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Just Call My Name, Because I'll Hear You Scream

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It was simple enough, Hannibal supposes, to force Will into a position of gratitude. 

The man's exhausted, has barely slept for weeks, and more than once Hannibal has received a call late at night from a not-entirely-conscious Will, slurring his words as he asks for Hannibal to come save him from whatever wasteland his half-conscious brain has dredged up this time. Hannibal knows that Will's only half-awake at best; a Will fully awake would never dream of making such requests. But he knows that Will's conscious mind will awaken when he gets into Wolf Trap, and Will knowing that he came is the important thing.

So he slips into a pair of slacks and a sweater and drives the sixty miles to Will's house, has done three times in the last eight days. Each time, Will calls, panicky and only half-coherent, and each time, Hannibal comes to him, rouses him from a twitching, nightmare-filled sleep, pins him down on the bed as tremors wrack through his sweat-dampened body, lets Will cling to the sleeves of his sweater and murmurs Lithuanian words of endearment that seem to soothe Will more than any in English would. He doesn't so much hold Will as let Will hold onto him to stay afloat. 

Will knows that he would drown in his own thoughts, in his own bed, if it weren't for Hannibal. 

Sometimes Hannibal leaves around six to get to work, but on the mornings where he doesn't have early appointments, he stays. He sits in a chair by Will's bedside and makes sure the man's head is turned toward him, so that every time Will opens his eyes, Hannibal is the first and only thing he sees. He makes Will breakfast in the morning, weak pre-ground coffee that Will keeps in his cupboard and some leftovers from Hannibal's dinner the night before. Will quietly chews his way through an omelette made of shredded tomato and car insurance provider with sprinkles of parsley on it, sips at his coffee, and stares at the table as he thanks Hannibal for coming down once again. Hannibal sits silently until Will looks up, then holds eye contact as he says, "anything for you, Will."

The days drag on into weeks, and Hannibal never fails to heed one of Will's calls. The transformation is remarkable; Will goes from restless whining to begging in his sleep, murmured pleas for Hannibal to stay, to come, not to leave him alone with the madness of his mind. Hannibal threads one hand through Will's hair and tightens his grip to reassure Will of his presence, and that stills Will's sleep-ridden mind for a little while. Will gets more embarrassed, too, as time goes on, flushing darker and darker when he starts into consciousness to see the doctor's eyes peering at him from next to his bed. He offers money - for gas, for food, for Hannibal's time - to make up for it, but Hannibal brushes it off each time. He doesn't need Will's money.

Will sits contritely, sipping a mug of tea that Hannibal had steeped to perfection, the tea bag lying on a tiny plate beside him. He stares at the wall as he says, "I really wish I could thank you for this."

"There is no need, Will," Hannibal replies. He's at Will's stove, frying crepes and slicing up fresh strawberries. 

"No, but there is, really," Will says, cradling his tea with both hands. "I don't… I don't have anything for you, you won't accept my money, you don't have to keep doing this…"

"I care only about your wellbeing." Hannibal scrapes chopped up bits of sweet, creamy cheese into Will's crepe and folds one side over. "Your health is certainly worth my time."

Will makes a muffled grunting noise that he tries to drown in a sip of tea. "Still."

"'Still' nothing." Hannibal scrapes the crepe onto a plate, drizzles it with just a hint of powdered sugar, and drops a couple of strawberry slices onto it before handing it to Will. "I wish to take care of your needs, Will. There is no 'owing' about it."

"Surely you have needs too," Will argues. 

"I feed myself. I sleep. I wash every evening after work. I read fine works of literature and enjoy music." Hannibal dries his hands off on a towel and turns Will's stove off. "I work when I have clients and enjoy my time off when I do not." He takes a seat opposite Will, who averts his eyes to a corner of the table. "It seems to me that you owe yourself much more than you owe me."

Will shakes his head, sleep-mussed hair shifting a little. "No, I… I feel in debt to you, I want to."

Hannibal raises an eyebrow and he knows Will sees it. "Far be it from me to deny you what you want, Will."

Will takes a shuddering breath, then repeats, "I want to."

"You want to what?"

"I want to p– thank you."

"What was that?" Hannibal asks, leaning forward slightly.

"I want to thank you," Will repeats. He leans back as Hannibal leans in, shrinking back into the chair.

Hannibal tilts his head to the side. "That is not what you said, Will." Will closes his eyes, brow furrowed, and nods jerkily. "Tell me what you said."

