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As a doctor of the mind, Hannibal is an expert on the full spectrum of human emotion. He’s well-versed in the science of feelings. Adept, in a purely academic sense. However, Hannibal himself would be among the first to admit that he isn’t exactly a wealth of firsthand expertise.
So the first time that it happens, it’s safe to say that he’s somewhat taken aback.
He’s assisting at a crime scene, once again. He’d never intended to become so deeply familiar with the process, but here he is. Jack Crawford, for his part, is convinced that Will works better when Hannibal is present. That his favorite, most abused profiler thinks more clearly, digests his findings more smoothly by Hannibal’s side.
And Hannibal—
Well, Hannibal simply couldn’t say no.
Will Graham stands amid the gore, sickly pale against brutal red. A single pure white lily in a field of roses. He sucks in a slow, shaky breath, lets his eyes flutter closed behind his glasses. Hannibal stands, still as a stone on the periphery of the chaos, and watches him. Savors how his lips part around barely muttered words, the jerky micro-expressions that flit over his pallid face. Hannibal knows that he only has so much time left to enjoy him, after all. Will’s Encephalitis has progressed from a mere simmer to a rolling boil. Any day now, Hannibal's time will come.
It was the perfect solution, really. Will would be gone, and Hannibal would still be standing. The threat to his freedom would be eliminated, and the brief but frankly alarming lapse in control that Hannibal had been experiencing at Will’s hands would be put to rest. It was simple. Neat, even. A nice, clean severing of attachments. Still, that doesn’t mean that Hannibal can’t enjoy Will, if only for a little while longer.
And so Hannibal is standing there, drinking in the sight of him, when Will suddenly collapses, lying in a heap in the brown, dead grass.
For half a breath, no one moves. The air goes still, everyone is waiting to see what someone else may do. Hannibal dares to take a step closer.
Like a spell breaking, a few other agents approach Will when Hannibal moves. Jack arrives first, looming over Will like a reaper. Something overtakes him at the sight, and he has to put effort forth to stop from showing his teeth.
“Give him room.” It’s meant to be a command rather than a threat, but his words leave with far more intensity than Hannibal expected. If his thoughts weren’t rapidly being consumed by the figure lying on the ground before him, he might have been concerned by the suddenness of his outburst. Beverly Katz flinches back from where she’d been crouched at Will’s side, but Jack only glares at him. Hannibal moves to kneel beside Will, tossing the agent another pointed look. “Would you be so kind?” he asks, doubling down on his order with an arch of his brow.
Jack eyes Will for a moment, then sucks at his teeth and takes a generous step backward. The lingering ire in Hannibal’s gut doesn’t dissipate, but it lessens enough that he can focus on the situation at hand.
Will is shivering. Sweat pours down his face in great saline rivulets. It pools in the hollows of his sunken eye sockets, filling up like twin goblets. His skin is waxy, the scent of him earthen and sweltering.
“Will? Hannibal calls. “Can you hear me, Will?”
It seems to cut through the confusion, both around Will and within him. Will’s long lashes flutter, his eyes glazed and fever bright. His glasses have been sent askew by the fall. Hannibal reaches out.
Gently, he pulls the glasses from the other man’s face. It does not escape him how Will tilts his head in response, his body language uncharacteristically submissive and docile. Hannibal swallows as he folds the glasses, stowing them in the breast pocket of his suit for safe keeping. He removes his pocket square while he’s at it, though he’s not fully conscious of the action nor the intentions behind it. Hannibal’s body seems to be moving on its own, suddenly, acting without the permission of its host.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he says.
Will’s head lolls in something resembling a nod, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips. He jumps when Hannibal cups his damp nape, sucking in a jagged little gasp.
Hannibal swallows hard, trying to ignore the pained little whimper that escapes the younger man. He takes the pocket square to Will’s face, pressing the corner of the fabric to his under-eye. “Can you tell me your full name?”
His brows furrow a little, eyes fixing themselves on Hannibal’s necktie. Perhaps unconsciously, he leans into Hannibal’s touch, whining softly once more.
“...Will Graham,” he mutters, almost clumsily.
Hannibal smiles. “Good,” he says, and Will squirms a little where he’s lying. “Can you tell me where you are?”
