adaptevolvebecome | (no subject)

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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It's a moment of incredible trust between them, each of them the lion tamer, each of them the lion. Will could asphyxiate Hannibal, hold him there until his lips turn blue, until he loses consciousness, while at the same time, Hannibal could bite down, shear through flesh, corpora cavernosa, corpus spongiosum. The sudden blood loss would likely cause his lover to collapse, at which point Hannibal could easily move on to the femoral artery. The thought of either possibility is achingly arousing, and Hannibal reflects, even as his hands begin to tremble, as tears come unbidden to his slightly bulging eyes, how curious it is that for most, love depends on the safety the parties find in each other. Not so with them. As Hannibal's vision begins to grey at the edges, he knows that he loves Will fiercely precisely because he knows that Will is perfectly capable, in every way, of ending his life. And because Will knows the opposite to be true, and his heart is likewise aflame with that knowledge.

Then Will's cock is out of his mouth, and Hannibal sags slightly as his lungs reflexively expand to suck in as much oxygen as possible. he leans forward and rests his forehead on Will's hip, his hands again settling lightly on Will's ass. He takes a couple breaths, enjoying the feeling of oxygen being reintroduced into his blood, his muscles, his brain. It's intoxicating, an aphrodisiac well known in medical literature, and one that makes Hannibal remember the night that Will's cat's paw hanged him. He remembers that first gasp after his rescue, the knowledge flooding in that Will had tried to kill him, and feeling only a deepened ardor for his friend.

He lifts his head to meet Will's eyes, his own burning with love infused with lust. His lips part slightly, and without his eyes leaving Will's he slowly brushes them back and forth against the head of Will's cock, waiting for his next move.

Edited (Tenses, ugh) 2016-10-15 16:43 (UTC)

It's at the same time humbling and arousing for Hannibal, Will thinks, to be reminded of his human mortality, of the fact that he can not only control life and death for others, but that his can be controlled as well. Of course, as crafty and skillful as Hannibal is, his end will only be met at the whim of a force of nature; Hannibal is an apex predator more so than any of his human counterparts, with the noted expression of the man at whose feet he's now sitting prostrate. If Will isn't the one to take his life, it will only otherwise be unyielding illness, or another such unrelenting act of God.

Will shivers at the sweet, gentle touch of Hannibal's lips against him, and he reaches down to stroke the backs of his fingers along Hannibal's cheek. In that moment he makes a promise, to himself, that as long as he draws breath he won't let Hannibal succumb to a death less than the one he deserves. If he hadn't already planned to spend the rest of his life at Hannibal's side, Will would vow to do so now, if only to be there to snatch Hannibal's end away from the rude, unrepentant hands of fate. Hannibal's dark, unearthly beauty must be shared until his body returns to dust, and Will won't allow something as careless, and dull as cancer or heart disease to carry his paramour from this world into the next.

Likewise he won't let this, the first time Hannibal submits as Will's lover, to occur here in the middle of the floor. It's not that it doesn't have its appeal, fucking on their knees like animals, taking each other wherever they come together, unwilling to spend the seconds required to find a more comfortable location. But Will knows there will plenty of time (and desire) for that later. Tonight he wants extravagance, he wants to build memories of them laid out on expensive sheets, of collapsing heavily and sleeping deeply only to wake up and find each other again.

Hooking his fingers at Hannibal's nape, Will urges him to stand with a slight tug and a flick of his eyes across the room. "Come to bed," he says, his voice husky from lust and lack of use and barely contained patience.

Hannibal ponders how this moment with Will illuminates that it is an intimate thing to entrust someone with one's life, but much more so to entrust someone with one's death. While he has a well-defined sense of self-preservation, one that has kept him alive and free all these years, he is also of the firm belief that death can be profoudly beautiful, even his own. Before Will, he has never known someone he would trust so completely with such a precious responsibility as the aesthetics of his own conclusion. He may yet be the one to end Will's life, or perhaps they will end each other at the same time. Regardless, Hannibal has full faith that his lover would give him the perfect end, should that be how fate dictates they be parted.

Hannibal rises as bidden, and nods, stepping to the bed. He moves the bag with their purchases to the night table and takes out the lubricant, discarding the packaging and making sure it is ready for when it is needed. Then he turns and raises his eyebrows, questioning and playful.

"How do you wish me to position myself?"