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The Hands of a Medical Man

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The first time Will notices, it's completely innocent. Void of any warm emotion - joy, lust, anything - it's more of a fleeting thought, as he shakes through his fear, down to his very core. He hasn't known the man very long, not at all, and they'd only really spent any time together that morning, but when he's just taken out Garrett Jacob Hobbs with too many bullets to count accurately, the doctor is quick to join him on the floor beside the killer's bleeding-out daughter.

The man's hand doesn't even have to bat Will's away. It's like the two of them are in instant mutual agreement that Hannibal simply knows best, so he should take the lead. Will slips away, but can't remove his eyes from the scene. At first he's drawn in by the gore - how the kitchen tiles have been redecorated with spilled blood, stained eternally red, as it seems - but then, when Hannibal's hand comes to rest around Abigail's throat, Will's enticed for an entirely different reason.

Looking back on it, he can tell in hindsight that this was not unusual, in some sense. He had always acknowledged his attraction to other men, and it was hardly something he dismissed out of shame or otherwise. However, when he saw his unofficial therapist's large hand grasp the entirety of the girl's throat, he couldn't help how his mind raced with vivid, sick images, though not the ones pertaining to psychopaths and their crimes as he had grown so used to as of late.

He ate, sleep, showered and breathed killings, but this wasn't that. The images that flooded his mind, breaking straight through the barriers he had so expertly put up, were those of a sexual nature. He imagined in a matter of one second a thousand images, usually those in which Abigail was not the one with Hannibal's hand around her throat, but rather he was. It was in a variety of situations, a variety of positions and ways, but that was always the key point: Hannibal was restricting his breathing, taking more control over Will's life than he had ever dreamed of having himself.

He feels suddenly breathless, and he's only able to watch Hannibal the entire time it takes for the ambulance to arrive. He doesn't take his eyes off of the man, watching him intently until the back doors to the ambulance shut and he's left feeling isolated - oh so alone - in such a bustling crime scene. There's a thousand questions to ask and answer, but he just wants to go home for every reason and none.


Abigail Hobbs is stable. In hospital, where he's gone to see her alongside Hannibal a handful of times, she resides, re-cooperating and rejuvenating. He prays silently that Jack doesn't go in too hard on her, if at all, but this reassurance of her safety is reason enough to let his mind begin to run wild.

Will doesn't want things like that from people, at least not anymore. After his awkward teen faze, he all but vowed himself to celibacy, excluding the times he broke this vow out of pure physical necessity. There had been women, and there had been men. He had wanted them in a way, but never like this. That was usually a fleeting emotion, one that was so easily rectified in a single night or less, but he wanted Hannibal differently; he wanted him all of the time.

This in particular made attending therapy that much harder. He would arrive as normal, but as soon as they would sit down and begin their time together, Will would lose all focus he had gained when he caught sight of Hannibal's hands moving, scribbling something into a notebook or otherwise moving about, gesturing as the man spoke, as though with a life and mind of their own. It was torture, to be able to look and never touch, or have the man touch him.

He could normally conserve this feeling, keep it bottled up with a few practised breaths, but there were other times. There were times where he could barely contain himself, as he felt as though he might just jump across the room and have Hannibal take him then and there. Sometimes his overactive imagination would kick in, disobeying him, teaming up with his sleep deprivation to lead to a catastrophic image forming in his head.

He would stand, in his dream-nightmare, and cross the room with speed. Hannibal would look up at him knowingly, though having the decency to feign looking a little shocked by the sudden movement. Then, he would cup Hannibal's face and kiss him roughly, demanding him to take more - to take whatever he wanted to, as far as he wanted to, because Will undoubtedly wanted it too. He wanted everything from Hannibal, anything he could give him, and he wanted Hannibal to know this, too.

The doctor's hands would come to rest at his tailbone, where he would relish in the feeling of Will's willingness to go along with his wants and desires. Hannibal's strong, delicate hands would suddenly dig their fingers in, and he would yelp as the man pulled him closer, almost but not quite sending him flying as he would topple over, landing against him. There would be desperate grasping, whimpering and moaning, clawing and groaning, and it would be the best thing Will had ever experienced in his entire life.

Of course, being that they supposedly had a doctor-patient relationship, none of this ever happened. Will, against his self-doubt, did indeed manage to contain himself, and during each and every session he would sit across from the man and pretend like nothing he was imagining was there in his head. Hannibal, ever composed and meticulous, did not sense any difference, and if he did, there was nothing said about it.


