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When Hannibal asks Will to come to dinner the night before they're to have their fateful meal with Jack, Will thinks maybe it's one more evening of planning, another few hours for Hannibal to be sure that Will is really ready to do what he says he will in regards to Jack's murder. As usual they talk around each other, neither one admitting anything, touching on things just enough to avoid being untruthful, never really saying anything. But the nothing they say is heavy with intent, and the moves they make are like a game for which neither of them knows the rules.

Hannibal asks about Jack, finally, and the question is framed in such a way that Will can easily deflect rather than answer directly. But even as he says what he does, about Jack's fate being preordained, he thinks that there's a part of him that could do what he's told Hannibal he can, could help Hannibal kill him. He doesn't cherish the idea of murdering Jack, doesn't imagine it will give him the rush of power he felt when he put ten bullets into Garrett Jacob Hobbs, when he nearly shot Clark Ingram in the head, when he broke Randal Tier's neck. But he's started to lose sight of where his reality ends and his deception begins.

Letting Hannibal in, giving him permission (and invitation) to be close, has given Will new insight. There's something in the vulnerability they've shared, even if some of it had been manufactured on Will's part, that makes some part of Will loathe to turn on Hannibal as was his initial design. It's not as if he's forgotten what Hannibal did to him, because he hasn't. But he's starting to understand why, to see the flesh and blood behind a man who is most certainly a monster. Hannibal can be cold and calculating and cruel, but he's passionate as well, he has the ability to be broken hearted, and the capacity for love.

Before he'd brought up Jack, Hannibal had talked about an imago, and the more Will considers it, the more he starts to realize that maybe Hannibal is hinting at something. He has in his mind his ideal for Will, a partner, Will thinks, someone he can share his intellect with, his thoughts, dark and light, someone who can and will understand him. But it makes Will wonder if Hannibal's seen through the cracks of Will's deceit, as fine as they are, if he knows betrayal awaits him when Jack arrives tomorrow night. It makes bile rise in the back of Will's throat, not because he's afraid of what Hannibal will do, but rather because the idea of hurting Hannibal in that way squeezes at his heart in a manner he never thought possible.

Will takes a sip of his wine in an attempt to wash the guilt down, but it sticks in his throat, burns in his sinuses. He can hear the intake of Hannibal's breath, ready to speak, but the words that come out of his mouth aren't what Will expects.

"We could disappear now, tonight," Hannibal suggests, his voice low and honest in a way that Will can feel vibrating in his bones. "Feed your dogs, leave a note for Alana, and never see her or Jack again. Almost polite."

There's a long silence then, spun out between them, and Will's instinct is to deflect again, say something that isn't a no or a yes, just words to fill the space. But, in his heart, all he wants is to agree, to leave all of this behind and run away with Hannibal, for better or worse, whatever that means. Jack would see him as a traitor, a liar, Alana would know it was weakness, giving into Hannibal's designs (because she knows exactly what that feels like), but, besides having to leave his dogs, Will has nothing to lose. He doesn't feel loyalty to the FBI, he doesn't have Jack or Alana's complete trust. He doesn't have Hannibal's either, and there's always a chance that Hannibal will kill him as soon as they get away, but Will suddenly understands that he doesn't care. This life, the one he's been pretending to live these few months, is what he wants. He's never felt more alive, has never understood himself better, than when he's with Hannibal.

"Yes," Will says quietly, his eyes meeting Hannibal's as he nods softly, his gaze clear and unburdened for the first time. "Let's go tonight. I want to," he adds, wanting his intentions to be completely understood, nothing disguised by the veil that usually hung between them.

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Hannibal knew of Will's treachery, or knew enough that the details were easily deduced. The scent of Freddie Lounds had caused a shift in his perceptions of Will, in his understanding of his actions and his motivations. In truth the revelation inspired in him a certain amount of admiration for the man sitting across the table. Hannibal took great pleasure in the game, and even a move made against him, particularly one made so well, was thrilling. And were his opponent anyone else, that thrill would have been the extent of his emotional reaction. Yet Will was different, and Hannibal's sense of admiration could not quell the deep sense of betrayal. Hannibal hadn't merely taken Will into his confidence, he had allowed himself, his true nature beneath the person-suit, to be seen. While he considered the opinions of others merely points of data to consider in his manipulations, how Will saw him, how Will felt about him, had deep significance. He could be, and had been, hurt by this man, his friend. He had thought Will's actions were to likewise deepen the intimacy between them, to likewise be seen, be known, as he came into the fullness of his true self. But the scent of Freddie Lounds had put all of that into question. Hannibal did not know how deep the deception ran. He had been blindsided by the betrayal, having not been able to read the signs until the scent of perfume gave him the key. Had everything, from Will's transformation to their growing intimacy and shared vulnerability, been an act? A clever ruse with no true substance? Had he truly been that blinded by his desires to know and be known?

