, pray to any gods you believe in and dive in. Rinse and repeat. Literally.” He blinks.
The three of them stare at him for a moment before they burst into fits of laughter.
“Damn, Graham! You should write a pet parenting book. Funny and helpful? How has no one snatched you up yet?” Price winks at him and Will feels his face warm.
Z smacks Price’s arm. “Ouch! Flirting in front of your husband? Not cool, dude!”
“You’re married?”
Z raises an eyebrow at Will. “Oh man, are you homophobic? What the hell, Bev? Way to go, inviting the homophobic coworker to lunch with your gay best friends.”
Will guesses his tone must’ve been more shocked than he meant for it to be. “NO. No, no it’s not like that! It’s just… you’re so dudebro-y and Price is so different.” Will cringes internally at the silence. “I meant no offense. I-I’m bi. I just… didn’t pick up on anything that hinted that either of you was in a relationship, let alone married.”
Price gapes. “I could’ve had a chance with the Will Graham? Oh, don’t give me that look, Brian, you’d date him too if you had the opportunity to!” Will coughs up some of the water he had gone back to idly sipping when Z nods after a moment. “It’s fine, Will. You analyze the evidence provided, we just didn’t provide any evidence. I tend not to wear my ring in the lab and Brian keeps his on this chain so neither of us has it on around you often.”
That would explain the lack of a visible tan line around where the ring would be, Will reasons. “Is-is Jack against workplace romances or…?” he twirls the straw between his fingers.
“Oh, nothing like that. We just don’t need to show off our relationship to feel secure in our feelings for another.” Z responds, digging into the plate of cheesy fries that he’s splitting with Price almost as soon as the waiter drops them off.
Bev raises her eyebrows at the couple across from them. “Wow, that’s like, really healthy. I bet you two go to couple’s counseling despite being the world’s most compatible duo.”
Will snorts as he takes a sip of his water, the straw dangling from his lips as he chews on it afterward.
“How’d you know? Eh, that’s not important. What is important is why Will wants to know about our superior’s stance on workplace romances. Planning to smooch any hot coworkers any time soon, Graham?” Will’s face warms as all eyes at the table turn to him. He silently curses the moment he let himself think that Brian Zeller of all people isn’t terrible to hang out with. “Oh! Oh, he does. Who is it? Alana Bloom? I know she has the hots for you.”
Will grimaces. “Alana Bloom and I’s relationship will forever be limited by the fact that she perceives me as too unstable for a romantic partnership with her. Besides, I haven’t been into her since…” Will grinds the straw between his teeth to stop him from mindlessly spilling his guts to his coworkers.
“Since…?” Bev goads him on, nudging him with her elbow. “C’mon Will, if you tell us we won’t let anyone know, we’ll just root for you from the sidelines.”
Will takes a moment to meet each of their eager gazes before determining that all of them really do intend on keeping his secret. He sighs, “Doctor Lecter.”
Bev gasps like she’s just been stabbed, the back of her hand slamming down on the table in front of Z. “I was right!” She shouts. “Cough up the money! Ah, sorry Will, I made a bet with Z a few months back that you and Lecter had the hots for each other.”
As Bev finishes explaining, Z Chimes in. “We don’t know that Lecter wants to snatch up Graham.” Oof, ouch Z, maybe not right after I admit I’ve been crushing hard on my pseudo-therapist for months now.
“Nuh huh, you can’t pull that now! You were the one who first noticed that Lecter stares at Will’s ass when they’re at crime scenes together! Now you wanna take it back once I’m definitively the winner? Fuck that!”
Will waves for their waiter, asking for a beer when they stop by. He’s had enough of them and his straw has been chewed to a husk of its former self, with no hope for recovery. Bev drove him, anyway.
When he is finally dropped off at home his hands are pulling out the chewelry and setting it between his teeth before he can settle in the front seat of his car.
4
It’s too much, they’re everywhere.
He can feel the leering stares and grabbing hands of those around him, feel them judging and mocking and laughing in his face.
He feels their disappointment, feels their malice, their apathy and he crumples to the ground. A hand grasps his shoulder and he screams, lurches forward out of their touch. He wonders for a moment when the visions got so intense.
He remembers he doesn’t hallucinate, hasn’t hallucinated since Bev forced him to go to the doctor’s, and got treated for Encephalitis two months ago. Knows that even then, his hallucinations were never like this, never so vague and spiteful.