Will frowns again, harder. Hannibal dabs at Will’s cheek, and Will surprises him by turning his head to hide his face against Hannibal’s palm. He mutters something, but Hannibal fails to parse it.
“Will?”
“Wanna go home,” Will repeats, and nuzzles against Hannibal’s hand.
And a feeling rises in him, at that, and Hannibal is suddenly arrested by an all-encompassing need to hide Will away before something can harm him.
“We need to get him to a hospital,” Jack declares from above, evidently no longer willing to be ignored. Hannibal barely conceals a snarl, more so at the prospect of Will being taken from him that at any issues Will being medically treated may cause. Before Hannibal can offer a response, though, the body at his feet huffs out the most petulant sound Hannibal’s ever heard.
”No, he pouts. “Wanna go home!” The final word is stretched out around a whine. Bratty. Will twists in Hannibal’s grip, stares up at him with a weak little frown.
“...Please?”
It’s a lit match to the fuse in Hannibal’s stomach. He’s struck by a need to swallow Will up. Then and there, bones and all.
Will’s tiny outburst startles the small crowd that’s formed. Hannibal sees Beverly’s brows shoot up her face, hears a few whispered words exchanged overhead. It’s shocking, hearing a man as serious as Will Graham behave this way. Hannibal is shocked with them.
“Of course,” he says, seizing his composure, and smooths Will’s curls back from his burning temple. “Whatever you’d like. Let me take you home.”
Hannibal allows a few nervous agents, all eager to make themselves look useful, pull Will unsteadily to his feet. He would prefer to do it himself, of course, but the look that Jack Crawford sends his way makes him employ restraint.
“It’s an acute stress reaction,” he explains to the agent, speaking softly enough to imply discretion while still ensuring that a few passersby hear him. He does his best to project utmost professionalism, to dissuade any thoughts his behavior may have placed in Jack’s head. “Some rest and hydration should do the trick, but I’ll keep an eye on him for a while. If he needs further treatment, I will see that he gets it.” His calm facade must be even more convincing than he’d expected. Jack accepts Hannibal’s diagnosis, albeit warily, and Hannibal moves to help Will into the passenger’s seat of his Bentley.
-
The drive is largely quiet. Will curls in on himself as much as he can in the vehicle, cheek smushed against the window as he watches the scenery pass by with sad, sullen eyes. Hannibal doesn’t speak to him, but he does continue to observe him. Silently watching from the corner of his eye, cataloging the minutia of Will’s body language. He’s sagging, heavy with misery, but there’s something almost loose about the way he sits. Not necessarily relaxed, but… unaware. As if he isn’t able to be self conscious in this state. It’s sweet, Hannibal finds himself thinking. Refreshing, to see him so free from the inherent tension that comes from being perceived.
And then, almost sleepily, Will brings a hand to his own mouth. He nibbles at the tip of his thumb, teeth making soft impressions in the whorl of his fingerprint. Hannibal nearly loses control of the car. His heart twists violently within his chest, struggling against arteries in a desperate attempt to leap forth and rest in Will’s lap. It’s agonizing, really, just how badly he wishes to wrap Will up in soft blankets and hold him tight.
Hannibal is no stranger to desiring Will, of course. As much as he tries to distance himself from it, he is incessantly aware of its presence. But this is not desire. At least, not in the way Hannibal is accustomed to experiencing it. No, what he feels is… something else. An unbearably soft, clutching thing that asks— demands— to see his Will safe and sound.
Hannibal takes a slow, even breath. Tries hard to take hold of himself before he can do something rash. His voice is more gentle than he’s heard himself in decades, when he says “How are you feeling?”
Will shrugs, top lip still resting against the pad of his thumb. “Dizzy,” he mumbles, and Hannibal coos sympathetically.
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
The coddling is an odd compulsion, but Will seems to respond to it beautifully. “My head hurts,” he adds, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “An’ I’m cold.”
That makes Hannibal chuckle. “You’re sweating buckets, sweetling, you aren’t cold.”
Hannibal feels his face flush. Another slip, another melting of the facade. He can’t seem to help himself. Will is just so disarming, like this. How is he meant to keep his guard up, when the boy is being so utterly precious?
Will whines again. It’s torture. “No, Han’bal, I’m freezing.”
