Hannibal enters his office, the words of his testimony running through his head. Will Graham is and will always be my friend. His regret over Will’s incarceration had stung more than he’d expected. He hopes Will could see that. And the sinking feeling in Hannibal’s gut at the judge’s words has not yet dissipated. Inadmissible. Stricken from the record. Will’s fate had seemed changeable, but now Hannibal isn’t so sure. Will’s life is back in the balance, his fate as uncertain as ever. Hannibal sits where he does for therapy, looking across at the empty chair where he wishes Will were.
He stands, circles around the back of the other chair. The back of Will’s chair. Helps Will out of his ill-fitting jacket, which he sets aside. He circles around to the front, is met with the fury of Will’s gaze just as he had been on the witness stand. Hannibal made a mistake, getting Will locked away. He can only hope Will can forgive him. He kneels before Will, as a supplicant seeking forgiveness. Seeking a belt buckle, then seeking what lies beneath the zipper. Draws Will out of his underwear, coaxes him to hardness. Opens his mouth, as a kneeling communicant. Contrite and reverent, he gently draws his lips around the tip of Will’s cock, eliciting a gasp. Hannibal relaxes his jaw and takes more and more in.
With his right hand, Hannibal puts two fingers in his mouth and wets them with saliva, then adds a third. With his left, he grips the armrest tight, pulling himself close against the front of the chair. As he sucks his fingers into his mouth, teasing with his tongue, Hannibal presses his clothed erection against the front of the chair before him. His hips buck once at the contact before he pushes into the plush leather again and again.
Hannibal draws gasps and moans from Will, and hopes to evoke something darker, something possessive. He stops his movement, stills, waits, pulls at Will’s hips, silently begging Will to take from him. As if being owned by Will would absolve him of his treachery. Hannibal can’t help a moan that escapes as Will begins to thrust into his mouth, and another when Will grabs him by the hair and pushes in deeper still, to the back of his throat. Arousal blooms hot and florid in Hannibal’s gut at the thought of Will hearing his wrecked voice, and Hannibal ruts harder against the leg before him. He imagines that Will might buy his repentance.
“Hannibal. I forgive you.”
Choking on his own fingers, Hannibal lets out a cry. His hips stutter against the chair and he finishes, collapsing forward against the seat of the chair. He feels tears threaten to come forth, for Will is not here, and may not be for a long time. Once he collects himself, Hannibal resolves to rescue Will from an uncertain fate by doing what he does best: he must kill the judge.