Will takes a deep breath. The sounds around him are still too loud, trying to meld with the shrieks of someone else’s fragmented mental state. He holds it in, feels the burn in his lungs. He grips himself tightly with his arms, the pressure comforting. He exhales, opening his eyes since the moment he collapsed.
He sees Jack standing at a distance, held back by Bev, who seems to be yelling at him. Jack’s face scrunches in anger, worry, for the well-being of his perfect little weapon. Wind me up, aim me at your killer, and watch me go. His hallucinations--not his, his were always blood and gore and the contentedness that he wants to let himself feel at the sight of it--the victim’s hallucinations finally seem to have died down enough for him to focus on reality.
The sounds are still too loud and the sensations overbearing and out of control, so he limits them. Closes his eyes, hugs his knees to his chest, and calls out for Beverly, voice cracking. “T-take me home? Please, I don’t think I could drive, not-not right now.”
She mutters her confirmation, voice closer but also quieter. “I’m going to help you into the car now, alright?” When he nods, she gently tugs on his sleeve until he’s standing, wobbly but upright, beside her. She escorts him to the car like that, not stopping even when Jack tries to get Will to explain what caused his… meltdown. She just glares at him from over her shoulder until he lets her drag will to her car.
“‘Kay, I’m gonna drop you off at Wolf Trap, but I’m also going to let Hannibal know about what happened, not much detail just enough to know that you’d like him around.” Will flushes at her words, knowing how right she is but embarrassed by how well she’s gotten to know him since their lunch with Z and Price. He feels warm too, in his chest, at the thought.
“Yeah, that’s-that’s good.”
“Yeah? And if you’re feeling up to it, on the drive there you’ll let me know what happened? If not for me, then let me know so I can keep Jack off your back for a few extra hours at least?” She pauses, leaning against the passenger door as she watching Will clamber into her jeep, before continuing after he nods, “Good. thanks, Graham. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”
He waits a few minutes until they’re on the highway before he speaks up. “Can I turn the air on?”
She nods.
He fiddles with the AC until he’s certain that he can’t stall any further. “I… somehow ended up slipping into the victim’s head. She was schizophrenic, had auditory and visual hallucinations that whispered abuse at her when she was off her meds, like when she died. I would’ve been fine, I coulda caught myself before I got too deep in her head if it’d been before. Now, my brain was so open to the idea of hallucinations that even if they weren’t mine it started to produce ‘em.
“It was rough, Bev. She musta been so scared. She might not’ve even known her killer was real ‘til right before she died, and even then it’s an if. Whoever killed her, they knew. They knew and they used that against her. Let Jack know that he should check in with old bullies, distant relatives, that sort of thing.”
Beverly drives on in silence, processing. Will wishes he hadn’t had the meltdown when she was there. He knows that she’s too nice to ditch him for being weird, but he knows she’d also not hesitate to vocalize if he makes her uncomfortable, which will make him push her away in the end. He starts mourning their friendship.
They sit in silence for the rest of the drive, Will allowing himself to doze off for a few minutes before the rumble of asphalt below the tires shifts into the crunch of rocks from his driveway.
Will sits in the car, AC still blowing strong, as he listens to Bev call Hannibal. She gives him the basic rundown and he promises to head out immediately, much to Will’s chagrin.
After the call, Bev turns to him. “Stay safe, okay? Call me if the hallucinations come back or if any of your previous symptoms start to show themselves again. I’ll get you to the neurologist ASAP. Text me when Hannibal gets here, I wanna make sure you’ve got someone you feel comfortable around with you. G’bye, Will. Don’t come in to work tomorrow, I’ll get Jack to find a replacement for you in the classroom.” She reaches out to pat him on the shoulder before reconsidering.
Will sees how much she needs the reassurance of physical touch and sticks out his fist for her to fistbump. It’s all he can manage, but the gesture makes her face light up like Times Square at night. He manages a shaky smile in her direction before slumping out of the car to the house.
Once inside, the dogs rush over. Seeming to sense the dim mood, they huddle around him, anxiously shifting from foot to foot as Will makes his way around them to the bed. He turns a fan on then gestures his dogs over to join him. He flops on his back, the dogs surrounding him on all sides, and he falls asleep surrounded by his pack.
Later, he will wake up to the gentle scent of ink and parchment, as well as the sizzle of frying meat, and feel just as comforted as he does by the scent of his dogs. For now, though, he sleeps.
