Chapter Text
One time
Hannibal Lecter is not exactly surprised when Will Graham asks him to resume his therapy. To say that this outcome was not one of the many possibilities he’s so carefully mapped out in his mind would quite candidly be a lie, and Hannibal does so loathe the idea of lying to himself.
He can admit to being pleased, however, as it is certainly not the possibility he had estimated to be most likely, and Will Graham does clean up nicely. There’s something refreshing about the sight of him, hair quaffed and dressed in finer clothes. Has his people-suit finally been shed, or is it just now, for Hannibal’s consideration, coming into play?
So he gets a haircut and a wardrobe renewal and he doesn’t change that wretched ship-on-the-bottle-that-he-keeps-getting-for-Christmas aftershave and Hannibal supposes he should be insulted by what passes as the FBI’s idea of a honeytrap. What, he wonders, exactly gives them the idea that Hannibal can be so easily swayed by a little makeover? Men and women and gender-defying people have primped for him before, and albeit their motives had been perhaps slightly different – Jack Crawford is trying to get him for a series of murders, not a series of glorious nights – they are equally as transparent.
He's even wearing contacts these days. Hannibal feels like he’s in a 90’s romcom. He’s curious as to why exactly he enjoys it.
Hannibal is not one to second-guess himself, and he’s not about to start now. Surely, this bad excuse for an FBI operation and its transparency both serve its purpose. The transparency may well be the purpose – Hannibal likes keeping his options open.
Will, for his part, continues to be utterly pleasing to observe. Hannibal enjoys his unpredictability and his dedication to the – what Hannibal is not sure Will doesn’t realise isn’t a – charade, the unwavering poise with which he designs Randall Tier’s body.
However, Will is but a human, and thus he comes with his own share of less-than-pleasurable attributes as well. Hannibal finds that even on his best-dressed days Will will unknowingly bring dog hair into the office, and although he appears to the outside world to have a much better grasp of his own empathy, there are hard lines of stress in his shoulders and neck, visible in the way he has to force to relax his hands when in Hannibal’s presence.
He doesn’t talk to Hannibal about how he’s been sleeping, but then he doesn’t have to. There is very little that Hannibal cannot read from his face. Hannibal finds it intriguing, because the indications to his suffering are truly just the littlest things, almost imperceptible , so he cannot help but wonder if it may in fact be something Will is actively trying to hide from him. Perhaps the issues he has with sleeping have become a rather sore subject, after the way Hannibal had used that knowledge the last time the man had been in his proverbial therapeutic hands.
It makes Hannibal curious as to see how far Will is willing to continue the honeytrap in order to get a good night’s sleep.
***
‘I would like to try a different kind of exercise with you today, dear Will,’ Hannibal announces at their next session.
If Will is surprised, his face does not show it. Hannibal carefully studies his features as he continues to explain the roots of somatic experiencing, and the purpose of today’s technique. He doesn’t miss the brunet’s smirk as he mentions that this particular approach is often referred to as “the puppeteer”, nor does it escape him that the man’s shoulders tense as he goes over the instructions and explains what they will be doing.
As Hannibal expected from their run-in with the social worker Clark Ingram, this bolder version of Will shares one very distinct similarity to his frayed-edges-people-suit: intimate touch is not and has never been the man’s forte.
And not only does The Puppeteer involve touching, it also requires a lot of trust and an ability to relinquish control. Maybe it would be more fair to say that it’s an exercise that perfectly plays into some of Will’s biggest weaknesses.
Hannibal has of course seen this kind of touch-averse behaviour in his clinical practice before. People learn from an early age that eye contact is one of society’s greatest expectations, and they learn to conform to put those around them at ease. Some will even overcompensate, resulting in a little too much eye contact, but even this behaviour is often more easily condoned than no eye contact at all.
It’s different for people who are touch-averse, however. Hannibal has found that although they may unconsciously train themselves to indulge touches from a select few people within their social circle – often their close chosen family and friends – their tolerance can only stretch so far without breaking. If and when their window of tolerance is forced to expand to borderline uncomfortableness, their body-language often makes their view on the matter abundantly clear.
To Will’s credit, beyond the tightening in the line of his back, little else tells of his anticipation of being touched by his psychiatrist.