He invited Will to one last meal together to watch him, to find out if it all was a lie. As they ate and spoke, dancing around each other with hidden meanings and coy insinuations, Hannibal gently prodded Will, to see what kindled behind his friend's eyes. Speaking of living in his mind palace were he to be captured to provoke some reaction concerning his friend's likely intention to have him caged. Speaking of Jack's forgiveness to see some sign of where Will's loyalties truly lay.

And the imago.

An imago is an image of a loved one, buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives.

He watched Will, trying to see some sign that he understood, that he knew his image was buried inside Hannibal, some sign that Hannibal's image was buried inside him. Were they truly part of each other? Or had Hannibal opened his chest to show Will everything that was truly inside him only to have his friend tear his heart out? How willingly Hannibal would hand it to him, still beating. But no. Will would do worse. Will would merely walk away, not wanting the heart he had been offered.

Will's reactions gave Hannibal some hope that there was sincerity there beneath the deception. So he gave his friend a choice. A chance at redemption.

We could disappear now. Tonight.

Hannibal didn't expect Will to say yes. Perhaps didn't allow himself to expect it. Yet when he does, the look in his friend's eyes speaks far louder than the words on his lips. Hannibal still can't be entirely sure of Will's intentions. Nevertheless, he finds himself smiling faintly.

"It would be a shame to skip the dessert I have prepared." His voice is casual, even if his meaning is not. "However, perhaps it would be prudent if we left as soon as possible. After we have finished this course."

There's a new wall between them now, a guardedness in Hannibal that's real, one that Will can feel as well as he can hear in Hannibal's voice, see in Hannibal's eyes. It's not difficult to figure out what's put it there, not with the tone their conversation has taken. Hannibal does know what Will's been planning, or at least how and where those plans were supposed to culminate. Considering their history, the easy way they'd both sent killers after each other in the past, Will is even less sure that Hannibal doesn't have a notion to take Will somewhere remote where he can take him apart, piece by piece, a fitting repayment for his treachery.

Hannibal's eyes are cold now, detached, trying to read Will, to gauge how much of what Will's said in the last few weeks that was true and how much was part of the ruse he'd constructed to gain Hannibal's trust. Will wonders if coming clean would be the right course of action, if it would forestall any notions Hannibal might have about killing him, or it the path Will's agreed to go on now only has one ending, no mater what he says or does.

If Will's honest, he's still not entirely sure how he feels about Hannibal, about what he knows about him now. What he does know, however, is that Hannibal was willing to let Will see him, what he truly is. Will knows Hannibal was moved to do so under false pretenses, but a lot of the things Will told him weren't complete fabrications. He had killed Randall Tier, and he had enjoyed the act. The admissions he'd made about his feelings in Hannibal's office had been genuine, everything he'd said about how it felt to kill, the intimacy of using his hands to do it, the thrill he felt at the idea of doing the same to Hannibal, none of those things were lies.

He doesn't want to kill Hannibal now. It's a terrifying realization, but it's true; he wants exactly what Hannibal is offering, to leave this place together, to disappear into the wind and leave their lives here behind. He has no idea what a future with Hannibal might hold, and his chances of survival are marginal at best, but, sitting across the table from Hannibal now, even under the weight of Hannibal's icy, emotionless gaze, Will knows it's a chance he desperately wants to take.

Will's appetite is gone entirely, his stomach churning with a multitude of emotions, but he takes another bite of his dinner anyway, chewing slowly and swallowing evenly. "Will we have time to feed my dogs, as you suggested?" he asks carefully, wiping his mouth on his napkin. In saying it, he's testing the waters, seeing if Hannibal meant what he said or if he had only been administering a test of his own.

