Silence piled up between the two of them like a wall of wet sand. Will didn't want to ask, and Hannibal didn't want to answer.
However, he had to say something when he observed that Will was driving them, not toward headquarters for the debrief, but toward Hannibal's office. Will caught Hannibal's quick sidelong glance and explained, "I thought you might have some extra clothes at your office." He coughed once. "Since you've obviously done this before."
His words hit Hannibal like a punch. Will knew! Then a sudden thrill: Will knew… and wasn't taking him to the police.
Yet.
A moment later, Hannibal found his voice. "But why my office and not my residence?"
Will let out a bark of laughter. "How would I know where you live, Dr. Lecter?"
Hannibal didn't reply. The point was moot, since he did keep changes of clothes in his office. And for the first time in his life, he felt uncomfortably open; sprawling on a pin; examined. He felt like he was coming out of his skin. But the thrill was there too, and it was absolute, and not to be denied. He was known; he was understood. And for the moment… he was accepted.
Accepted!
He pushed the emotion down, down. They were very near their destination, and he still had to contrive some reason for Will to accompany him into the office. It would be too easy for Will to drive away otherwise – straight to the police; straight to Jack for all he knew.
Again, Will seemed to read his mind. "I'm coming in with you," he announced as they pulled up outside. Will turned the car off and set the emergency brake. He did not meet Hannibal's eyes.
Hannibal almost asked why – his natural curiosity did not turn off even under duress – but gagged himself just in time. He nodded obediently, swinging open the door of the old car and climbing out slowly. Jaw grimly set, he gently pushed the car door shut. He never threw a car door closed, ever, no matter what condition the vehicle was in.
As he turned and strode toward the building's entrance, he noticed with slight surprise that Will walked right beside him, almost close enough to touch. He had expected Will to keep his distance. He had expected him to be afraid. A brief glance revealed Will's lips curled ever-so-slightly upward, as if remembering a private joke.
Once they were inside, Hannibal locked the door behind them. He placed his keys on the waiting-room table and quickly stripped off his coat and dress shirt, upon which he laid the scalpel. His entire outfit would have to be destroyed, of course, and the murder weapon taken care of.
Without really thinking about it, Hannibal fell into the ritual, the process he had been through so many times before. Even after he began using the plastic suits, he never really forgot the proper steps to contain and dispose of blood when more porous material was involved. The shoes were stacked on the shirt, followed by the pants which he folded neatly, examining the cuffs for traces of mud or grass that might have fallen off in the parking lot or in the car. The undershirt was next; though closer to his skin, it might have soaked in some blood from the dress shirt. Then the shorts. Due to the proximity of the shirttail, they might be more contaminated than the undershirt, he mused.
He stopped dead just as he finished folding his socks. He had forgotten he had a guest.
Will was watching him, just a few feet away, from the shadows of the office door. Dr. Lecter could see that his eyes were dilated just slightly, the better to see you with, my dear, the better to drink in the sight of his friend-turned-opponent-turned-murder-conspirator, naked as a beast and just as unselfconscious. Will was not fooled by Hannibal's lack of weapons or clothing. Will was observing the predator inside the skin. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't upset. He wasn't shocked. Will was not gaping or gawking. He was just… waiting to see what would happen next.
Something clicked, deep in Hannibal's formidable mind. Will had no more control over his abilities, his tendencies, than Hannibal himself. Hannibal was a killer who had never been caught. Will was a man who caught killers – who saw what they saw, whether he liked it or not.
Will was not only a worthy adversary; he was Hannibal's opposite, and his equal. They fit together. Laws of physics, forces of nature.
With one strong, graceful leap, he tackled Will to the floor, pinning his arms beside him, wondering whether Will was going to see this as an attack or as an expression of desire.
He wondered, during the ensuing struggle, what exactly he meant it to be. Wondered just how he could do something without being aware of his own intent. What was going to happen as a result.
When Will's hand fisted in his hair and his lips pressed insistently against Hannibal's, he found he no longer cared.
