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The world was black outside Hannibal's cathedral of an office; the drapes still against the open windows. The summer heat had settled in, but the atmosphere was cool, colder than it had any right to be. Will was shivering by one of the single-paned windows. "I don't even know, Hannibal." His fingers ticked nervously on the ledge, trying and failing to find a grip.
He'd just shown up, half-dressed, still-asleep. How he got here had become immediately obvious - there was car parked outside. There had been a dog with him, sitting quietly in the passenger seat, and when Hannibal had gone outside to check how his nighttime visitor had arrived, the dog had slipped down from the seat, out the still-open driver's door, and walked straight up to the doctor. Now he lay curled in one of the uncomfortable grey chairs, fast asleep.
Hannibal wondered about those dogs, sometimes.
"You remember nothing of your dream?"
"Nothing! Normally there's - a feeling, an echo - and all I have right now is…" Will took a deep breath and pressed his forehead into the window.
It was the stillness of his shoulders. The rest of the man twitched and trembled with each emotion that fluttered across his oh-so-transparent face; but his shoulders - his shoulders were firm, still. Ready. The man behind the feelings stood resolute against the tide of his own mind. Here they were, stark against the blackness of night; his bones painted in the sharp relief of night-time lighting, everything washed yellow and dim. Relaxing for the evening, Hannibal had been tracing ink lines on a piece of art when his door had opened and the sleepwalker had stumbled in, now he picked up his previously discarded jacket and moved over to the other man, slipping it on the barren shoulders.
It would not do to have the man freeze, here, in his office.
It was not yet time.
"It is not time," he murmured, his hands settling on Will's upper arms, a pretense of warmth, "to talk of these things. Come. Lay down."
Will's head dipped a little lower, and in the faint reflection, Hannibal could see the grimace upon his patient's face. "I don't think sleep is the answer, anymore."
"Sleep, my friend, is one of the highest forms of pleasure. It is a very necessary function." Carefully, he pulled the other man from the window, turned him. It would be easy to force him to do as he wanted; strong as the agent may be, Hannibal had no doubt that his own physical strength greatly outmatched the other man's. He gave a carefully modulated push, and Will started walking towards the flat grey couch that served as a lounging chair for patients. He didn't resist when Hannibal guided him down to a seated position, nor when he reached to tuck the collars of the coat more firmly around the smaller man's body.
"You don't sleep," Will noted, wryly, eyes finally lifting up and meeting his own.
Hannibal could not help the quirk of his own lips in response. "Of course I do, Will. I just happened to be awake now, when you needed me. Let us be thankful for small coincidences."
"What if I just… never really sleep again? What if I'm doomed to walk and wake up - wherever?"
Will's chest started heaving slightly, and those eyes flashed troubled and distraught, so Hannibal pressed a hand to his shoulder firmly. "I do not know, Will. We will have to work that out in the morning. For now - would you like a sedative? I think a long, unbroken sleep may do you good." Arguments rose to Will's lips, and Hannibal squeezed again, harder, warningly. "I will call Jack tomorrow, and tell him why you are unresponsive. Your body can only last so long, Will." Will swallowed - the long, pale lines of his throat moving, his adam's apple bobbing, his collarbones delicate and so sharp - and then nodded.
Hannibal smiled thinly and pulled away, heading to his desk. "Thank you, Will. This will be good for you."
The other man laid sideways into the arm of the chaise, his eyes squeezed tight. "I hope so." He ruffled a hand through his hair, sighing softly, and then glanced over at the chair, smiling fondly at the small dog curled into a sleeping ball. And then his eyes turned troubled. "I could have killed him."
Hannibal reached his fingers out - to finally touch that slim jawline, turn it towards his own, catch those hazel eyes - and frowned. "More importantly, you could have both been killed. Do you see the necessity of this?" He lifted his other hand, showing off the small silvery syringe. "We use this for… uncooperative patients." Jackson, 23, obsessive-compulsive pedophiliac. Yesterday's aperitif. "It will sedate you for a good many hours, and allow your body to recuperate. Do you agree to this? Say yes, Will."
Will's lips parted slightly, a quick inhalation, then firmed. "Yes, Dr. Lecter." His sense of humor had obviously not completely disappeared, which Hannibal found oddly comforting.
"Lay down. Let me see your arm - no, your upper arm will be fine, Will. This is not intravenous." Will tugged at the coat, pulled it off his shoulder and arm, revealing the pale, freckled skin once again. Hannibal tore open a small alcohol-swab packet and carefully wiped the given flesh, the smell of it filling the cold air. "This will sting, of course." And slid the small needle in - one push, WIll's face a scrunched grimace, hand locking on Hannibal's shirt, saying please - and then the needle was pulled back, away, set on the side-table carefully with a small metallic click. And another swab, cotton on the wound, while Will made a noise of discomfort, and eased himself back onto the lounge.
Within seconds, the brown-eyed doe of a man was completely unconscious.
That was when Hannibal sat back, taking a deep breath, and closed his eyes against the sight of it. Finally.
So few things affected him, after all of it. So few things to tantalize him, to tease the senses. So much of his hedonism was played out on the unwilling victims of his next meal - so much of it was about the organization of death into something appetizing - that this sudden onrush of desire, of protectiveness, startled him. Had startled him the first time he met Will, and continued to do so with each passing day.