In truth, Hannibal found Will's thrill at the idea of killing him with his hands interesting. Intriguing. Arousing, even. He had of course contemplated his friend's demise with no less pleasure. However, he has no inclination to kill Will now. His compassion for the man is, at the very least, inconvenient. Anyone else would indeed be incapacitated and meticulously dismembered, bit by bit, drawn out so they may experience the agony in full. And perhaps that is the prudent thing to do, especially since Will's betrayal was so much more profound than anyone else could have achieved. But he doesn't want to kill Will. He wants to leave this place, this life, with Will at his side. He wants to bring him to Palermo, show him the chapel that exists in his mind palace; bring him to Florence, in many ways his birthplace.

Even now, even with what he knows, with what Will has done, he wants to know and be known. He wants to watch Will evolve, emerge. He wants to change his friend, and even be changed by him. As he already has been, in profound ways that even he does not fully understand.

"Of course," he answers as he cuts another piece of meat. He glances up at Will and meets his gaze with warm eyes. "I would not wish for your dogs to starve before Dr. Bloom can care for them. Nor would I wish for you to not have the opportunity to wish them farewell."

It might be strange to an outsider why Hannibal wants Will to have the opportunity to say goodbye to his dogs yet not to the people in his life. Such a person likely has never met Will Graham.

Hannibal puts the bite of meat in his mouth, chews it slowly, savoring it, then swallows. He reaches for his wine and takes a sip, then sets the glass down again, his eyes on it.

"Tell me, Will...if you were to confess to Jack, would he forgive you?"

Will can see the moment things shift, and it's so clear and immediate that Will can't help but doubt it's legitimacy. Hannibal's eyes are warm, depth to them again, the layer of ice that had formed melted away. It's those eyes, even when within Will could see into a soul that craved as much darkness and death as it did light and life, that caught Will, that stayed his hand in the moments when he could have struck, when he should have rebelled. In moments between them when they've been alone, together in Hannibal's office or seated at Hannibal's table, Will has seen the heat of something more than friendship in Hannibal's normally cold eyes. Will knows enough to not try to guess to what kind of emotion that heat pertains, but even without knowing, he can easily label it as desire.

An unrequited hunger like that, belonging to a man with tastes like Hannibal Lecter's, is more dangerous than almost anything else in the world. But Hannibal's always known, even longer than Will has, that the sentiment is hardly unrequited. Hannibal had been easily able to find those low embers in Will that Will himself had never detected, fanning them to flames without Will even realizing until he was already burning up inside. Part of that had been a very real fever, but the smoldering that remains has nothing to do with encephalitis.

Will watches Hannibal's hands as he cuts his food, his mouth as he speaks. The words are kind, even, and honest; he wants Will to have the chance to say goodbye to the only family he has in this life, to have the opportunity to tell Alana that he's gone and isn't coming back. Will suspects that Hannibal has an ulterior motive for that note, a bit of salt in Alana's wounds, reminding her that she was nothing more than a device to him, a pawn in his game. There's a part of Will that enjoys that notion too, writing a note telling a woman who rejected him that he's run away with a man who purported to care about her, a man to whom she was unbendingly loyal even as she told Will to stay away from him.

Will's eyes focus on Hannibal's throat as he swallows, as he brings his goblet to his lips and drinks, leaving a red stain of wine behind on his pale lips until he licks it away. Will feels heat low in his belly, and for the first time he imagines that maybe Hannibal would rather have Will by his side, alive and whole, than dissected and served as his dinner.

The question catches Will off guard, and he wonders if this is another test, if answering the right or wrong way will decide his fate. Honesty, he decides, is the best path forward from this point, and he picks up his own wine, holding it in hand and swirling the liquid in the bowl of the glass.

"Jack isn't offering forgiveness," he finally replies after a moment's thought, his eyes on the alcohol in his glass. "He wants justice," he adds, raising his eyes to Hannibal's, their gazes locking in the dim firelight. "He wants to see you, see who you are, see what I've become. He wants the truth." Will sets down his glass without taking a drink from it, then shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

"He's expecting my betrayal," Will says, his voice low. He's made his choice here, tonight, of whose man he is in this room. If he's going forward with Hannibal, he needs to do it will a clean slate, all his lies laid bare.

"It was my idea," he admits, speaking so quietly that he's nearly whispering, unable to keep the quaver out of his tone. "I orchestrated everything. To catch you, to prove to Jack, to everyone, what you'd done to me." He pauses, watching Hannibal's eyes, attentive to any change in them. "It was my idea to fake Freddie's murder, to convince you I'd butchered her. To gain your trust." Will feels sick at the admission, afraid, but he pushes on, ready to accept whatever consequences that his confession might bring.