His voice is clumsy. Lilting, carrying a slight Southern affectation that Will tries very hard to disguise. Too hard, in Hannibal’s opinion. The little drawl is incredibly endearing.
“You have a fever,” Hannibal explains patiently. “You’ll feel better once you’re home. I’ll make sure that you drink some water, and give you medicine for your headache.” He glances sidelong at the boy, takes in his heavy eyelids, the lazy gnawing of his thumbnail. “And then to bed, I think.”
In this headspace, Hannibal is half-expecting Will to argue about that. It’s a testament to how awful he really feels that he simply nods, blinking slowly, and curls back in his seat. “M’kay,” he mutters.
Will doesn’t seem surprised to be in this state, Hannibal notes. Merely… inconvenienced. He wonders if this sort of slip is common for Will, if Will is accustomed to dealing with episodes like this. The idea makes Hannibal feel disproportionately angry. Will Graham, so vulnerable but so entirely alone. No one to tend to him, no one to help him when he needs it most.
Nothing else is said for the remainder of the ride, but Hannibal occasionally glances across the car to find Will, staring up at him with pretty, naive eyes.
-
When Hannibal arrives outside Will’s home, Will is already half-asleep. Hannibal allows himself to smile as he rounds the Bentley, prepared to indulge himself now that they’re alone. He opens the passenger door, reaches over the boy’s lax body. Will is so guarded when he’s lucid that the simple act of unfastening his seat belt for him sends a rush down Hannibal’s spine. Lord, help him.
Will makes a tiny sound of confusion in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t stop Hannibal as he gathers the sleepy thing into his arms. He picks Will up, bridal style, his heart stalling for a moment when Will throws his arms around his neck. So perfect.
Hannibal carries him inside, struggling to navigate around the countless furry bodies that greet him at the door. Will grins, sings out a sleepy ‘Hi’ to his dogs that brings Hannibal dangerously near to having a heart attack. Hannibal lies will out in the bed, forcefully ignoring how his mouth goes dry at the sight of Will sprawled and supine. He looks defenseless, like this. Entirely defenseless.
Two voices find themselves warring in Hannibal’s head, then. It would be so easy, one voice whispers. Yes, the other replies, Which is precisely why we can’t.
Hannibal fetches Will a tall glass of cool water, along with two pills from his cupboard. Will watches him approach, but doesn’t move. “Sit up,” Hannibal urges softly. “Don’t you remember what I told you before? Take these, and then you can go to sleep.”
Will continues to pout, but he does as he’s told. He swallows the pills, keeps sipping at the water as Hannibal removes his shoes. Hannibal considers going further, changing Will into some pajamas so he can sleep more comfortably. It strikes him as invasive, which he’s aware is laughable considering the things he’s already done to Will thus far. It feels wrong like this, though. He tries not to analyze why.
Instead he helps Will out of his coat, tells him to lie back. He covers Will with a sheet, flourishing it out so that it lands softly over the boy’s body. Will hums happily, wriggling his way deeper into the bed. Hannibal smiles down at him.
It clicks for him, then, why this feeling is threatening to eat him alive. Seeing Will there— nestled in bed, curls spilling out over the pillowcase— it makes him realize that he hasn't felt this way about someone since Mischa still breathed.
He can’t help himself. Hannibal steps closer to Will’s bed, reaches out. He runs his fingers through Will’s curls, sighs lovingly when the boy leans into the affection. His touch drifts, tracing fingertips over Will’s cheek.
With a sharp breath, Hannibal forces himself to step away. He takes a centering breath, hunts for his self-control. He moves for the door—
“Don’t go.”
Hannibal stills in place. “You need to rest, Will,” he says, still facing the door. He can’t turn, if he looks at Will he’ll crumble.
Will is quiet for a moment, thinking hard. After a fashion he mutters “Can you stay ‘til I fall asleep… please?”
What else could he do? Hannibal folds. “Of course I can.”
He retreats into the house once more, pulling a chair from the dining room and setting it at Will’s bedside. Will watches him, shyly pleased from his place beneath the sheets. He wrings the fabric between his hands, chewing his lip restlessly. Hannibal bites back a grin.
“Is there something you’d like, little one?”
Will blushes, hides his face behind the linen. “Can you… can you read to me?” He asks.
Oh, this boy will be the death of him. “I’d be happy to,” he replies.