5
Will shifts at his desk as he has to pull the over-the-ear headphones off to let the sweat soaking his scalp dry a little. The moist, hot summer air permeates the FBI building, just as it had for nearly three days already since the water cooler had been destroyed in a minor explosion. The days prior had been spent frantically moving bodies and samples from the morgue and labs, but now the dust had settled somewhat and Will could work in his office without being harassed by his coworkers.
His door is locked, his desk in its natural state of disarray, and his jacket and overshirt sit far away, as though the distance from his person will make him cooler.
His headphones blast Lover’s Spit at a volume that would make his audiologist cringe. Sorry, Dr. Flores. Will hopes the lingering effects are slim to none by the time he makes his next appointment. Dr. Flores helped him get used to the lingering hearing loss caused by Tobias Budge’s attack in his basement of gore.
The song has, admittedly, been playing for more than two hours now, uninterrupted. But it’s how Will gets through the paperwork quickly, has been his go-to working song since he was 27, staying late at the precinct.
He fixes the headphones when the sweat around his ears does its job and lowers his body temperature. The sound fills his ears and he hums along with the bassline for a moment before settling back into his work.
Another several hours pass and Will only distantly acknowledges it when he notices the movement of the shadows from the windows across his desk. Just as he flips a sheet of paper over to glance at the document on the back he sees a figure slink through the shadows in front of him.
His eyes widen as he throws the headphones off, the music automatically shutting off as the sensors note the movement. They clatter to the desk, scattering the papers in front of him as he gapes at the shadow.
Finally the figure steps into the light, Hannibal’s features presenting themselves as he does, his typical nonchalance betrayed by the twinkle in his eye and the crinkle at the corners of his mouth.
“Hello, Will. Did I startle you?”
Will gapes at him. “Wh-I-Hannibal! Did you pick the lock?”
Hannibal beams. “I’ll answer you truthfully if you promise not to let Uncle Jack know about my… less than legal skills.”
Will extends his pinky, but Hannibal only raises a nonexistent eyebrow.
“What?”
“Will, my aunt Murasaki taught me the deep emotional intentions behind Yubikiri, colloquially referred to as the pinky promise.” At Will’s baffled look, Hannibal continues, “In many cultures, including her own Japanese, Yubikuri is a serious promise in which both individuals involved in the transaction are confirming to keep the promise, lest the promise-breaker or breakers incur bodily-harm, often in the form of the violent removal of the pinky finger. I will not dishonor my Aunt’s memory by playing into a gag if that is your intention behind the gesture.” Hannibal’s gaze goes distant, lost in the past.
Will retracts his hand to gaze at the offending digit, considering the intensity of the promise. “Any and all criminal activity, huh…?” He thinks of rolled-up sleeves diving into the chasm of someone’s torso, the blood seeping between gloved hands. He thinks of darkness and shadows, of lock-picking and boundary-pushing, and knows. He turns off his headphones and slides them into the opened case in the lower desk drawer.
He looks up at Hannibal and extends his pinky, jaw clenching and unclenching.
“I swear. Jack will never know about your less-than-legal hobbies.”
+1
Will flops into the driver’s seat, slamming the door and jamming his key into the ignition. His right hand fumbles in the console feeling for the cord of the necklace as he uses the rest of his focus to flee the parking lot as fast as possible.
He can’t believe he just-just kissed Hannibal Lecter! His anxiety skyrockets as he relives the last few minutes of his life, from their teasing discussion to the first glance at Hannibal’s lips to the sensation of his lips on the doctor’s. His fucking psychiatrist’s mouth. His face warms uncomfortably at the memory of him leaning back to see Hannibal’s raised eyebrows and slightly parted lips--minute on anyone else but on his face practically a befuddled gape--and then fleeing the room before either of them could comment on the situation.
His hand digs farther into what used to be a relatively organized system in the console before finally grasping his prize. A simple black cloth cord holds a pale blue rubber disk--his chewelry. The rubber is medium density, not weak enough that he’s likely to bite through it but not too thick as to hurt his jaw after a few minutes of anxious chewing. He uses it most when he’s really overwhelmed. Like now.
The cord dangles from the rubber as it sticks out of his mouth. He tangles his fingers in it when he’s stuck at a red light so he can tightly grip the steering wheel when he’s driving.