Working was hard at the best of times, but at the worst of times it was like this. He and Hannibal had both been called to the scene, both had to work side-by-side, Hannibal who had been talking idly with the forensics team and Jack. Will was sure he hadn't meant to have such an effect on him - hell, he didn't even know he had any effect on him, how could he have planned this? - but when he began picking up things, touching the scene and lifting evidence up to look at it, Will couldn't pretend he wasn't impacted greatly.

He tried to ignore it, at first. After all, he was only there to work his magic, so to speak, and tell them the vague gist of what had happened, and why it had happened. It was relatively easy at first, slipping in and out of rooms unnoticed, refusing to let his ears pry in on the various conversations Hannibal was having with people, knowing this would only be a slippery slope leading to disaster.

Then, something changed, and it was beyond his power to stop it. As he was inspecting the corpse, a hand suddenly landed itself on his shoulder as though it belonged there, like it had a home and knew Will could not and would not throw him out. Will could only look at it, rather comically, a shade of horror painted across his features. He didn't want to look at Hannibal, knowing that the man would undoubtedly be looking at him. He was afraid of what he might do if the man caught him in such a moment, yet he seemed to be running rapidly out of options.

"Will?" Hannibal's concerned voice seeped into his ears, breaking the ringing of silence there, replacing it with his divine, sophisticated tone instead. "Will, are you alright?"

Will can only cast his eyes momentarily over at Hannibal before he's hyperventilating, unable to predict what he's going to do. Thankfully, he opts involuntarily for rushing out of the room and down the stairs, then gets into his car, ignoring the calls from his friends and colleagues alike. He drives himself far enough away that he's in a secluded spot, somewhere deep into the woods, and only then does he let himself do it.

He indulges first in slowly stroking himself, tracing the length through his jeans. When this proves insufficient, he instead decides to slip down his pants and works himself harder - faster, with more vigour and passion - than he's ever done before. He imagines that the rough palm on his member isn't his own, but rather that of Hannibal, and all too soon it's game over. He finishes abruptly, surprising even himself, and feels immediately overwhelmed with guilt.


He begins to avoid Hannibal after this. If his physical reaction every time he sees the man is to rush off and pleasure himself, he's not going to be able to do anything. His life will be ruined in the most dismally euphoric way possible, and it's all Hannibal's fault. It's not even stopping him to refer to him as his therapist anymore, which only further proves how low his boundaries have become; he would let the man totally wreck him, over and over.

The next time he sees him, he thinks he's suffering with some sort of illness - amnesia, perhaps. It's like Groundhog Day, because he's woken up at the crack of dawn to a sharp knock at his front door. He shuffles there in his underwear, feeling groggy and distanced from himself. He feels like a disaster but figures it won't be something important - maybe just an early delivery he's forgotten about, or some particularly eager preachers - but he's proven wrong within the second.

There, stood on his porch, is Hannibal. Part of Will is expecting some grand gesture, like a bouquet or something, perhaps a sign or some delicious, home-cooked food. He carries none of this, however, and he merely offers a coy smile when Will opens the door. He gulps at the sight, suddenly feeling beyond awake as the man gestures inside of his house. He feels sick, as though he's been trapped inside of his past, made to relive their short history together until he does something - anything - about it.

"May I come in?"

Will reluctantly replays their initial meeting, standing aside to let the man past. He thinks he leaves enough space - in fact, he's certain of it - but somehow they still end up touching. The folded coat in Hannibal's arms brushes his thinly clothed chest, and he's made rather abruptly aware of how naked he is. He goes to fetch a night gown to hide his shame, wrapping it around himself. He feels Hannibal's eyes follow him all the way.

"What brings you here?" Will asked, trying not to sound off-putting, but also afraid to get too friendly. Lord knows what he'd do if that happened. "At... seven in the morning?"

"The best time to be active," Hannibal's smile is small, but noticeable. "I've noticed you've been missing our sessions, Will. May I ask why that is?"

Will scoffs. "You're doing door-to-door visits now?"

"Only for you," Hannibal sounds sincere, and it makes Will's throat run dry. He needs a drink, but he can't move, so he instead listens to Hannibal as he continues, "I'm worried about you, Will."

"Oh, you're kind," Will says, voice mockingly sing-song like. He makes to move to his kitchen, where he'll draw out a drink for the pair of them. Preferably something alcoholic, though part of his conscience tells him that's beyond irresponsible in the morning. Still, Hannibal stops him by speaking once more.

"I can't stay long," he admits, sounding solemn, "I was nearby, and thought a face-to-face discussion might be best. I have to meet with another patient within the hour; I'd rather not be late, or intoxicated."

Will spares him a half-smile, and nods. He stops walking, and turns. He comes to rest leaning against his counter top, unsure of what to with his hands, and the rest of his body. He crosses his arms, thinking this looks the most normal, and waits for Hannibal to carry the conversation once more.

