Chapter Text
There’s such a thing as being too far into each other’s heads, Will thinks as he watches Hannibal move around the library, choosing music, pouring wine, picking out a book. Mostly he watches Hannibal’s hands manipulating corks, the record player, trailing over the spines of books.
The man’s hands drive him absolutely crazy. They’re so irritatingly good at everything they do. It makes him wonder what else they could do. It makes him want to pin them down at the wrists and stop them from doing anything at all.
But the two of them seem to be stuck. They’ve mostly worked through the worst of the “Hey-sorry-I-tried-to-kill-us-both-after-that-really-sexy-murder-and-now-we’re-on-the-run-from-the-law-together” awkwardness, and they seem to be safe enough in their current hideaway, but you don’t go through an experience like that and come out the other side with your relationship unchanged. Things are unsettled.
He’s pretty sure Hannibal still loves him. Wants him. Is too polite to do anything about it uninvited. He’ll frame Will, stab him, cut open his skull, kill with him, drown with him – but he won’t open that particular door unless asked. Someday Will’s going to write a monograph on Hannibal’s moral code, to be published posthumously, because it’s completely fascinating.
Will, for his part, is pretty much done pretending to himself or anyone else that he doesn’t want the things he wants. That got him several stab wounds, a broken arm, a fake death, a passport in a fake name, estrangement from his entire life, and a recurring dream of Francis Dolarhyde’s dying moments. But that doesn’t mean he knows what to do about this particular situation.
It’s not that he didn’t know he was bisexual long before Hannibal Lecter walked into his meeting with Jack Crawford that first day, or that he had any problem with it. There’d been a while in his early twenties that he thought he might be nothing-in-particular-sexual but eventually he’d figured out it was just rare for him to have that connection with someone. His tastes are very particular. But when he does find someone, the particular factory model of that person’s body doesn’t matter that much. In theory. He just hasn’t had much of a chance to put the theory into practice with men.
And now he’s too deep into Hannibal’s head to make a move. He wants to. Hannibal wants him to. But he’s sort of enjoying torturing Hannibal with not making the move. And Hannibal’s sort of enjoying being tortured. And Will can feel that. And he’s uncertain about whether what seems appealing in theory would seem appealing in practice. And Hannibal is uncertain about Will’s uncertainty. And the only thing more awkward than getting into bed with someone and finding out you don’t really want to be there after all, is when the “someone” is trapped in a safe house with you so there’s no going home the next morning and conveniently losing their number.
It’s all one big whirlwind of unspoken desire and denial and not really being sure whose feelings are mirroring whose and the end result is paralysis. These are the times when it would be a lot easier for Will not to have his gift for being a mirror. If he were a less complicated person he’d just follow Hannibal into the damn shower some morning. But then, if he were a less complicated person, Hannibal wouldn’t be as interested in Will as he is. He’d probably have ended up in tidily labeled plastic bags in Hannibal’s freezer years ago.
He sinks further into his chair, sips at his whiskey, and watches Hannibal choose a book and retire to his own chair. Hannibal opens the book gently, careful not to crack the spine (but Will’s seen those hands crack a human spine), fanning the pages delicately until he finds the one he wants (how delicate were those fingers when they pumped Will’s heart back to life after the cliff?), and settle intently into his reading (so single-minded, is he like that in all things?).
The whole thing is incredibly unfair. Will closes his eyes and imagines things he might do, were he not quite so very much…well, himself. They pass another evening mostly in silence, the turn of book pages, the clink of glass on tabletop, crickets through the open window. It's late by the time Will finally comes up with his plan.
* * * * *
“I’d like to resume my therapy.”
It’s early afternoon, and Will’s slouched in the doorway of Hannibal’s room, almost theatrically casual. Just a normal, everyday request. He can tell he’s caught Hannibal off-guard, which is a rarity to be relished.
“I wasn’t aware you felt yourself in need of further therapeutic attention. I thought you had adjusted to our altered circumstances.” Hannibal’s temporizing, feeling around the edges of Will’s mind to determine where this is going. Will can almost feel the prying. He takes a certain vicious delight in shutting it down. His empathy can be a weapon when he chooses to use it that way, and he uses it now to mirror Hannibal’s calm blandly back at him.
“I believe I have, for the most part. But there are a few things bothering me.”
“If you have troubles I would be happy to talk them through with you. We don’t have to do it in the guise of therapy.”
“Please, Hannibal. I’d be much more comfortable if we could resume our old roles.” Will has to suppress a smile at that line, which he was hoping he’d have a chance to use. To trap Hannibal in his own courtesy – he won’t refuse Will something he’s asked for so sincerely. His inconvenient compassion for Will won’t allow it.
And it doesn’t, although a shadow of a troubled expression flickers across Hannibal’s features. He’s composed again almost instantly. “Shall we talk now?”
“I don’t want to keep you any longer. Before dinner, maybe?”
“Very well. Before dinner, then.”
Will can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him as he leaves. He’s quite sure that Hannibal isn’t going to get a lick of work done the rest of the afternoon, and he’s not even slightly sorry. He grabs his jacket and goes out for a long walk to work off some nervous energy.
* * * * *
They meet up again in the early evening, back in the library. Hannibal sits in his usual chair and Will makes himself comfortable on the sofa. He’s had a drink to steady his nerves a bit, but not so much that it’ll go to his head. He takes a deep breath and dives in. “As I mentioned earlier, there are some things bothering me about our current arrangement. To start with, how long do you think we’ll go on here?”
Hannibal surely knows this is mostly a conversational feint; they’ve talked about this before. “It’s hard to say. I think we should keep an eye on the FBI watch list for a while and see if they release any more information about their search for us. A few more weeks, at least. A few months might not hurt to be absolutely sure.”