"It's not an act anymore," he murmurs, emotion shaking his voice. "I'm becoming what I was pretending to be, bit by bit. Wanting to kill Ingram wasn't for your benefit; it was for me. The feelings I confessed to you about wishing I'd taken his life were true." He has to pause again, to swallow, needing to get these last words out. "I want to run away with you, Hannibal," he says, hoping Hannibal can see the truth in his eyes, can hear it in his voice. "It's all I want."

Edited 2016-01-31 10:17 (UTC)

Hannibal listens to Will's confession with the calm, inscrutable affability of the psychiatrist to a patient, even though there is a sadness in his heart. The facts are more or less as he had expected; what matters is his friend's tone, his affect. Hannibal believes he is truly remorseful, and that the confession is not a calculated act, part of the overall plan to bring Hannibal down. There is relief to that, that he was not so blind, yes, but also that much of what he saw in Will was sincere.

"The best lies have their roots in truths," he offers softly. "And our truths often find their fertility in lies."

He regards his friend, contemplating the earnestness of his plea, his desire to come away with him. At this moment it is also all that Hannibal wants. Not vengeance, on Will or Jack or Alana or anyone else. Just his friend at his side.

"I forgive you, Will," he says, his voice and his eyes warm, if still a little saddened.

Will's never seen Hannibal broken by emotion, and this moment is no different. Will himself is still shaking, his breathing harsh and his pulse racing, but Hannibal's gaze is as even and unwavering as ever, this moment just like one of their sessions. Even Hannibal's first words sound like the advice of a psychiatrist, rather than a man who is offering Will an escape, a life together, even if the destination and make up of that life is relatively unknown.

The relief of Hannibal's forgiveness hits Will like he's suddenly had an enormous weight lifted from his chest, and he breathes a rough gasp at the physical feeling of it, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, letting himself savor the feeling. Will has a thought to offer his forgiveness to Hannibal as well, but it's obvious in the way that Will is ready to give himself to Hannibal that the actions of the past, the manipulation that clouded Will's sense of self, that sent Will to prison, are things of which Will's willing to let go.

Will can't even pretend to eat anymore, can't imagine swallowing past the roiling emotions inside him, and he hopes Hannibal won't be offended. He watches Hannibal's face, watching for any changes there, but the warmth remains in his eyes, and more of the fear in Will subsides.

"What needs to be done?" he asks, letting Hannibal know he's ready to embark on this journey as soon as Hannibal is, that he's prepared to do whatever needs to be done to allow them a clean getaway.

As he watches his friend tortured by emotion, Hannibal again feels his compassion for the man settling heavy in his heart. In most cases he would drink in the pain like a fine wine, enjoying the heady bouquet of another's sorrow. But there is no enjoyment now. Despite the fact that Hannibal himself is a sadomasochist, savoring pain from either side, he cannot find the pleasure in the sorrow from Will's heart that resonates in his own.

He does not mind that Will cannot finish his meal. Indeed, it would be rude of Hannibal to finish his own when his dinner guest was incapable. So Hannibal dabs his mouth with his napkin, then puts it aside and rises, approaching Will. He holds out his hand.

"I have made certain preparations. Let me show you."

Edited 2016-01-31 21:56 (UTC)

Will only hesitates for a bare moment before he takes Hannibal's hand, remembering as he does every other instance where Hannibal has touched him this way, after he murdered Randal Tier, when he tried to kill Clark Ingram. Of all of those moments, despite the situation and circumstances, this is the one that makes Will's heart pound in his chest, that causes heat to build inside him.

He allows Hannibal to pull him to his feet, and they stand for a few long seconds together, close enough to breath each other's air. Will has no idea what any of these preparations might be, if they were made before Hannibal had discovered Will's deception or afterward, if they'd always been meant for the two of them together, or if things were going to have to be amended in order for Will to flee at Hannibal's side.

He swallows, his gaze meeting Hannibal's, unblinking and unafraid. "Show me," he implores, ready to see what's next.

Physical contact is something that Hannibal typically uses as a tool to influence emotion, to ingratiate or intimidate or arouse, without much emotion on his own part. Yet he touches Will because he wants to calm him, to reassure him. They are close enough that Hannibal can hear Will's pounding heart, feel his warmth, inhale his scent. After Will looks into his eyes Hannibal pauses a moment, then lifts his other hand to gently caress his friend's cheek. In another situation it might be like a priest calming the sacrificial lamb before the knife, but now he wants Will to know his affection, his forgiveness.