His phone rings, he can feel the vibration from his pants pocket. He ignores it. Eventually, the distinct chirp of Hannibal’s ringtone ends, only to start up again not three seconds later. He lets the call go to voicemail five times before Hannibal stops calling. Some part of him wishes he would call again, if only because it’s likely the last time he’ll have Hannibal’s attention before he contacts Jack to officially resign from his position as Will’s unofficial psychiatrist.
A whine slips past his lips unbidden and he digs his teeth harshly into the rubber of the chewelry as the sound of it. His desperate teeth-grinding and tapping are the only thing that allowed him to make it as far as he did but the tightness in his chest is still too strong so Will flicks his blinkers on and parks haphazardly in the next offshoot from the highway.
Now that his hands are free, they dart up to tangle in his hair, where they tug in a pattern matching the way he grinds his teeth. Tighten, relax. Left, right.
Eventually, he calms down enough to feel put-together enough to check his phone. Might as well get the worst part over with before I calm down, he thinks solemnly, holding no fantasies of his feelings being reciprocated. Don’t want to have to pull over again for a second meltdown when I’m already here.
There are five missed calls, only one of which has a voicemail attached. That makes sense, Will can vaguely remember the gap between phone calls being virtually nonexistent before the final one. He saves the voicemail for last, imagining that reading Hannibal’s rejection will be much less painful than hearing it.
Hannibal sent him 23 texts.
Will, please call me. 9:53.
Will answer my calls. 9:53.
Will, come back I need to speak to you. 9:53.
It continues like that for several minutes, Hannibal apparently having spent nearly 15 minutes after Will fled the office pleading for a response. Then:
Will, are you alright? I’m worried. 10:10.
Will im coming over. 10:12. The lack of punctuation sends a chill down Will’s spine.
The final texts read:
Will ive arrived at wolf trap where are you
And:
Will where are you please call me
And then,
Please. Each was sent at 11:33 p.m. Will glances at the time, 11:35 exactly. It’s been two minutes since the last text was sent. His phone lights up with another call. Hannibal. He picks up, only to hang up immediately after. He can’t do this. He can’t lose Hannibal, he’s too important to him now, Hannibal is his paddle, his anchor, his best friend, the love of his life-
The phone rings again. Hannibal.
He almost lets the call go to voicemail but gives in last moment. He doesn’t speak, simply waits for Hannibal to break the silence between them. He lets the chewelry dangle from the cord, still interwoven between his fingers.
“I can see when you look at my texts, Will.” Despite his attempts at appearing collected, Hannibal’s voice is rough, like he’s had a coughing fit. Like he’s been crying, Will realizes, or at least close to it. Will doesn’t respond, too shocked by the realization.
He hears Hannibal clear his throat, it sounds far away like he turned his head to try to keep the phone from picking it up. “Where are you? I’ve searched your entire property, the only ones here are your dogs, whom I’ve taken the liberty to feed, in your absence.” He says it like he’s an expected guest and not someone who drove from Maryland to Virginia after his patient kissed him then fled the scene.
“I pulled over a while back. Needed to… collect my thoughts.” Will thinks it’s just as obvious that he’s playing at having just popped out for a trip to the supermarket. “I didn’t get to before I left.”
“Quite unceremoniously, I’d say,” Hannibal admonishes. Will looks down, embarrassed, watching his fingers twirl around the cord of the necklace. “Will,” he sighs, “I would like to meet you where you are, will you allow me the courtesy of a face-to-face discussion instead of forcing me to do this over the phone?”
Will nods before realizing that Hannibal can’t see him. “Yeah. uh, sure.” He relays his approximate location to Hannibal, who promises to be there as soon as possible.
“And, please Will, don’t flee from me again. I’ll chase you to the ends of the earth if I must; please don’t make me.” Will doesn’t know how to respond to the openness in his voice so he just says goodbye before hanging up.
He spends the next half hour simultaneously waiting for Hannibal to arrive and trying his best to chew a hole through the rubber of his chewelry. When at last the light from the Bentley’s approaching headlights surrounds him he tucks the necklace back in its place and tries to reorganize his console as Hannibal approaches.
He slams the lid on the console just as Hannibal opens his car door. Will tries his best not to look at Hannibal while he stands next to the car. Eventually, Hannibal sighs and crouches down to be at eye level with Will.
Hannibal cups Will’s face and gently turns his head in his direction. Will allows it, still stubbornly avoiding eye contact, gaze fixated on Hannibal’s collar.