“You don’t think we might drive each other crazy by then?”
Hannibal allows a smile at that. “I believe given our mutual lack of success at killing each other so far, neither of us is likely to manage it in the next few months. We should both survive the ordeal.”
“Does it bother you, being stuck here with me?”
“This isn’t my therapy session, Will. Why do you ask? Does it bother you?”
Will puts a foot up on the sofa. Mostly because he knows it drives Hannibal crazy and he wants him distracted. “It bothers me a little. I’m used to my privacy. There’s a reason I chose to live out in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m sorry, Will. When I originally purchased this building I hadn’t intended it as a hideout for two. I hadn’t expected you.” Hannibal says that almost fondly and Will knows he means it as a compliment. Being a surprise in Hannibal Lecter’s life is difficult and rare. Being a surprise, and staying one, means you probably won’t get eaten.
Will intends to keep being surprising. He looks away now, and it’s partly an act of shyness and partly unexpectedly the real thing. “It’s all right. I don’t mind usually, it’s just…there are some things…one usually wants privacy for. Doors only do so much good when the walls are this thin.”
Hannibal’s eyebrows rise slightly. Their therapy before Hannibal's incarceration had not, generally, touched on the topic of Will’s sex life, alone or partnered. They talked around it, creating a sort of negative space where his sex life would be if he had one, and maybe that told Hannibal all he needed to know about it at the time. “I hadn’t considered. I’m sorry. That was discourteous of me. I wouldn’t want you to be ashamed of ordinary biological drives, Will. I can’t do anything about the walls but I promise you I would do my best to ignore or forget anything I should overhear.”
“Did you ignore me? Last night?” It’s blunt and surprising and meant to be, to be sure he gets a truthful reaction. He’s quite sure Hannibal did overhear him last night. Will’s not usually one to make noises when it’s just him and his hand, but he’d wanted to be heard, in preparation for this conversation. He’d left the door open just a crack. He’d thought about the possibility that Hannibal would stand outside and listen. The thought had been unexpectedly stimulating and in the end his cry of release had been real and not the performance he'd intended it to be.
Hannibal’s flustered, actually flustered, just for a moment before he gathers himself but it’s possibly the most adorable thing Will’s ever seen. He instantly wants to see more of it. His nerves are fading fast, replaced by a spreading warmth throughout his body and an awareness that he is in control of this conversation. It's an unusual feeling with Hannibal and one Will could get used to. Hannibal eventually nods, reluctantly. “I would not have said anything if you hadn’t asked. We all have our drives, Will. They’re nothing to be embarrassed about, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
“I’m not embarrassed, exactly. As you said, we have drives. It’s more that I was thinking about the situation and it occurred to me that if we have drives, and we don’t have privacy, then perhaps we should try the alternative. Company.” He hadn’t intended to be quite this blunt, but the conversation is gathering its own momentum. There’s a crackle in the air, and as soon as he wonders whether Hannibal feels it, he’s absolutely certain Hannibal does. “I wondered if the fact that your psychiatric license has probably been revoked by now would leave you at liberty to take a patient to bed. Dr. Lecter.” He unleashes a quick, wicked grin there, with the intention and delightful effect of seeing Hannibal flustered again.
“I don’t think that’s the relevant question, Will.” Hannibal’s stalling for time again, and Will barely needs to exercise his gift at all to know that Hannibal is elated, aroused, amused and alarmed. “The state ethics board is unlikely to examine anything that transpires here. Also, I ate two of them.”
Will is perfectly aware Hannibal’s said that to jolt Will into remembering who and what Hannibal is, to give him a chance to take back the request. As if Will could possibly have forgotten. He remembers. He doesn’t, at the moment, care. He watches Hannibal watch him not caring.
“So what is the relevant question, Hannibal? I’m asking you to come to bed with me. I think you want to. It took me a while to figure out what I wanted, but I want it too. I’m pretty much throwing myself at you here, so it would be great if you would catch me. Or tell me if I’m making a complete idiot out of myself and I’ll go find another cliff to jump off.”
“You’re not making an idiot out of yourself.” Something slips behind Hannibal’s eyes, something Will hasn’t seen there in the months they’ve been on the run, and a little not-unpleasant shiver runs down his spine. Will’s not sure if it’s his own feeling or one he’s mirroring from Hannibal. “The relevant question is why now, and why this way?”
“Now because I wanted to be as sure as I can be. And this way because I didn’t know how else to do it. This is how we started out. It felt right to go back to it. But I think our session’s up. “
Hannibal’s motionless. Will stands up. He’s not used to playing this role – he’s tended not to be clued-in enough to anyone else’s social cues to be the seducer – but it’s more intoxicating than the whiskey and he’s better at it than he expected to be, at least with Hannibal. He heads for the door, untucking his shirt along the way. He pauses to drop a hand onto Hannibal’s shoulder, letting his finger trail lightly down the back of Hannibal’s neck. “It turns out I don’t really want dinner. I think I’m going to bed early. I’ll leave the door open again if you’d like to join me. If not, we’ll chalk this conversation up to my fragile mental state and pretend it never happened.”
He doesn’t turn to look back on his way out the door and up the stairs, and he doesn’t hear footsteps right away, but he’s pretty sure he baited that hook well. He flips on the light in his room, leaves the door open, and starts to unbutton buttons.
One button…two buttons…
He’s just starting the third when he hears footsteps on the stairs. He knows perfectly well Hannibal can move silent as a cat when he wants to. This is a final courtesy. A chance to shut the door.
Will turns to the open door, toys with his third button idly, and waits.