ask and you shall receive : ) Hannigram, 1
things you said at 1 a.m.
(somewhere in late season 2, in Hannibal’s bedroom)
Hannibal doesn’t mean to say it out loud.
Will doesn’t stay. Will never stays. That’s not the next step in the dance they’re doing.
The next step is Will finishes buttoning his shirt, and he may or may not say goodnight, and he leaves. Tomorrow or the next night he’ll be back for dinner, over which they may or may not talk about Will’s casework, certainly will talk in vague non-incriminating circles about Hannibal’s role in sending Will to the BSHCI, and will not talk at all about the fact that after dinner they’ll come back up to this bedroom and bite bruises into each other’s skin.
That’s the dance. That’s the rhythm. They’ll keep doing it until one of them trips and falls and then god help them both.
But it’s long past midnight, and Will’s rough handling has sanded off all of Hannibal’s sharp edges, and something soft and exposed underneath gets the upper hand and he says: “Stay with me.”
Will’s fingers trip just slightly over his buttons. The tiniest error. Maybe he’s tired, too.
“I can’t, Hannibal.” The dogs, he says. Jack, he means. I’m meant to be catching you, and fucking you is an acceptable way to do that, but sleeping in your arms is not, he means. They both know it.
“It’s late. Stay this once. You can put on your armor again in the morning.” Please, Hannibal means. They both know that, too.
Will freezes, and closes his eyes, and thinks. After a moment, his fingers move again.
A ceasefire, then. For a night.
Hannibal considers moving to help Will slip the shirt back off but he’s afraid if he touches him at all right now, the fragile accord will break. He holds perfectly still until Will is undressed again, under the blankets with him, and the lights turned out.
Will moves against him slowly, so gently, and it feels more dangerous than anything else. Worse than Hannibal’s back where Will scraped bloody lines. Worse than Will’s shoulder must feel where Hannibal all but dislocated it pressing him to the bed earlier.
Will’s so careful as he slides into Hannibal’s arms, like it feels just as dangerous to him. But all he says is, “Don’t try to make me breakfast.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he says, and means, and tightens his arms around Will so imperceptibly they can both pretend he’s not doing it.
He’d stay awake all night if he could but he’s certain Will won’t sleep until he does. So he closes his eyes and lets himself slip, and dream, and set the dance aside until dawn.