Will perused the contents of the stainless steel refrigerator with a vague sense of being overwhelmed. Each shelf held more than the entire contents of his own appliance and his kitchen cupboards combined, although that was an unsurprising fact, Will acknowledging that the same could probably be said for a large proportion of the population given his poor eating habits.

Growing up, there had rarely been enough food. Going to bed hungry had not been a punishment but the norm, early memories of crying himself to sleep with a soul-deep hunger gnawing at his gut flashing through his mind as he stood with hands on hips in front of the open fridge door and considered what to make. In contrast, the odd occasions that his father had come home with extra in his pay-packet were among some of Will's favourite memories because he would stand on a chair beside Bill Graham and learn the rudimentary elements of cooking simple but hearty food from the cheapest cuts of meat and fish his father could pick up from the local market. The summers were understandably better than the winter months, when fish were more plentiful and weekends spent down by the rivers and docks of the various places they'd lived yielded enough of a catch to sustain them for a few days. But it never seemed to be enough.

Will was more than aware of his father's many, many flaws, but despite the consistent lack of ingredients, Bill had been a pretty good cook, and alongside teaching him to fish and how to dismantle, fix and reassemble almost anything mechanical in nature, he'd passed his culinary knowledge on to his son. Those three skills aside, everything else William Graham Jr knew about life he'd taught himself or learnt the hard way. In keeping with that, Will had expanded his repertoire somewhat in college, adding pasta dishes to the steadily improved stews and soups of his childhood and learning to imbue fresh fish and meat with fragrance and new flavours - whilst he might rarely cook anymore, it wasn't due to lack of ability, a notion that would probably have surprised everyone who knew him: the consternation that had crossed Hannibal's face at Will's assertion that he would cook for them was a prime example, although Will knew that the older man's concern was also firmly rooted in territorial boundaries. The thought of letting anyone into his kitchen without him being at the helm was one that he found almost impossible to reconcile. The kitchen was his refuge, his sanctum, and Will had been able to hear the polite but immovable refusal framed on the tip of Hannibal's tongue before it even left his mouth. Only, it never came. Eventually raising his gaze to the older man's eyes when the silence had become too much, he'd witnessed an almost calculating flash of…something, before Hannibal had gingerly eased himself to standing and extended a hand to Will.

"Please do not make a mess,"

Will ran a hand over the packages of carefully wrapped meat occupying the top shelf, uncertain as to what they all were but recognising the lightly spiced sausage Hannibal often fed him for breakfast, loin that he assumed had to be pork from the colour and texture, assorted offal. His fingers lingered over the last for a moment before moving on, deciding it to be too rich, too much given the day's events. Something light was needed, something easily digested – he knew only too well that he certainly wasn't up to the rustic liver dish that had been pulled from a corner of his memory. Spying more recognisable meat to the rear, Will leant in and removed the smallest parcel of pre-boned chicken, then focussed his attention on the array of possible accompaniments further down. A salad, maybe. Pan-grilled chicken with garlic and thyme, mixed leaves, maybe some of the pine nuts he knew Hannibal kept in the pantry and a light, citrusy dressing.

Pulling out what he needed and carrying it between his left arm and his body, Will turned and deposited the items on to the work surface beside Hannibal's hob, then returned to close the refrigerator. A quick detour to the pantry and he'd be all set, nervousness beginning to creep in as he considered what he had embarked upon with his offer. Whilst he could cook, he wasn't a gourmet chef and he held no misconceptions that his food would be of the same quality as Hannibal's, the other man exacting in both standards and palate. What if Hannibal didn't like it? Now stood near the doorway, his stomach churned slightly with the thought.

From where he came to rest just inside the doorway, Will had a clear line of sight through the house to the front door. If he had been going to use it however, he would have done so when he'd reached the bottom of the staircase from the first floor, not walked past it and through the house to the kitchen. Despite the nerves that rolled painfully through his abdomen, that threatened to cause his heart to burst out of his chest, he was not a coward and he owed it to Hannibal to let the other man say his piece, confirm verbally what Will already knew.

The man in question had his back to him, quiet strains of something by Bach playing over speakers cleverly built in to the room as he busied himself in front of two white plates. With his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbow and white apron protecting navy-blue, pinstripe pants, he painted a painful portrait of domesticity as Will watched the delicate play of muscles in his shoulders and back. Quickly re-evaluating his thoughts around cowardice with a swallow and another glance to the front door, Hannibal turned with plates in hand and his fate was effectively sealed. He supposed it was better to get it over with, at least he would be able to say that there had been closure in their relationship.

Regaining the little poise he'd lost at finding Will stood in the doorway, Hannibal offered him a small smile, eyes trying and failing to catch Will's own as they firmly affixed at the open collar of his shirt.

"Good Morning,"

Will rubbed at his stubble for wont of something to do with his hands, clearing his throat in a bid to rid himself of the foreign body that seemed to have lodged itself there. Words were a struggle and in the end all he managed was one. "Hi,"

As if immune to the apparent awkwardness of the moment, Hannibal gracefully deposited one of the plates he was carrying on the island between carefully laid out cutlery and condiments, before leaning slightly to deposit the other on the opposite side and turning back to Will. The younger man noted that the arrangement of food was identical; apparently the blow was to be softened over a shared breakfast then.

"Please," Hannibal gestured to a tall stool that had been placed in front of the nearest place-setting, waiting for Will to urge heavy feet into motion before speaking again. "I thought perhaps you might enjoy something traditionally more American for breakfast this morning,"

Stopping beside the stool, Will frowned when Hannibal pulled it away from the island to enable him to seat himself, waiting for him to settle before removing his hands and occupying his own space. Eyes downcast, the younger man appraised the golden-brown pancakes, a light dusting of icing sugar and a generous dollop of whipped, vanilla cream stark contrast to the dark red, syrupy fruits that adorned the crepes. It looked and smelt delicious but did nothing other than make his stomach roll. Feeling the older man's gaze on the top of his bowed head, Will picked up his cutlery.