“Thank you, Mister.”
It’s the sweetest thing Hannibal’s ever heard. He settles into the chair with a slight grunt. Working with his surroundings, he picks up the dark blue paperback on Will’s bedside table. There’s a scrap of paper wedged inside to hold his place, indicating that Will is over halfway through the novel, but Hannibal leaves it where it is and flips to the very beginning. As he rifles through the pages, he’s amused to see that the novel is heavily annotated— countless paragraphs, sentences, fragments, either underlined or contained within brackets for reasons known only to its reader.
“ ‘The sea is full of saints’,” he reads, taking note of Will’s shaky pen marks all the while. “ ‘It’s been full of saints for years. Saints were there before there were even gods. They were waiting for them’.”
Will shifts, makes himself all the more comfortable. His foggy eyes drift shut again, his thumb finding its way back to his gently parted lips. Hannibal doesn’t even finish the first chapter before Will is sound asleep, but he lingers a while in spite of himself, watching over him.
Eventually, Hannibal tears himself away. He doesn’t want to be there, when Will finally comes to. He makes his way back to his home, retires to his bedroom, changes out of his suit. He finds Will’s glasses, still tucked safely in his breast pocket. They stare up at him almost reproachfully. Hannibal cannot make himself turn away from their gaze.
The lenses watch him from his bedside table, that night. Hannibal finds it difficult to sleep. Their very presence serves as a sobering memento, am hours-long silent condemnation. But he keeps them in view regardless, sighing as he searches the glass for an echo of how it felt to have Will so content by his side.
-
It takes several months for Hannibal to talk with Will about what happened, that day. And in that time, many things change.
The scenarios couldn’t be more different, really. Will comes trudging into Hannibal’s office without knocking, shrugging his way out of his coat and sinking heavily into the chair at Hannibal’s desk with a powerful sigh. The corner of Hannibal’s mouth quirks upward.
“I’ll take that as an indicator that you’ve had a difficult day,” he quips, and approaches the chair.
Will lifts his head when Hannibal leans down, sharing in a brief kiss that serves as a ‘hello’ between them. He leans back in the chair when they part, scrubbing wearily at his face. “What if I just never went back?” he mutters, though both of them know that the threat holds no weight.
“I wouldn’t stop you,” Hannibal reminds him anyway. He knows, of course, that Will won’t quit. That wont stop him from encouraging it at every opportunity.
Will breathes out a dry laugh in reply, and Hannibal moves to stand behind him. He places his hands on Will’s shoulders, kneading at the wound muscles there as he speaks near his lover’s ear.
“You could do it,” he insists. Will tips his head back a little, lips parting as Hannibal massages away the worst of the other man’s ever-present tension. “Walk away, leave it all behind.”
Will scoffs, but his head lolls a little with pleasure. “And do what?” he fires back. “Go back to teaching full-time? Lecture my students about murders that I could’ve prevented?”
Hannibal sighs. In the end, he hadn’t been able to give Will up— not to the encephalitis, and not to the FBI. Those plans were abandoned, without much regret, in favor of… this.
Will’s shoulders are firm beneath Hannibal’s guiding hands, his body warm and solid before him. It’s still new, this thing between them. Still young, and vulnerable. Still taking shape. Hannibal is torn between taking the opportunity to mold it to his liking, and being afraid to push it past its natural limits.
“You wouldn’t need to keep teaching, either,” he notes, feigning nonchalance. “You don’t have to work at all, if you don’t want to. I would provide for you.”
It’s something he’s imagined at length, truth be told. His deepest fantasy, disguised as idle banter. Will Graham, completely liberated from the expectations of the human race. Free to act as he pleases, utterly unrestrained.
He’s not surprised when Will snorts in response, of course. It’s much too soon for such a suggestion to be made in earnest. Will allowing such dependence would be a far-off thing. Far off, Hannibal thinks, but not impossible.
“Don’t think I have it in me to be anybody’s sugar baby,” Will jokes, and Hannibal doesn’t hesitate.
“I disagree.”
Will nods, rolling his shoulders with a soft hum of pleasure. “Oh, I’m sure you do.”
Hannibal looks down at his lover, allows both his touch and his thoughts to drift. His hands quest lower, smoothing over Will’s chest. Seeking out his heartbeat.