"I've made a place for us," he explains, his voice soft, his hand still on Will's cheek. "I've secured the necessary documents for us to be able to leave the country without the knowledge of the FBI."

Hannibal's touch, his warm palm on Will's face, is gentle, calming, affectionate. Will's felt this touch before, and again it calls back to that evening in the stable, Hannibal's thumb the only thing stopping Will from ending Clark Ingram's life. Back then Will knew Hannibal had seen him as a thing just about to emerge, on the precipice of his becoming. Will hadn't agreed, at the time, had convinced himself it was part of the act he was putting on, but it hadn't been. That moment had been more truth than not, more of Will's reality than any performance.

Then Hannibal tells him he'd prepared for their escape, not just for his own, and Will runs down the list of things that would be needed in his head, knowing many of those would have to pertain to Will specifically, passports, identification, alias names were likely. Will swallows thickly, and Hannibal hasn't moved, continues to cup his cheek. His heart clenches in his chest, and he's desperate to know what it all means, if the meaning's changed at all in the light of Will's betrayal, even with Hannibal's forgiveness.

He'll ask later, he thinks, or will try to read it in Hannibal's eyes. For the moment, he licks his lower lip, his gaze still fixed on Hannibal's. "Where are we going?" he asks, his voice soft, wanting to hear the destination so he can begin to imagine it and not for any other reason.

This is far from the first time Hannibal has needed to relocate lest he be cornered, captured, caged. He has contingency plans of various sorts, for various eventualities. Will is correct in his assumptions of what sorts of paperwork will be necessary to take him with. That Hannibal has taken those steps should speak volumes of his trust, his intentions, his desires. Had Will gone through with his betrayal, it was that much more that would have been shattered along with the teacup.

"We shall start with Paris as a holding point to assess the efficacy of our flight. Assuming we are not unduly hindered, we will proceed to another place of significance."

He withholds the name of the city he hopes will be their final destination because there is still that small shadow of doubt. He believes his friend's intentions for the moment, but perhaps Will will change his mind. Perhaps he will be captured. Either way, Hannibal will demure.

He smooths his thumb over Will's cheekbone once more, then turns away and heads for his bedroom, gesturing for Will to follow.

It doesn't shock Will that Hannibal's plans have them heading to Europe, that he's made a place for them there, and he wonders what sorts of things Hannibal has imagined them doing in Paris, if he has smaller intentions to go inside the larger ones. Will's never been to France, and the idea of going there with Hannibal, the two of them escaping this life that holds nothing but barriers for them, finding and making a new one abroad, strikes Will as romantic on a level he's never considered for himself before. That notion has nothing to do with anything beyond the trust that's so close to completely forming between them, but there are things clicking into place in the back of Will's mind, new potentials unlocking.

Hannibal doesn't tell Will what comes after Paris, and he assumes it will be in continental Europe, but there's a reason Hannibal's keeping it from him. He knows it's contingent on Will proving himself, because while Hannibal is ready to take Will to France with him, he's reserving the right to leave Will behind if he needs to, if Will forces his hand. But Will also senses the place Hannibal intends for them to settle has a deeper meaning for Hannibal, one that would be irrevocably tarnished if Will turned on him there. It makes Will feel determined to find this place, to be there with Hannibal, to earn the right to stay by Hannibal's side.

The hand falls away from Will's face then, but not before Hannibal gives him one more touch, intimate, sweet. It's close to benign, but in this moment, on the path they're about to take, it makes something tight and hot coil in Will's belly, and the sensation only increases as Hannibal leads Will toward his bedroom, a space Will has never set foot in as long as he's known Hannibal. It's Hannibal's sanctuary, and being asked to go there, invited in, only further proves that Hannibal is allowing himself to trust Will despite everything Will's told him, that he believes that Will is ready to give up everything, to give his life to Hannibal.

Hannibal wants to share so much with Will. He has delighted in watching his friend's horizons grow, watching him experience the pleasures that the world has to offer if one is only willing to eat the drowned songbird with their face uncovered before God. Paris is a place of a multitude of exquisite experiences. It also has a large population, and one that his friend is not personally familiar with. It will be a forest in which they may be lost...and which may provide trees for their purposes. Who notices when one or two trees fall in a forest?

