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Come when I call

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They stand naked in the shower together, wet white tile slippery under their feet. Will’s back is turned toward Hannibal because Hannibal offered to scrub it for him. He tilts his head, pushing hair out of his face and letting the water hit him. Hannibal rubs away dirt and blood, skims over half-formed bruises, and Will lets him do it, abandoning himself to the sensation of Hannibal’s touch on him, scrubbing him clean.

He killed a man today. It’s his first kill in a way Dolarhyde never could be, because Will chose him, picked him out and then lured him into the trap. Will pretended to let him loose just so he could have the satisfaction of the hunt all over again, and then he used his fists and feet and a hammer that was just out of reach—until it wasn’t—to truly bring his man down. Hannibal watched him with barely-concealed delight, and then Will gave him a tiny, sharp nod, and Hannibal came over and slit the man’s throat with surgical efficiency. And if that were all it was—

But it’s not. Will can’t get Hannibal’s words out of his head. Can’t wrap his brain around the concept, even as the past evidence stares him in the face.

 

“So. I guess we’re partners in crime now.” There was dark humor in Will’s words, but there was truth, too, and then acceptance.

He didn’t expect Hannibal’s reply.

“Is that what you think I am?” A twitch of Hannibal’s lips as he stared down at their prey. Will thought he saw something like self-deprecation there.

“I don’t have words for what you are. Not ones that work.” Hannibal was pushing the limits of Will’s understanding of this, of them, as he always did.

“Hm.”

“What then?” Will’s voice was sharp, snappish. “What are you?”

Hannibal looked up again, following the line of Will’s throat up past his lips until he settled his eyes on Will’s eyes. His smile widened into the semblance of a grin, except there was solemnity there in those eyes that bore into Will. “I am your dog,” he said, making Will’s breath stutter in his throat.

Will swallowed, gasped in air. “A dog who doesn’t always come to heel and who attacks even when not commanded.”

“A mad dog,” conceded Hannibal. “But yours, nonetheless.”

 

“You’ll always come when I call,” Will says into the shower’s spray. His words rise up, swirling with the steam that clings in the air, like the mist on that cliff he took them over; they echo despite the patter of water against tile, against their bodies.

Hannibal leans in, his nod pressed against Will’s back. His arms encircle Will, hands moving to the front to scrub a path down Will’s chest to the scar on his abdomen, a mark of Hannibal’s making. Yet Will is the keeper here. Will is the one who owns Hannibal. And Will shudders, overcome by the weight of it. His feet slip on the wet tile as he leans back.

Arms holding him up, Hannibal’s naked body pressed close against his back, “I’ve got you, Will.”

Yes, yes you have, and Hannibal isn’t even hard at first, doesn’t get hard until his arm holding Will up brushes against Will’s erection, suddenly drawn tight against his stomach, and Will moans, and Hannibal’s breath hitches, and Will can feel him about to let go and step back. Behind him, he hears the soft slide of the shower door opening.

“Stay,” he blurts, and it could be by accident that the tone he uses is the same he’s used with Winston, with Lacey, and Shannon, and Lark. Silence for a moment, and then Hannibal inhales and exhales slowly behind him, and the shower door slides shut again; Hannibal stays, and Will is glad Hannibal can’t see the look on his face, is glad he can’t see it, because he’s sure it’s at least a little ravaged.

When he finally turns around, Hannibal’s eyes are shining, following Will’s every movement with single-minded devotion, and yes (god, yes), Will knows he’s waiting for another command.

Will licks his lips and palms the shaft of his hard cock, watches the expectant look in Hannibal’s eyes give way to liquid heat, then shift back again.

“Come,” he commands shakily. And holds out a hand.