"I was concerned when you missed two in a row, Will," Hannibal says, brushing down the fine fabric of his coat, then looking back up at Will, dead in the eye. "Now I'm beginning to suspect you're avoiding me."

If Will could die from a gaze alone, he would have been in the ground by now. Hannibal's looking at him so intensely, so powerful in his stance and so sure in his statement, that Will's knees instantly feel weak. He almost buckles them, but they become rigid in just enough time. He shakes his head dismissively, avoiding eye contact as he lies through his teeth to the man that undoubtedly knows this fact.

"Not avoiding," Will repeats the man's word specifically, feeling this has a more earnest ring to it, "I've been unable to make it. I've been feeling under the weather, you might say."

This isn't exactly untrue, if the weather is a metaphor for Hannibal's spell that leaves him feeling perpetually cursed and blessed, all at once. The doctor eyes him closely, obviously seeing through his lie. Thankfully, though, he doesn't call him out on it, but instead nods along and goes with the falsehood, pretending as though he were a gullible child, or perhaps a frightened housewife. He agrees, and makes a noise in concurrence.

"I understand, Will. I'm not glad to hear it, but it is good news in some sense or other." Hannibal speaks as he always does, in riddles and tongues, always sounding so sophisticated. "When should I expect to see you back, then?"

Well. Will can hardly say he planned very far ahead on this one, but it's too late to turn back now. He shrugs, and offers a vague, "Give me a few days."

"Very good," Hannibal's smile comes, and it cracks his face sincerely. He reaches for his bag, and Will stiffens. He pulls out some sort of over-the-counter medicine, and a plastic box containing a meal that does, frankly, look delicious. "For your recovery."

Hannibal thrusts the box and drugs into his hands, and he takes them blindly. Then, as soon as he arrived, he's out the door and he's gone. Into the cold air, lacking a coat, his unusually striped suit fitted perfectly, showing off his shoulders and taut yet manly waist. Will thinks he's finally gotten over his little playground crush, but then he watches Hannibal slip into his car and his hands come into sight, and Will almost faints.

Stepping back inside, not waving nor seeing the man off, he slams the door shut and throws down the food and medicine, angry at himself for having lied, and irked by the doctor's ability to predict his lies so perfectly. He shrugs off his gown, and feels even worse when he can't wait a moment longer to lie himself down on his bed and take himself into his hand again, like a randy teenager. He feels sick as he touches himself, but he can't stop - not now, and not ever.


It's immature, sure. Ever since Hannibal came to his home, infiltrated it and destroyed his mind, knocking everything from books to photographs off of his private study's shelves, Will's been trying to deflect his interest. Now, he's gone and done it. He's tried to make it better, and he's only gone and made it a hundred thousand times worse - for himself, and now he's dragged Alana into the mess, too.

Alana's beautiful. He's not blind. It was hardly pure luck that she was the one he chose to deflect his emotions onto, but there's something missing. She's got the right sort of mind, but she's got the wrong sort of beauty. She's got the wrong sort of build, most of all, with her soft features and curves and curly chocolate hair, with her delicate hands that fail to catch his eye and refuse to touch him - to take him - like he wants them to.

Even still, as they're alone in his house, he decides to go for it. He kisses her, and he feels ill. Not because of her herself - the kiss as a standalone thing is actually good, something he might want to repeat, if he was somebody else, some other time - but because of how wrong it feels. He feels like he's being promiscuous, like he's cheating on somebody, which is ridiculous. He's single - he's been single his entire life - and there's no reason that should change now.

It's no surprise when she shoots him down in flames, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like hell. He forgets what she says almost instantly, however, and before he knows it he's making the long drive to Hannibal's office, where he should still be, unless Will's gotten confused again and he's lost a substantial amount of time.

Where he's gone only hits him when he's outside. He takes a moment to reconsider, then clambers out of his car and makes his way up to Hannibal's office. He knocks on the door firmly twice, and it takes only this many times for Hannibal to reach his door and pull it open. Will forgets every manner he's ever learned as he enters, no words offered to Hannibal, no pleasantries exchanged. He runs his hands down his face, ignoring how cold he feels without a proper jacket, and turns to face Hannibal.

"Will," Hannibal speaks slowly, tentatively, as though talking to a lost child, "What brings you here?"

"I kissed Alana Bloom," Will blurts out abruptly, face feeling flushed as he realises what he's said. Part of him wants to backtrack, but the look of sudden jealousy that takes residence on Hannibal's angled features make that an undesireable option. He almost smiles, but then Hannibal's speaking again, and taking a step closer. He's not too close for comfort, not exactly, but there's less distance between them than there was before. A shrill of excitement runs through Will.