Hannibal is aware of the tight heat in Will's belly due to Will's scent, the tang of adrenaline, and due to Will's wide pupils and dilated cheek capillaries. It is common for intense experiences to be entangled in arousal, but he is certain that there is more to this. There is an undeniable physical attraction between the two men, and a tender touch was certain to heighten it. As he leads Will to his bedroom he considers his course of action. The wall safe that holds the documents he spoke of is behind a painting, and the suitcase he has packed is tucked in his closet. But there's also the sexual implications of being led to one's bed. It's a complicated play. With anyone else Hannibal would have no compunctions about preying on the sexual attraction and tightening the bonds of his subject through physical intimacy. But with Will, he finds he cannot be merely coldly calculating. He wants the intimacy, desires it. He would be taking a piece of Will, yes...but he would be giving Will a piece of himself as well.

They are in this together, though. And perhaps it is worth the risk to draw Will closer. Perhaps it will ultimately give Hannibal another point of leverage.

Hannibal opens the door to his bedroom and gestures for Will to enter, then closes the door behind them.

The bedroom is enormous, as lush and well decorated as the rest of Hannibal's home, and Will feels a twinge of regret at having to leave something so exquisite behind. His own farmhouse is cozy and holds everything that Will needs to be comfortable, and while he'll miss it dearly, he wonders if Hannibal feels any anguish at the idea of having to abandon this place. Though, knowing Hannibal, it won't surprise Will if the lodgings Hannibal has waiting for them in Paris are something close to this level of richness and sophistication.

Knowing this will be the only time he'll ever see this room, Will takes great care to look at everything, making snapshot memories that he can recall later. The color scheme somehow blends cool with warm, blue tones in the ceiling, rugs, and bed linens and cool slate tile and wall panels leading into warm mahogany furniture and caramel colored stonework around the entryway. There's a fireplace at the foot of the bed and a large mirror set in such a way that the bed itself is visible from a flattering angle, and that little spark in Will's core flares at an idea that isn't completely formed, something undefined but undeniably sexual.

Will looks away in an attempt to quiet the sudden new and untimely yearning, cataloging the items decorating the room, art work and sculpture that are all very visceral and predatory, large animal horns and a suit of samurai armor making Will feel like prey, which he assumes is the desired effect. He wonders in a moment if Alana felt that way, if it scared her or aroused her, if she realizes now how many red flags it should have raised.

The entire survey of the room takes seconds, and he turns back to Hannibal as the other man shuts the door, unable to hide the way the action makes color rise in his cheeks now that they're face to face. Hannibal's eyes make a circuit of Will's upper body, moving down his front and then back to his eyes, and Will knows that Hannibal can see right into Will like his skin is made of glass. The rate of Will's pulse increases and he feels almost anxious, his mouth going dry in anticipation as he waits for Hannibal's next move.

Hannibal has this room...indeed, his entire house...meticulously constructed in his mind palace. Pleasures, from the taste of a fine Chianti to the sound of an exquisite symphony to the sight of a majestic cathedral, are fleeting. It is only in his carefully curated memory that they may live on. When he leaves his home this evening, never to return, he will not spend time on regret or yearning. Rather he will seek out new pleasures, as he always has.

He watches Will closely as his friend examines the room, his curiosities close to the ones Will has concerning Alana: is he intimidated or aroused? By the time Will's eyes meet his own, Hannibal believes there is some of both, and that the two may well feed off of each other. He sees the side of Will's neck twitch as his pulse rises, watches as the tint of his lips darkens so slightly with the flush of blood.

He leaves the door and moves slowly toward Will, his motions smooth and deliberate like a tiger approaching its prey, intensely aware of his friend's every move, his eyes holding Will's effortlessly.

Hannibal is stalking him, that much is very apparent, moving toward Will with the intimidating grace of a big cat, pinning Will down with his gaze. But in this scenario Will isn't a wounded gazelle, or an unsuspecting rabbit; rather he's one of Hannibal's own species, another member of similar standing. The only question is whether Hannibal sees him as a threat, or a potential mate.

The way Hannibal's looking at him now, it could very easily be either. Will feels like he should be frightened, at least on some level, because he knows what Hannibal is capable of, has now seen it first hand. He's unarmed, but that doesn't mean he's not dangerous, that he couldn't strike quickly, break Will's neck before he had the chance to fully react.

Maybe it's that he knows his death at Hannibal's hands would have to be much more involved than that. If or when Hannibal decides Will must die, it won't be quickly, and it likely also won't be painful. Will will be eaten when his time comes, slowly, because Hannibal will want to savor him, will want to share those moment with Will seated across from him as long as he can. So there won't be any abrupt end here tonight, at least not of Will's life.