“Would you be willing to settle for a compromise?” he ventures, and Will opens one blue eye.
“Would you? You don’t strike me as the settling type.”
“Give me a day,” Hannibal says, and when Will doesn’t immediately reject the idea, he presses on. “Just put yourself into my hands for a single evening, Will. I can tell how deeply your work has been affecting you, lately. Take an evening off, put the worries of your life aside.”
Hannibal ducks lower, presses a kiss to Will’s hairline. “Let me take care of you,” he whispers. He holds his breath, waiting.
A rush of giddy anticipation washes over him when Will sighs, leaning into Hannibal’s body at last. “Fine. Just one night.”
“Of course,” Hannibal purrs, though he’s hoping beyond hope that this ‘one night’ might soon become many.
-
Hannibal insists that he be allowed to care for Will on a Friday. The last thing he wants is for Will to crawl from bed the next morning and let all of Hannibal’s good work be undone. So Will makes arrangements for his dogs, packs an overnight bag, and arrives at Hannibal’s front door shortly after his final lecture of the day has ended.
Hannibal greets him, heart fluttering with fondness as he takes in Will’s weary appearance. Worry not, the voice in his head coos as he reaches for Will. You’re with me, now. I’m here to keep you safe.
Will goes easily, lets Hannibal kiss him for as long as he likes. He’s warm, inviting. Hannibal is tempted to surrender to it, for a moment. To abandon his original plan and spend the night taking care of Will in a very different sense. Stubbornly, he refrains. Tonight is not about sex. If all goes according to plan, both of them will be more fulfilled than if they had sex, anyway.
He pulls himself away, guides Will inside. “How was your day?” he asks, though the tension threaded through Will’s back answers for him.
“Draining,” Will grunts. “I feel like I’m being stretched out on a rack. Pulled in multiple directions, dragged out until something finally snaps.”
“Are you expecting to snap soon?” Hannibal asks, taking the coat from his lover’s shoulders.
“I can hear people making bets on what the final straw will be,” Will jokes dryly. Hannibal doesn’t laugh.
“You’ll feel better,” he promises instead. “I’ll take good care of you.”
Will blows out a harsh breath, shaking out his shoulders. He looks up at Hannibal and flashes a smile. He’s nervous, trying hard to come off as though he isn’t. “So, what am I in for? Do I get a safe word, or…?”
“You wont need one,” Hannibal assures, smoothing his hands down Will’s back simply because he can’t resist the urge to touch. “You’re free to say no to anything that I suggest. I encourage you to, in fact.”
“I wouldn’t want to disrupt your plans,” Will argues, but Hannibal can see how he relaxes by a fraction at the reassurance.
“I’m taking care of you, Will, not ordering you around. If you approach it with that attitude, it won’t offer you nearly as many benefits.”
Will nods along, in that juvenile ‘I-already-know-all-of-this’ way that he does when he’s frustrated. Hannibal sighs, takes him by the shoulders, spins his lover round to face him. He reaches out to pet Will’s cheek.
“I’m doing this for you,” Hannibal whispers. “Because you deserve it.”
And Will, to his credit, does actually look like he’s trying his best to internalize it. He erases the tiny space between them, shoving forward until his forehead rests against Hannibal’s own. “...I deserve this,” he murmurs, almost petulant, and Hannibal leans back just enough to press a kiss to the tip of Will’s nose.
“That’s my boy,” Hannibal says, and he does not miss how Will’s cheeks flush rosy at the words. Before Will can even attempt to stammer out a reply, though, Hannibal takes him by the hand and begins leading him up the stairs.
“A bath, first, I think.”
-
He doesn’t release Will’s hand until the two of them are shut away in the master bathroom. There, he leaves Will waiting near the counter as he begins his preparations. Hannibal sets aside the softest towel he owns, along with a new set of pajamas purchased especially with tonight in mind. He twists the knobs of a deep, claw-foot tub, beckoning Will with a wave of a hand.
“How do you like this temperature?”
Will blinks, balks a little. Hannibal’s heart pangs, a mix of adoration and pity. Poor darling, has it really been so long since someone was tender with you? He’s shy when he places his hand under the faucet, pulling it away almost immediately after as if he’s been bitten. “Good,” he says, awkwardly. “Uh, it’s fine. This is good.”