He feels Hannibal’s eyes roam across his face. He seems to find whatever he was looking for because he lets out a pleased hum. The seconds creep by and Will caves, eyes flickering up to meet Hannibal’s gaze momentarily but freezing when he makes eye contact.
Hannibal gazes admiringly at Will. The flicker of hope he had tried to ignore earlier reignites and his palms itch. “Hi,” he mumbles awkwardly.
Hannibal beams at him, eyes squinting in pleasure. Will is reminded of a neighbor’s old cat when he would give it leftover fish. “Hello, Will. I’m glad to see that no harm has come to you.”
“You saw me two hours ago!” A pleasant tingle fills Will’s chest.
“Two hours too long, considering you fled the scene faster than one of your criminals. Why did you run, Will? Do you regret your impulsivity?”
“I think my problem is that I don’t. Regret it. I worry for the consequences of my actions, but my actions themselves…” Will shrugs. He can’t handle looking at Hannibal any longer so he glares down at his intertwined fingers.
Hannibal hums again. Will wishes that he wasn’t so good at masking his emotions unless he wants them seen; he’d love to know what was going on in Hannibal’s head right now. If he thought it would do any good, he would pry his skull open and pluck Hannibal’s brain out to examine the confounding mechanism like a faulty engine--
“I hope then neither of us regrets this.” Before Will can do anything more than grunt in confusion, Hannibal’s mouth is crashing onto his.
The same bliss he felt only briefly just hours before overtakes him, content filling him from head to toe. The feeling feels so big, too big for his body and he feels like he’s about to split at the seams, completely overwhelmed. Just as Hannibal licks at the seam of his mouth, Will’s hands mindlessly start fluttering against where they had snuck up to grip Hannibal’s shoulders.
Will feels Hannibal huff a breathy laugh as he opens his mouth to deepen the kiss. Will feels a little self-conscious about the uncontrolled stimming so he distracts Hannibal by digging his teeth into Hannibal’s lower lip, drawing blood.
Will leans back to suck in a few deep breaths, his hands stalling in their tapping. He slowly rocks back and forth ad he chirps, “I don’t regret that. Holy shit, Hannibal.” He tries to pull his gaze from Hannibal’s lips, but his efforts are futile as he goes back to staring almost immediately. He watches a small drop of blood slowly well up at where he bit him. The sight is intoxicating, entrancing.
“Fantastic, neither do I. Will, you must know that I will never judge you for anything you do, especially something as generally unassuming as self-regulatory behavior.” The sudden change in the direction of the conversation leaves Will puzzling for a moment before he catches up.
“I just don’t want to impose, it’s distracting and I didn’t mean to. I just… got overwhelmed. Sensory, emotionally-”
“Will, I know you don’t like psychoanalysis but it’s obvious you’re masking your stims in an attempt to seem more ‘normal’ to outsiders. You need not do that, especially with me. I love you, not despite your differences but including them. It’s not your fault you perceive the world differently, nor is it your fault your reactions stray from that of neurotypicals because of this.
"It’s hardly the same, but you would not fault me for avoiding food that I do not prepare myself due to traumas occurring in my past, would you?” When Will glumly shakes his head, he continues: “Right. I do my best to extend that same courtesy to my fellow man. I hope, in time, you allow yourself to do so for you as well.”
Will whimpers, disoriented from the violent swing between joy and self-flagellation to shock as the realization about what Hannibal said settles his racing heart. “You love me?”
Hannibal doesn’t answer, only dipping his head in a nod. Will feels his words catch in his throat, struggling to say too many things at one time so nothing comes out.
He flops forward, letting Hannibal catch him in a loose embrace. He rocks the both of them back and forth. For the first time in a long time, the prolonged touch doesn’t make Will’s skin crawl like a thousand spiders crawling across him. He rests his head on Hannibal’s shoulder, one hand settling on his other shoulder while the other draws patterns on his back. He writes “I love you,” one letter at a time.
After what feels like both five minutes and several hours, Hannibal pulls back just far enough to look at Will’s face as he speaks. “We should go home, it’s dreadfully late and you’ve had quite the evening. You’re tired, go sit in the passenger seat of the Bentley and I’ll call a tow truck to deliver your house to my home.”
Will, too tired to argue, smiles contentedly and presses a kiss to Hannibal’s hairline before he can stand up to retrieve his phone from his car.
Will ends up falling asleep on Hannibal’s massive bed, snuggling Hannibal to his chest as one leg sticks out from the covers.