Will inhales deeply through his nose, exhaling, long and hot, through his mouth. Hannibal's close enough now that Will's sure he feels it, the gust of Will's breath across his skin. His eyes fall to Hannibal's mouth then, gazing at the prominence of his cuipid's bow, the dip above it. He slides his tongue out to wet his own lips when he moves his gaze back to Hannibal's eyes, first his right and then his left individually, completing the telltale triangle, curious to see how Hannibal will react to his silent request.

Hannibal believes that he and Will may well be the death of each other. His affection for the man does not preclude Will's eventual consumption, and Hannibal imagines that the thrill of killing Hannibal with his bare hands will remain with his friend. However, he also believes that they respect each other enough that either death will not be sudden, nor entirely unexpected, nor without its pleasures. At the moment, however, his stalking is certainly sexual in nature.

Will's pointed gaze is the consent Hannibal wished to see, the choice that will assure the physical encounter, and the physical relationship that may follow, is one that will draw Will closer, even as Hannibal is drawn closer to Will in the process.

He steps close, reaches out to once again cup Will's cheek, and leans in to kiss him, firm and possessive.

Will's expecting it, but there's still an immense surge of adrenaline that rises when Hannibal's mouth finds Will's, and though these feelings aren't new, the attraction, the desire to be physically close, the reaction is stronger and more visceral than Will expected. He knows he should probably let Hannibal drive this, but Will can't help the way the kiss affects him, his mouth opening to taste Hannibal's lower lip, his own hand cupping Hannibal's jaw, fingers hooked and pressing into Hannibal's flesh.

He manages to keep himself from pushing further, but he's desperate for more, for Hannibal to open his mouth and let Will inside, for Hannibal to take what he wants from Will without caution or restraint. He doesn't know how much time they have, but Will's willing to cut it close, to take things right up to the last minute so they don't have to stop this until they're both ready for it to end.

Will's desperation is sweetly intoxicating, and Hannibal decides that things need not stop with a kiss. They have a great deal of travel ahead of them, which would be tiring in the best of situations, never mind the stress of being on the run from the law. There will be so little time or energy for anything physically intimate until they have arrived and settled a bit in Paris, and Hannibal is not generally one to pass on an opportunity for a pleasurable experience.

He also has an exceedingly strong desire for Will, made all the more intense by the kiss.

Hannibal parts his lips and deepens the kiss, pressing close while beginning to undo the buttons on Will's shirt.

Hannibal doesn't balk at Will's desire for more; rather he meets it head on, opening his mouth to Will, giving Will tacit consent to press his tongue into Hannibal's mouth. And Will does it as soon as he can, finding Hannibal's tongue with his own, twisting them together. Hannibal tastes like so many things at once that Will can't sort them all out, so many flavors in the food they ate, the wine they drank, but beneath that a multitude of other things Will can't identify, that taste of Hannibal himself.

He cups both of his hands around Hannibal's jaw when Hannibal moves to open his buttons, and he can't believe they're here, in this moment, so quickly. Only a few minutes ago Will had told Hannibal he'd been deceiving him with the intention of seeing him locked away, and now they're in Hannibal's bedroom, kissing, touching, well on the way to becoming lovers. It's an overwhelming thought and it makes Will groan into Hannibal's mouth, their kiss deepening, Will pushing into Hannibal's mouth so hard that their teeth knock together painfully. A second later Will can taste the subtle tang of blood, one of them bleeding, and it sends a hard shiver through Will, forcing another deep moan from his chest.

That they are here, now, seemingly in such contrast to earlier revelations, speaks to how long and how strongly this desire has rippled underneath their relationship. By going forth with plans to flee together, they are committing themselves to each other on a deep level. Perhaps it is appropriate, then, that their commitment, their union, be consummated.

Sex can be tender, cultured, the pleasure of a finely crafted meal, or sex can be rough, violent, the pleasure of a kill. Hannibal performs the former when he uses sex as a tool for manipulation. The latter has no patience with appearances, with reservations, and lays Hannibal's true self bare. He would never allow himself to be rough with Alana. Will, however, he will allow himself to be open with. As the taste of blood blooms on Hannibal's tongue, a low growl rumbles in his chest, and he tears Will's shirt the rest of the way open, popping the last two buttons. He strips the shirt off Will, lets it fall to the floor, and grips his friend tightly, fingers digging into the bare skin of his back, his neck, as he answers Will's aggression with his own tongue and teeth.