"I trust you eventually slept well?" Hannibal asked after Will had taken a reluctant bite and the silence had stretched between them. Unwilling to answer, Will replied with a quiet question of his own.

"Have you seen my glasses?"

Hannibal savoured his current mouthful of breakfast before replying, juicy berries bursting on his tongue as he chewed and flooding his taste buds with a tart edge underpinned by sweetness.

"My understanding is that they are symbolic, a way for you to place a barrier between yourself and others," he stated, conversationally, as he prepared another forkful of pancake and fruit. "Do you wish to place a barrier between us, Will?"

Will had learnt years ago that for many, anger was often a mask for other emotions, a defence against things that were too deep, too keenly felt for them to be acknowledged as they were. His own misplaced ire tended to come out as sarcasm, and the fear and loss and regret that currently suffused his pores did exactly that. At least in the first instance.

"Psychoanalysis over breakfast the morning after the night before, Dr. Lecter?" he all but spat, scorn dripping from his delivery. "I expected better. Why don't we just get this over with?"

"Will – " Hannibal began, carefully placing his cutlery down on his plate.

"I'll save you the effort. 'I'll always care for your well-being as your friend, but what happened between us was a mistake, Will'."

Hannibal wiped his mouth and rose, Will so lost in his own bitterness he failed to register the movement.

"Or maybe something more clichéd but less personal, like, 'it's not you, it's me' –"

Will stopped speaking as warm hands gripped his face and turned then tipped his head, intense, maroon eyes boring into his gaze as Hannibal's lips rapidly descended and moulded themselves to his own.

Stunned into immobility, his silverware clattered to his plate, mouth dropping open slightly at the press of the other man's lips and forced into burning eye contact because he didn't dare blink. Hannibal encouraged reciprocation with a slow, gentle sweep of his tongue and a palm skimming over Will's cheek to thread into his wayward, shower-damp curls. The younger man's fingers flexed unconsciously, hands coming up of their own accord to hover between them before finally alighting on Hannibal's shirt-covered chest and allowing himself to melt into the contact. The older man's tongue was a berry sweet haven as it slowly mapped the contours of his mouth, Will still unable to break the visual connection between them and finding himself lost in the swirls of unnamed but warm emotions in jet-black pupils.

When Hannibal was satisfied that his message had been received and at least partially understood he slowed the kiss and pulled back, contentedly licking the taste of Will and fruit from his lips.

"I would have thought by now you would know I would never express myself so tritely," Hannibal admonished, voice deep and breath still a little quick, thumbs brushing gently against Will's cheekbones. "Apart from which, I do not have a single regret about what happened last night. If anything, I believed it would be the other way around – there are those who would say I took advantage of you when you were vulnerable to fulfil my own desires,"

Will huffed out a disbelieving breath, finally able to free himself from Lecter's penetrating gaze and choosing to inspect the dark floor tiles at his feet instead. He left his hands on Hannibal's chest however.

"Trust me, there was no advantage taken. I'm not so far gone that I couldn't have said no and if I remember rightly, I kissed you first."

"As you emerged from what appeared to be a particularly traumatic nightmare…"

Will frowned at the older man playing devil's advocate.

"I knew where I was and who I was with, Hannibal." Will drew his gaze back up to emphasise his point. "I was fully aware of what I wanted. What I'd wanted for some time."

Hannibal smiled softly at the admission then leant back in and pressed his lips to Will's again, although more chastely this time.

"Forgive me. It's been some time since I've found myself in this situation and whilst it's most definitely a pleasant surprise, it's a surprise nonetheless. I hadn't anticipated that we might both want the same thing. It's left me feeling a little…off-kilter."

"Welcome to my world," Despite the words, Will was smiling, a full smile that actually pulled at his facial muscles due to their lack of use over recent months.

Hannibal smiled back.

Will was grateful for the table he was stood next to as he came to with a jolt, able to blindly but safely put down whatever he was carrying as he tried to gain some equilibrium. Blinking repeatedly he realised that he was in Hannibal's bedroom, the room bathed in the muted tones of dimmed wall lights.

"You made chicken soup,"

Will stared down at the tray he'd just deposited, taking note of the two bowls of meat and golden broth as if he was seeing them for the first time. Which, of course, he was. Blinking again, he turned to look at Hannibal now at his side and tried to dispel the concern spreading on the other man's features, jamming his hands into his pockets the best he could given the bandaging on his left to hide the fine tremor beginning to take hold. Time, he'd lost time.

"Apparently so," he agreed, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. "I doubt it'll be up to your standards, but it should be hot and filling at least,"

Will had no idea if it was even going to be edible, let alone hot, his last memory being shutting the refrigerator door and heading towards the pantry. For all he knew it could have been made with sugar and dishwater, and although the outside of the meat appeared a pleasing golden brown, there was no telling if it was cooked all the way through. There was silence for a moment before a warm hand cupped the back of his neck.

"Will,"

There were a number of questions hidden in the way Hannibal said his name and he felt the tremor in his hands intensify.

"I'm fine, Hannibal," Will stated, noting that the lie did not come easily.

The older man stepped in to his side, took the towel he had situated around his own neck and used it to gently wipe away the heavy sheen of sweat from Will's brow that the younger man had failed to notice. Hannibal's gaze was soft but knowing as he carefully tended to him.

"You lost time."