"It was terrible," Will lets himself admit for the first time aloud, "She rejected me."

"Oh?" Something about Hannibal's tone quirks upwards, making him sound almost pleased to hear Will's misfortune. "Well, I'm very sorry to hear that."

Hannibal tries to be inconspicuous as he shuffles closer to Will, but the latter notices almost immediately as the action starts. He's ready to break out into a cold sweat, but forces himself to plant his feet and take whatever comes to him; Lord knows this doesn't happen often. He swallows hard, and decides to play along with Hannibal's game, rather like cat and mouse. He's been Hannibal's prey for a very long time, he suspects.

"I appreciate your concern," he fills his voice with jest, but keeps his tone low and seductive, enticing to the most animalistic parts of Hannibal, "I suppose I'll fill the hole of romance in my life in some other way."

He could swear he watched as the corners of Hannibal's lips tipped upwards into a devilish smile. "Perhaps it wasn't your fault. Perhaps you should find somebody else to kiss, or to touch."

Hannibal takes a step closer, closing the distance between them, and when Will catches sight of Hannibal's hand coming to rest atop his cheek, his eyes fall shut against his will. He feels oversensitive, and he swears that every hair on his body raises when Hannibal finally touches him with those hands. His hand slips down, coming to rest on Will's chin, and his thumb slips onto Will's bottom lip, applying pressure until the man's mouth falls open, pliant and willing to follow his every instruction.

Will hears Hannibal inhale, as though ready to say something, but then in the blink of an eye (figuratively, of course, because he feels completely incapable of opening his, let alone controlling them in such a way), Hannibal's thumb has gone, and there's a new pressure that's applied. Will's lips hurt immediately with how harshly Hannibal's come down onto them, and he loves every second of it.

It's like the kiss launches him into action. He wraps his arms around Hannibal's neck, digging his fingernails in there, earning a small bite to his lips as a pleased scolding. He can't help but think this is how it's supposed to be, because how he's feeling right now is like he's been lit on fire compared to how he felt with Alana, just about an hour ago now. He'd never have dreamed that Hannibal would kiss him that night, but he's not going to be the one to complain.

Hannibal's godly hands slips down his chest, and come to grip his waist tightly. They seem to have the simultaneous thought that Will's wearing too many clothes - too many layers - and so both he and Hannibal begin tearing at his shirt, prepared to rip it in half if it means getting it off any faster. Once that's gone, it seems almost instinctive to reach for Hannibal's, only he feels his hands get trapped there. Looking down, he finds Hannibal's hands have encased his own, and the doctor is shaking his head absently, sounding breathless.

"Not now, Will," he seems to be telling himself, too, convincing himself that they really can't. "Not here, not now."

Will wants to disobey him, to ignore his warning and see just how Hannibal plans on punishing him. At the same time, though, he thinks he's fallen too far under Hannibal's spell to do this, and his purpose now is to follow each and every thing Hannibal tells him to do. In this case, rather disappointingly, it's to drop the hands pulling at Hannibal's shirt buttons. He sighs, feeling tired after the sudden rush and loss of adrenaline.

They have time, he tells himself. Granted neither of them change their mind any time soon, they can postpone this a little longer.

It does feel strange when the two of them fall back into regular routine almost instantly afterwards, when they begin searching for Will's discarded shirt together. Hannibal hands him the article when he finds it, and the sight of the man's hands seems to affect him less, though there's some dark part of him that does return to the image of him and Hannibal engaging in light bondage, with Hannibal's large hands wrapped securely around his throat, his vision going tastefully black.

He stays for a while longer, unsure whether or not Hannibal's going to insist they perform their therapy session then and there, but soon enough the pair of them are exiting at the same time, and Hannibal's infamous hand is ushering him outside with a firm pressure on the base of his spine. Will feels tingling everywhere, especially wherever Hannibal chooses to touch him.

It's almost like he knows, Will realises as he jumps into his car, not trusting himself to look back at Hannibal before he leaves, just in case he can't bring himself to leave the man. Hannibal is clever, obviously, so why shouldn't he have picked up on the obvious clues Will had been displaying? Why wouldn't he have seen the effect his presence had had on Will, and how the mere sight of his strong, medical hands had made Will rush off?

Will tutted to himself, smirking as he started his car. He couldn't see Hannibal anymore, as he was probably parked somewhere behind Will, or around the block somewhere, but it was almost as though he could feel him. His scent filled the air, and his invisible presence was tangible. He couldn't get rid of the man, and he figured that, when it really came down to it, he didn't actually want to.

Though, for all of that teasing and working Will up, he was going to have to pay him back in a serious way.