Edited 2016-02-02 04:30 (UTC)

The sudden violence of Hannibal pulling Will's shirt open shocks a gasp out of Will, and he shivers as Hannibal tugs his shirt off, leaving his torso bare for Hannibal's touch. They continue to kiss deeply, roughly, Hannibal's teeth catching Will's lip, biting hard enough to draw fresh blood. The little burst of pain makes Will mewl pathetically into Hannibal's mouth, and his fingers move to fumble with Hannibal's jacket, pushing it over Hannibal's shoulders, guiding it down until it falls to the floor.

Will wonders a bit manically how much this suit that he's stripping off Hannibal is worth, what the dry cleaning on it would cost. His fingers work the buttons on Hannibal's waistcoat and he thinks about them leaving these clothes right where they are, the garments clearly cast off in the name of passion. He thinks about what Alana would say, seeing their clothes, Hannibal's, fine and expensive, and Will's, rugged and utilitarian, mingled in the middle of the bedroom floor, if she'd put the pieces together.

Waistcoat on the floor, Hannibal's tie is next, and Will's fingers tug at the knot, but it's tied perfectly, tightly, and he can't get it free. He growls softly in frustration against Hannibal's lips, well past ready to reveal Hannibal's skin. Giving up for the moment, Will slipping a hand onto the back of Hannibal's head, curling his fingers into Hannibal's hair, kissing his mouth wetly for a few seconds longer before he pulls back a fraction to look into Hannibal's eyes.

"Can you get the tie?" he asks, wishing he had a knife in his pocket he could use to cut it off, needing it out of his way immediately.

Hannibal smiles at Will's difficulty undoing his tie. He knows and uses a variety of knots: the windsor, the eldridge, the trinity, the balthus. Right now he's wearing the balthus, a knot that looks simple yet requires a fair amount of skill to produce its smooth elegance. His ties are another subliminal message revealing part of his true nature. Like so many aspects of his presentation, one may feel unsettled yet have no true understanding why. The traditional men's necktie is a dark symbol, a noose around one's neck, and his command of the knots suggests his abilities to bind his subjects and render them helpless.

Hannibal recognizes Will's desperation, and decides to take advantage. He pulls back, locks his eyes on his friend's, and undoes the knot in very slow, very deliberate motions, watching Will's torment to determine when it would be even more intense to slow down further. He wants to see how Will reacts to the languid delay of satisfaction.

Will watches Hannibal's hands as he unties the knotted fabric at his throat, doing it in such a manner to cause the action to take as long as possible to complete. It's a tactic, like everything Hannibal does, designed to see how Will will react. Part of Will wants to show Hannibal that he can control his impatience, that Hannibal's holding out on him doesn't affect him, but he knows even as an act of defiance he'll be seen for his true nature. Hannibal's perceptive in the way Will is; he can see the way Will's nostrils flare as he tries to control his breathing, he can smell Will pent arousal, can sense the tension in the room between them.

So Will doesn't try to hide it. He stands still but his breathing is raucous, his pupils dilated, his body shaking. He bites down on his lower lip as he watches Hannibal's hands untwisting the noose, and he wonders if Hannibal has imagined putting one around Will's neck, if Hannibal knows how excited the idea makes him.

Will's mouth is dry and he swallows around it, the drawn out anticipation sending more tremors through his frame. He wants Hannibal's hands back on him, now that he knows what they're like this way, he needs Hannibal's mouth. He knows all of this is showing in his eyes, the expression on his face, and it only makes Hannibal delay all the more. It's like the sweetest, most painful torture.

Hannibal has imagined many ways of bringing Will's life to an end, and various manners of strangulation have been among them. The man Will had sent to murder him had utilized a noose himself, and Hannibal had dangled for a few agonizing, ecstasy-filled seconds before he was rescued. He wonders if Will knows how thrilling, arousing, Hannibal found both the attempt on his life and the method Will's cat's paw had chosen.

Hannibal slows as Will suffers sweetly before him, keeping him on the razor's edge of insanity for those pregnant moments as the knot comes apart beneath his fingers. Once it is loose he slowly pulls it from his collar...

...then swiftly loops it around Will's neck, twice. He grips the ends with one hand and yanks Will closer to crush his mouth to his.

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