"I said… I said I wanted to… to please you." 

"Well," Hannibal says, sitting back in his chair. "You are certainly welcome to try."

Will's entire body shudders with the word and his fingers clench around his tea.

"I have no doubt you would be admirable, Will, but you should only proceed if you feel that this is truly what you want," Hannibal says. 

"It is," comes the whispered reply. "I want it. I want to."

"Very well." Hannibal pushes his chair back a little from the table, freeing a bit of space. Will sits stock still in his seat, staring into his tea. "You may begin whenever you wish."

The silence that stretches out in between them is uncomfortable, like forced contact everywhere on Will's skin, knowing that Hannibal is watching him, waiting for him. When the prickling of his scalp becomes too much to bear, he rises ungracefully, places the untouched omelette in the microwave and empties the tea into the sink. He washes the dishes and the pans Hannibal used, quickly and efficiently, and he feels the weight of Hannibal's gaze on him. It stirs something inside him, makes him feel slightly ill and a bit dizzy, makes his body tingle with dreaded anticipation.

He dries the dishes and puts them away, then turns to face Hannibal. The man is waiting patiently for him, hands folded in his lap, bearing a completely neutral expression. Will takes one hesitant step toward him, then another, and another until he's across the room and falling to his knees at Hannibal's feet. Hannibal reaches one hand forward to run through Will's hair, tightening in the curls as he does so often while Will sleeps. Will presses into the touch, his eyes darting back and forth under closed lids. Hannibal strokes the back of Will's neck with his other hand, guiding Will's forehead to rest on Hannibal's knee. Will shivers a bit then is still, his breathing growing harsh.

"What do you wish to do, Will?" Hannibal asks softly. Will all but spasms at the words, fingertips digging into his own knees.

"I want to please you," he whispers against the soft wool of Hannibal's pants. 

"Then you should do it."

Will nods, then raises his head a bit. He catches Hannibal's gaze for just a second, long enough for Hannibal to see some sort of pleading, quiet desperation buried deep inside Will's mind. And then Will drops his eyes down to Hannibal's belt, and his hands are surging forward, clumsily undoing the buckle. Hannibal knows that he could do it much faster, but he enjoys watching Will struggle, and he knows the man will get there in the end. He works the worn leather free of its metal confines, spreads the belt to undo the buttons and zipper of Hannibal's pants, then runs his hands around the waistline, waiting for Hannibal to raise his hips enough to pull the fabric down. Hannibal just shakes his head, and Will sees the motion out of his peripheral vision. He whines quietly, but he knows that Hannibal won't do anything he doesn't want to, so he acquiesces and dips his hands below the edge of wool, under the waistband of Hannibal's underwear, down to the jut of hipbones and along the tops of smooth thighs. Hannibal smiles faintly and places his hands on Will's shoulders, and the motion spurs Will on. Will bites his lip as he slowly draws Hannibal's cock out of his pants, trailing his fingers over the still-flaccid flesh. Hannibal shivers, but only for Will's edification.

Hannibal smiles as Will strokes along his cock, willing it into hardness. He's never been all that terribly fond of sex - yes, he can have it if he wants, and take some physical pleasure out of it, but that is not and never has been Hannibal's drive. He derives much more pleasure from twisting others. It is those thoughts, and not Will's continued ministrations, that start the blood flowing downward, but Hannibal lets Will think that it's because of him. Will makes a pleased noise, running his thumb along the vein on the underside that slowly exposes itself, then leans forward and carefully, almost nervously, licks at the head. Hannibal makes his hips twitch up and relief blossoms across Will's face, because Will thinks that this is something he can do to return the favor, maybe even to draw Hannibal into a little debt to him to counter the staggering imbalance the other way around. He doesn't realize that he will only pay off what Hannibal lets him, and maybe not even that.

Will pulls back and mumbles something about being inexperienced, but Hannibal waves it off and guides Will's head back down with a gentle press of his hand. Will bows his head and takes a couple inches of Hannibal's cock back into his mouth, swirling his tongue as has been done to him, sucking lightly, then harder, alternating in a steady rhythm. Hannibal has to admire the workmanship - he suspects that on nearly any other person, Will might have them panting and squirming within fairly short order. It's Will's bad luck that he owes a debt to a man who does not care.