He wanted to do more than eat Will. He wanted to devour him. Now, while he was sleeping. To keep him here, to possess him - he wanted to tear him apart with a gluttonous frenzy, to snatch out bits of him before they were tainted by another, before they could spoil, and shovel them into his mouth greedily, bloodily. He wanted to make a mess of this boy so that no one else ever would.
The agent was sprawled backward, chin tilted up to reveal the sharp line of his throat, made all the more tempting by the half-strewn suit coat that slid off one arm and was rumpled and tucked against the other. The hard line of his chest, peppered with a soft brown curl that spoke of river otters and sleek forest creatures - and most tantalizing, below that, nothing but a slight pair of boxers, taut against a sleeping, recumbent cock.
Hannibal's own cock twitched in response to the sight.
This feast. This beautiful, delicate feast, so tightly held together, splayed and displayed. A feast that no one knew was here, a dog the only witness to this strange behavior. Hannibal could taste the redness of him - the ungodly humanity of him, hot and wet against his tongue. He wanted it. More than he had ever wanted a victim. He wanted not to make this a murder, but an act of worship. To destroy this man would be to cherish him as he so rightly deserved.
He wanted to pull apart Will's ribs with his teeth, and lick them clean.
Slowly, he slid to the ground in front of Will, so that his face was temptingly close to the warm heat of Will's slumbering flesh. He drew a sharp breath, inhaling at the base of his throat - there, where he smelled deliciously of… Will. Of childhood and beauty and innocent. And then Hannibal proceeded to ghost his mouth and nose over the revealed planes of the other man's body, reveling in the dark masculinity of the somnambulist. The warmth of it, the faint tickle of peach fuzz and untended curl, the sweet movement of his chest as he inhaled steadily and evenly.
He paused at the still-clothed cock, giving himself a moment to breathe in, to clear his senses, before he closed his eyes and dragged his cheek across the warn mound, giving out a slow groan as he did, grinding the palm of his hand down into his own erection. God!
It was too much. He buried his nose in the crook between thigh and hip and bit, harder than he should have. It would leave bruises, little teeth marks hard to explain away. He didn't care. He wanted this man. He pulled at the cloth with his teeth, frustrated, before grabbing it and wrenching it down over unresisting legs. There, nestled in a curl of brown, the object of his current affections. He smiled at the image of it, at the idea of this man - so put-together, so often falling apart, tumbled out on his chaise, baring himself to the world.
To Hannibal. Who looked up, just to ensure, watched the flickering of quick eyes beneath closed lids, before bending back in and dragging his tongue in a hard line straight over the slumbering cock. It twitched against him, but did not stir. This sleep was too deep for that, and Hannibal cared not. Limp or blood-filled, he wanted that flesh in his mouth.
He took it, with a choked snarl of want.
It tasted as good as it looked. Warm, heavy, hedonistic. He mouthed it for a second, sliding his tongue up and around to catch as much of the flavor as possible, as his hands pulled his zipper down, pulled out his own cock, fisted himself, squeezing tight at the base. He moved his mouth away, the soft penis popping out with a wet noise, and pressed his lips at the tender flesh of Will's thighs. He wanted to mark it. Tear it apart. Tear it off, vivid and bloody against his lips. He settled for nipping, licking, sucking at the flesh, while he slid pre-cum up and down his own cock, faster and faster. Again, Will would have unexplainable bruises, but Hannibal was not thinking as clearly as he would have liked.
He would find a way to lie his way out of any uncomfortableness, he knew. Will trusted him.
Will trusted him.
Hannibal sucked in his breath and heaved himself to his feet, kicking away his pants in one smooth motion, and then jerked Will into a position that let Hannibal straddle him. The thin legs between his trembled slightly in sleep, then settled once more against the fabric of the couch, while Will let out a soft sigh and turned his head into the cushion more firmly.
Hannibal leaned in, pressing one hand to Will's chest - as if he needed restraining, as if the man would know to move, but he did not care, he liked the visual of this beautiful man under his hands, and stroked furiously at his cock. If he could not devour this man, then he would mark him. Will was his. His, his, his, and he would take him as he wanted him. He could not do the filthy, beautiful things he wanted - not now, there were some things that could not be explained away - but he could leave his scent, his mark, name his territory and take it.
With a hard squeeze and a twisting tug, Hannibal grunted heavily, shoved himself further into his hand, and spilled out across his fist and Will's stomach, sticky white trails leading back down to both their cocks.
It was beautiful. Hannibal pulled away, catching his breath, closing his eyes for a moment against the sight of it all, lest he be overwhelmed. He pulled back further and further, finding the tissues and carefully wiping his hands down. But Will had not moved, had not shifted an inch, and we still, silently, peacefully, breathing. His well-deserved rest. His much-needed respite from the darkness of this world, and more importantly, of his own mind.
Stepping by Will to grab his pants, he could not help the urge - he stooped in, and brushed a soft kiss over unknowing lips, before pulling up a chair next to the dog and settling in for a good long drawing session, his free hand slowly, absently, stroking over the dog's fur. He had hours left, before he had to return Will to the world of the living, and he planned to memorize every inch of Will's body in pencil and ink.
He smiled again, absently.
He had hours to go.
Hours.