Hannibal finds himself once more, undeniably pleased. Even in Will’s predictability there is a sharp edge of the unknown.
All in all, it takes a lot less sessions than Hannibal had anticipated, and more than he had expected Will would allow. The brunet’s impatience is another similarity Hannibal’s quickly located and treasured, although it takes the shape of a more optional thing, rather than a certainty, in this gussied up Will Graham.
Hannibal carefully catalogues his progress after each session, and they begin and finish with conversation and grounding exercises to lull Will into a sense of safety. Some sessions Will cries – a vulnerability Hannibal has not been privy to before, and that alone he considers a victory for his methods – but even when he does, he demands to push through the exercise. Will doesn’t lie about its effects either, which Hannibal appreciates, and talks openly about finding it easier to be aware of his tense posture before bed. If that’s all they get from this exercise, Hannibal supposes it will have to do.
Perhaps it is exactly because of this low expectation, and the certainty with which Hannibal conveys this to Will, but they are about halfway through their latest appointment when Will is finally able to relax his muscles properly.
Hannibal is holding onto Will’s right hand with his own, using his thumb to stroke soothingly across his palm, his other hand clasped securely on Will’s right elbow. Will’s eyes are closed, as he’s been recommended to do, and he’s taking deep breaths, his exhales long and gentle, their figures so close Will’s breath ruffles Hannibal’s hair.
Hannibal is talking – he’s found that Will’s frame descends into a neutral state more easily when he is vocally guided there – voice low and assuasive, when he is all of a sudden aware of the full weight of Will’s arm in his hands, the change so abrupt that the hand that is holding onto Will’s elbow almost drops in amazement.
He is a professional, however, and carefully keeps the weight of Will’s right arm and shoulder in his two hands. When he verbally praises the brunet, he takes note of the softening of the man’s face and the delicate gasp that leaves his wettened lips. If at all possible, his arm relaxes even further.
Hannibal guides the arm carefully away from Will’s body, instead bringing it closer to his own so he can outstretch it and test whether Will is still holding tension in his upper arm. He finds the limb malleable, like warm worked clay and guides it this way and that while carrying its weight, holding his hand firm and his elbow steady. Will’s skin is warm where he’s rolled up his sleeves, and it comes up in goosebumps at the touch, an involuntary reaction of his body when Hannibal’s thumb strokes across his wrist.
Hannibal cherishes the fragility of the moment. Will’s breath is evened out and delicate, almost as if he were sleeping, and his features are lax and unguarded now – the whole right side of his body at Hannibal’s mercy. There’s tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill, but Will doesn’t appear alarmed by them, or even aware of them, at all.
There’s the smell of that awful cologne and something distinctly Will, and perhaps Hannibal’s a little heady with it, too, because he finds himself wondering about what their future may look like if only Will would be as honest outside of this somatic exercise as he is during.
When Hannibal moves to carefully slide his hand from Will’s elbow, up to his shoulder, the muscles all-at-once twitch beneath his fingers, and rigidity returns to Will’s delicate frame.
‘Hannibal,’ Will sighs his name as if it were the last prayer from a broken man’s lips, a mix of emotions playing across his face, and his tears rolling down his cheeks in thick drops at last.
‘You did very well, my dear Will,’ Hannibal soothes the brunet as he returns to himself, eyelashes fluttering and wet. ‘Take your time.’
Hannibal gently sets Will’s hand back down on the armrest, hesitating when Will’s fingers twitch almost imperceptibly. He decides to indulge the motion, and offers up his own digits for Will to grasp, pleased when the man takes the offering. Will squeezes, perhaps a little harder than he intends to, and when his eyes open fully they meet Hannibal’s and they’ve gone a little glossy and blank, a far-away look, the last tears sliding down.
Will’s reaction isn’t altogether uncommon. Hannibal has found that many people experience an almost trancelike state when they focus on their body and relaxing it – and, of course, manage the feat. He has also learned throughout his practice that quite a few of his clients find it unbearably intimate to give themselves over to another so completely – the idea of another carrying any burden for them, the idea of relinquishing control and allowing another to lead, aptly terrifying – and need time to come back from that reality.
The transition needs to be as gentle as it was building up to the relinquishment of their autonomy. Reactions range from tears to full-blown panic attacks, and having been a first-hand witness to Will’s panic attacks, Hannibal is all-in-all pleased they’ve managed to avert that outcome.