Will's right hand curls around the bottom of the shaft and he pumps lightly, head bobbing in time. Hannibal smiles and groans a little for show, which just causes Will to redouble his efforts. He can feel that this is pleasurable, physically, but physical pleasure of this nature is of little interest when there is a grown man, so desperate on his knees that Hannibal can see the beginning of an erection between Will's legs. He doubts that Will has noticed yet.

Will tries. God help him, he does. He pulls out every trick he knows, everything his girlfriends did in college and porn that he'd watched while trying to get to sleep back before he gave up on sleeping, and he feels the challenge of heavy flesh in his mouth that refuses to grow heavier. Hannibal can see frustration building in Will's eyes as the moments tick on - frustration that does fuel his pleasure, makes his cock twitch, which sets Will's hopes alight before time dashes them again. He does fight with himself a little, to not allow Will's own desperation to get him too aroused, but he overpowers that easily. His self-control is all but shatterproof.

He strokes Will's hair and Will lets out an angry, desperate noise from around his cock. Hannibal shushes him and Will closes his eyes, works even harder, to even less avail. He pushes himself past what they both know he's capable of, forcing Hannibal's cock deep down into his throat before pulling back off, coughing. Will's face is damp with the sweat of exertion, cheeks tinged red from lack of oxygen. Hannibal bites back a genuine groan at the sight of him.

"You may stop if you want, Will," but Will's shaking his head as he pulls himself back up onto his knees and tries again, rough with a fierce determination, all but choking himself over and over in a frenzied attempt to give Hannibal some kind of something. Tears are forming in his eyes from the repeated assault of his throat, clinging to his eyelashes and falling onto the wool of Hannibal's pants. Hannibal wants to wipe them away with his thumb, to study them, to taste them, but he holds back. Instead he just brushes them off of Will's cheeks and encourages him further toward a goal he will never attain.

Finally, finally, Will lets out an angry sob of defeat and falls back onto the floor. Hannibal gazes down at him, at the swollen red lips and pained eyes that are closed because they cannot bear to look at what they would see in front of them were they open. His own cock presses hard against the front of his pants - Hannibal suspects that Will is more aroused, unwanted or not, than he himself is. Will pants as he tries to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly in much the same way Hannibal has seen it expand and contract during one of Will's panic attacks. He would not be surprised if Will suffered one now.

But he doesn't, not yet. He doesn't open his eyes to look at Hannibal, can't bear to admit that he's failed this too.

Hannibal takes a napkin from the table and dries the saliva off of his cock, then tucks himself away and rebuttons his pants. Will takes no notice of his movements, doesn't register the sounds of the napkin rubbing over half-hard flesh, or the cloth falling back onto the table, or Hannibal rising from the chair and crouching down in front of Will's tense body. He doesn't register Hannibal at all until Hannibal reaches forward and rubs hard against the still-prominent bulge in his pants.

Will's eyes snap open and he takes a ragged breath, ready to exhale protests, but Hannibal clamps his other hand over Will's mouth and shakes his head. His fingers curve around the outline of Will's cock, rubbing hard enough that it must be painful against the worn cotton of those boxers he always wears, but Will shudders beneath him, his hips rolling into Hannibal's hand of their own accord. Hannibal squeezes the flesh and Will lets out a strangled moan, eyes squeezed tight and neck taut. Hannibal watches the tendons in Will's neck, the way they lengthen and tighten as Will throws his head back, and he wants to lean forward and taste them.

No. Not yet.

He doesn't even bother with skin to skin contact, just brings Will off hard and fast through Will's pants until the man is unravelling before him, keening as every muscle in his body tenses up and forces his orgasm out. Hannibal doesn't let up for a long minute, dragging pained whimpers out of Will once the aftershocks have subsided and there's nothing but too much sensation piercing his nerves. Hannibal can see the wet patch spreading slowly over Will's pants, can just feel the moisture sticking to his skin when he pulls away. Will twitches, but still does not open his eyes. Hannibal pulls him up into a sitting position, rubbing gently at his shoulders. Will bows his head in shame. "I couldn't do it."

"It matters not, Will," Hannibal says. He tilts Will's face up and Will finally opens his eyes blearily. He tries to shy away from Hannibal's stare, but the doctor will not let him, holds his jaw firm in one hand until Will's eyes reluctantly return to his. "You owe me nothing."

"But you did…" Will motions vaguely to his lap. "That."

"It was something you needed done," Hannibal replies simply. "I wish only to take care of you, Will." With that, he stands up and gathers the napkins and the tablecloth to take to Will's laundry room. He thinks he hears a muffled sob as he leaves the room.

He smiles.