Hannibal frowns at him, taking in the true gravity of his task. “My baby boy, is even this too much to offer?”
Will straightens, winces a little. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
Hannibal shakes his head. “There’s no need to apologize, Will. Just try to relax, alright? Nothing bad will happen to you, not when I’m here to protect you.”
Will nods shakily, tries to smile. He eyes the water still pouring from the faucet and bites his lip. “ ‘S too cold,” he confesses, forcing himself with all his strength to take up even the smallest amount of space. “Hotter. Please.”
Hannibal beams. “Good boy,” he coos, and Will’s ears blush scarlet.
As the tub begins to fill, Will’s fingers drift to the buttons of his shirt. Hannibal stands immediately, covers Will’s hands with a little ‘ah-ah’ sound, begins unbuttoning the shirt himself.
Will rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t move away. “So, when you said that I wouldn’t be doing anything, tonight, you really meant—“
“Anything,” Hannibal confirms. “I would carry you from one room to another if I thought you would let me.”
Will barks out a laugh, shakes his head. Hannibal rids Will of his shirt, his belt. He kneels and unties the boy’s shoes, kindly urging Will to step out of them along with his trousers.
The moment that Will settles into the bath, Hannibal is certain that this was the correct place to start. Will’s overwrought muscles unfurl like tentacles when they meet the water, limbs sprawling out like some magnificent cephalopod. A gratified hum resonates from within him, easy and devoid of pretense.
The bath starts quiet and only turns quieter as the minutes pass, time dripping by like errant taps from the faucet. Hannibal guides Will through light conversation as he cleans the boy’s body, carefully avoiding topics related to his adult life as he lathers and luxuriates in every inch of skin. Will engages, so far as he cares to. Responds when prodded.
He’s slipping, though. Fast. Devolving from sentences to handfuls of words to simple ‘yes’s and ‘no’s. By the time Hannibal begins working shampoo into Will’s nest of curls, the boy has been reduced to happy sighs and the occasional grunt in reply to Hannibal’s soft speaking. He turns liquid beneath Hannibal’s hands, boneless and brainless against his ministrations.
Hannibal smiles to himself, breathes Will in. His boy smells like cucumber soap, sweet grasses. Something clear and weightless, like a drop of nectar. Peace.
“Are you enjoying yourself, sweetling?” He asks.
“Uh-huh.”
Adorable. “Tip your head back for me, baby boy. I need to rinse out your lovely hair.”
He spots how Will tenses minutely at the pet name, the little stalling of his motions as he obeys. “There’s no need to be shy,” Hannibal soothes. He has an educated guess at the thoughts skirting through Will’s head, right now. He’s ashamed that he started slipping into this headspace so easily. And in front of another person, no less. It simply won’t do.
“You can be whatever you’d like, while I’m with you.”
Will hesitates. Hannibal pours a cup of water over his soapy hair, shielding his eyes with his other hand. Will stops breathing, just for a moment. He’s shaking.
“I promise,” Hannibal insists, and Will twists to stare up at him with the most precious expression hes ever seen. Serious as the grave, but softened by naivety.
“Cross your heart,” the boy demands. Hannibal bites his tongue to keep from grinning.
He does as he’s been ordered, with flourishing sweeps of his finger over his chest. “And hope to die,” he replies.
Will just nods, all businesslike, and lets Hannibal finish rinsing his hair.
-
“Do you feel like this often?” Hannibal asks as he dries the boy’s body.
Will stands still, uncharacteristically polite, only pulling away to wrinkle his nose and giggle when Hannibal ruffles his curls. He’s still a bit nervous, still unsure in his circumstances. He’s adjusting, though. Hannibal couldn’t be more proud.
He shrugs, folds his arms tight around his chest. “Not really,” he mutters.
“Sometimes, though?”
Will looks at the floor. His mouth twists. “Sometimes. Is that… is that bad?”
Hannibal kisses Will’s cheek, helps him into his pajamas. The sleeves of the soft blue shirt almost completely cover his fingers, the dark green pants reach the bathroom floor. The clothes dwarf him, intentionally. Will doesn’t comment on the clothes, but Hannibal can tell that he’s pleased with them.