Even as Will’s breathing once more evens out and his eyes flit across the room – Hannibal can almost hear the grounding exercise Will uses, staring at the library and spelling b-o-o-k-s in his mind – his hand remains firm around Hannibal’s. He sniffles a little uselessly, and takes the proffered tissue but doesn’t bother using it.
Eventually, he exhales deeply for the last time, a renewed comfort to his pose.
‘Hannibal,’ Will gently speaks, his eyes a lot clearer when they meet Hannibal’s this time, ‘I—’
Hannibal watches as he struggles to find the words. They’re close, but Will brings them closer, closing his eyes as he rests his forehead against Hannibal’s and sighs, an aching, lonely thing.
For people like Will, who are continuously trapped in a state of fight or flight – whose nervous system has been fried, it’s so unregulated – truly relinquishing control can feel so entirely alien that they are absolutely daunted by it. Hannibal reminds himself of this, of the fact that nerves have been eating at Will’s tender frame day by day for years now, and that the minute breath of respite Hannibal has afforded him may cause Will to experience a myriad of emotions, all equally unpredictable and possibly entirely new to the man.
Hannibal can never lie about his own emotions; they are more akin to different shaped blocks in a toy-box, and although he can pick and choose which one to play with – the orange circle one or the purple rectangle one – it doesn’t make the experience any less truthful for himself. Love is not an emotion, but trust is.
In the moment, he chooses to trust that the emotion Will is acting upon is a familiar one to him, and not one brought on solely by the intimacy of the exercise. When Will’s lips part in a sigh, Hannibal closes the gap between them.
It’s perhaps a little more possessive than he had intended – Hannibal certainly wants to err on the side of caution, lest their oh-so-delicate balance is broken by barring too much of himself, too fast – but in this way he is, after all, merely mortal, and he wishes so badly to be seen by Will. He is swift in his conquest of Will’s mouth, resists the urge to bite the man’s lips raw and finds him just as malleable as he had been, earlier.
Every ounce of restraint he uses is forgone by Will entirely.
Who knew Will Graham kisses like the feral beast that lurks inside, hungry and raging with it? Is this what kissing Will Graham always feels like? On the verge of consumption, even as he relinquishes control and allows himself to be won, sharp teeth and a sneaky tongue? Is this the dark howling thing he’s been hiding, a monster so hungry he will beg on his knees for a chance to be fed and domesticated?
Will weaves their fingers together and cups Hannibal’s neck with his free hand, keeping the man close even as their lips part. There’s space for a single breath and then they’re kissing again, Will moving from his own chair to crawl into Hannibal’s lap.
Hannibal is fully aware of the fact that he has a hand grasping Will’s thigh, just below the curve of his ass with a grip so strong he practically heaves the younger man over into his own space. He is not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and decides that matching Will’s energy in this is well worth any possible future fall-out. After all, he’s been thinking of how the meat of Will would fit into his hand, wondering what Will would feel like, just like this, writhing in his lap.
‘Hannibal,’ Will’s breath is broken, and Hannibal gets to hear him stutter out such a pretty plea when he greedily tilts his hips down into Hannibal’s, his arousal pushing angrily against his jeans, ‘Can I—’
Will brings their entwined hands between their bodies, finally releasing his hold on Hannibal’s digits so his own can fumble with the zipper of Hannibal’s trousers.
Hannibal wants to.
Passion is not an unfamiliar emotion for him, though he rarely takes this particularly-shaped block out to play. It’s intense and even to someone like himself, an altogether overwhelming thing.
He chooses not to.
‘Not tonight,’ Hannibal hums against Will’s open mouth, promises himself as much as he promises Will, and finds himself unable to resist the brunet’s red lips, falling into another kiss.
He uses a firm grip on Will’s wrist to guide his hand to his own neck instead, and allows him to grasp him there with both hands now, getting pulled into Will’s mouth so entirely he feels wholly devoured.
When next they speak it’s the very next morning, Will calling him up to talk to him from the comfort of his bed, gushing about how well the therapy worked and how he’s had the best sleep he’s had in ages. Hannibal wisely decides not to mention that he doesn’t think the somatic exercise they practised had all that much to do with it. He figures Will already knows, if his coy tone is anything to go by.
***