Even still, Hannibal could smell no fear on Will. Indeed, there was no fear to be smelled. Frustrated, Will tore at his own clothes in his frenzy to feel the killer's skin warm against his own, to know Hannibal as he really was rather than who Will had thought him to be. The already-ripped black T-shirt suffered another injury due to Will's haste. Hannibal couldn't help noticing the stiffness of Will's nipples, along with another stiffness tenting his worn-out jeans. The older man slowed him down just long enough to slip out of the pants and the boxer-briefs, his shoes and socks being long gone already. Hannibal's hands were warm on Will's chest, on his back. His mouth opened eagerly to Hannibal's hard kiss, teeth just briefly gripping Hannibal's tongue as though he were pondering tearing it out.
The thought sent Hannibal over the edge. With hard, brutal strength, he picked up the smaller, leaner man and threw him down on the cool leather couch, almost knocking the wind out of him. Will coughed and wheezed for just a moment, but all the while his hands were reaching for Hannibal. He gripped Hannibal's hips hard enough to leave bruises and hauled him downward, his more compact body almost crushed under Hannibal's weight.
There was no time. No time to think, no time to ponder, only feel, only want, want with the same intensity he wanted his next breath. Will's saliva-slicked hand found its way down to Hannibal's almost-painful erection. Hannibal hissed in surprise, then gasped as the other man's hand stroked him roughly, once, twice, again. His predatory instincts rebelled. Weakened with pleasure, he fought to regain control. He snatched Will's hand away and pinned his wrist firmly down at his side, noting again with some surprise how Will didn't struggle against him.
Hannibal's eyes were red with heat and desire; he had never looked so insane to Will, or so beautiful. Will felt his legs being pushed roughly apart, felt the intrusion of fingers, with saliva as the only lubrication, roughly preparing him. He cried out as Hannibal entered him what felt like mere seconds later. And then…
Never in Will's wildest dreams would anyone dare to do to him what Hannibal did. He was never sure whether to think of it as sex or as rape. There was no tenderness, no gentleness, only the deepest and most savage pleasure Will had ever known; for Dr. Lecter clearly knew where the prostate is located in the male body and was not afraid to use that knowledge, over and over again. He did not touch Will's erection, nor did he allow Will to touch it. In what felt like no time at all he was throwing back his head and growling, then moaning, then screaming, his voice deep as a wild beast's as he pulsed inside Will, still thrusting, never slowing his attack. In one smooth motion he withdrew, and collapsed shakily on Will's lower body.
Will did not allow him to rest. Feeling torn open inside, sore, leaking, yet sexually frustrated beyond what he believed possible, he pulled himself up and away from Lecter. He found the floor and somehow managed to crawl back on the couch behind the larger man. Hannibal did not attempt to restrain him.
"It's my turn," Will hissed into Hannibal's ear from behind. He threw his arms around Hannibal, holding him, clutching him to his breast like a prized possession. Abruptly, with something like a snarl, he sank his teeth into the join of Hannibal's neck and shoulder, marking him, claiming him, ignoring the older man's cry of pain. When he let go, he did not prepare Dr. Lecter with his fingers, but slicked himself with saliva as best he could. He quickly forced his way into that entrance so unbelievably tight that it was almost painful… and so warm he shuddered in spite of himself. His fingers became claws, digging into Hannibal's hips, and he sheathed himself deep inside Hannibal. Panting, he worked up a dizzying pace, pounding into the other man with a savagery that would have shocked him if it hadn't felt so damned good. Hannibal's head was bowed, his shoulders slumped inward; he held onto the sides of the couch merely to keep himself in place. He did not try to escape. He did not resist. He took it like a man. That, along with the tight slick heat gripping him, sent Will over the edge. He cried out hoarsely and felt his hips thrashing wildly, out of his control, as his essence poured into the murderer. For just an instant, his vision went white, and he panicked, remembering who he was with and what he was capable of.
Unlike Hannibal, however, Will removed himself slowly, gently, as if to apologize for what he'd done. He crawled over Hannibal's unprotesting body until he was once again him. Hannibal's head was still down; he was curled up, almost fetally, unmoving. Will called his name; when there was no response, he moved in closer and lifted Hannibal's head gently. Hannibal met his gaze. Will was utterly shocked to see tears streaming down his face. "Are – " Will cleared his throat and tried again – "are you okay, Dr. Lecter?"
"Fine," the other man replied hoarsely. He continued to weep.
Not knowing what else to do, Will crawled into Hannibal's arms and held him as fiercely as he had just fucked him, willed him to be better, to be able to speak and interact again.
When he felt Hannibal's hand stroke his damp, curly hair with the gentlest of caresses, Will knew he would be okay.