“It’s not bad at all,” he says, leaving no room for doubt. Will stares up at him, quietly awestruck. “In fact, I think it’s very good for you to play like this sometimes, if you enjoy it.”
He strokes Will’s hair, smoothing it away just to watch it fall back into his sweet face.
“And I like looking after you. I like making sure that you can do this without having to worry about anything. It’s better this way, don’t you think?”
Will smiles, soft and lopsided. He lifts a thumb to his mouth, the blunt edges of his teeth resting against the nail. Hannibal makes a mental note to purchase his boy a chewing necklace, but doesn’t tell him to stop. “Mm-hm,” he confirms, happy to accept the permission and go on feeling Little. Hannibal imagines that Will might have more reservations, once he returns to his adult headspace, but for now he’s appeased. Tentatively content.
“Then it’s settled.” He tidies up the bathroom a little, Will watching all the while. After a minute or two he starts rocking on his heels, adorably restless.
Hannibal grins, completely enamored. “I got you some presents,” he says. Whispering, like it’s a secret. “Would you like to go downstairs and see them?”
-
Will sits at the breakfast bar, kicking his legs rhythmically as he waits. His eyes are shut tight, his mouth gnawing on his right thumb in his impatience. Hannibal feels a flicker of it, too, looking at him.
He crosses the kitchen with long strides, gift bag held fast in his grip. He places it on the bar, pulls the topmost item out. “Hold out your hands, darling.”
Will obeys, thrusting out his arms eagerly. Hannibal places his prize in the boy’s waiting hands.
It’s a plush dog, with soft yellow fur and floppy limbs. It stares blankly ahead with round black eyes, a simple little smile on its face.
Will’s eyes blink open the moment that the delicate material brushes his fingers, hands immediately clutching at the toy. He hugs it to his chest, cheek squished against the dog’s vacant face.
“It’s a puppy!” he cheers, face filled to bursting with delight. “He’s so cute!”
“Do you like it?” Hannibal asks, even as it couldn’t be more evident that he does. Will nods again, holding the toy up by its chubby body to inspect him properly.
“I love him,” Will replies, and looks up at Hannibal with a bright, beautiful smile. “Thank you, Mister.”
Hannibal nods graciously, pushing the bag closer to Will. “There are a few more gifts in here,” he explains, and Will immediately begins rummaging. “I wasn’t sure what you might want, so I bought you a few different options. Books, toys, some art supplies.”
Will stares at the bag in silent wonder for a handful of seconds before finally retrieving a coloring book and a box of brightly colored crayons. Hannibal isn’t surprised by his choice. It’s a timid step, childish and fun without strictly being play. The coloring pages are themed around nature, boasting thick-lined images of trees, flowers, various animals and scenery. Will starts flipping through the pages, surveying his options.
“You can sit here and color while I make dinner,” Hannibal suggests, and Will peers up at him through his lashes.
“What’re you making?”
“Tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches.” It’s a much simpler description of what he has in mind. He’s ‘dressed up’ the meal, effectively. Crafted an elevated version of a childhood classic. Only the absolute best, for his perfect boy.
Will smiles, showing his approval. “Sounds yummy,” he chirps.
“I’m glad you think so.”
Hannibal moves to get started, but he barely takes a step before Will speaks.
“Um—“
Hannibal turns, tilts his head. “Yes, love?”
Will chews his lip for a moment, his face flushing heavily. The next moment, he’s up and throwing himself into Hannibal’s arms. Hannibal’s breath catches. He hugs Will close, and the boy ducks his head and hides his face in the front of Hannibal’s shirt.
“Thank you,” he says again, barely audible, and Hannibal melts. He kisses Will’s head, squeezes him tight.
“You’re very welcome. I’ll always be here to take care of you, okay? Whenever you like.”
Will just nods into his chest, nuzzling at him with the tip of his nose. “M’kay.”
For a while, they simply stand there, silent. Hannibal holds Will until the boy finally pulls away. He lets Hannibal leave to prepare dinner, this time, reclaiming his place near the breakfast bar. Hannibal looks at him, tries to commit every detail to memory.
Will is looking down at his coloring book, a little frown of concentration on his face. His arm is hooked around the dog, holding it limp in the crook of his elbow with his thumb between his teeth.
That feeling overcomes him, once more. That fleshy, squeezing feeling. Hannibal decides that it must be love.