Dr. Lecter

Lily Potter:  @mrspr0ngs Jaime Lannister:  @kngslcyer Hannibal Lecter:  @hcnnlbal Draco Malfoy:  @slythcrnprince Billy Hargrove:  @hcrgrcve

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I sit across from him, watching the wine glass rise to his lips. I know he detects what I slipped into it, but his curiosity compels him to drink. This does not make the endeavor less fruitful. I am glad we will share the experience.

No one would have believed him had he made an accusation. There were few options if the intention was to rid the world of the man, the cannibal. Nothing legal would do. Evidence did not exist. Will would have to end the man himself. This had been his excuse for contemplating the notion. He fantasized, mentally executing thousands of versions of the procedure. In a field, a rope and a horse. Tightening, tightening. A blade, glistening with blood. Nothing but his two hands, grip firm yet fingers shaking. 

Once he loses consciousness, I finish my dinner. I clear the table. I remove his suit coat, his tie, his dress shirt. I replace them in his closet. These actions are a courtesy toward my intended. This evening, I will take my time. There is no rush. I will enjoy myself. This will be my first and last, my only. I will leave this house in handcuffs if I leave at all, ending myself as I begin. Tonight, I will end us both. 

Eventually, Will found he could not deny the truth. If the reasons for this murder were truly just and righteous, a gun would suffice for the execution. The need for justice merely gave legitimacy to the desire for feeling Hannibal’s life seep through his fingers, for being intimately involved with the process. This was no mere execution. This was his awakening. Will had accepted this. 

The search begins. I know this man; I find what I am looking for quickly. There is a hatch in the floor of his kitchen, a space underneath. This is where I carry him. I am drawn to the autopsy table, where I decide to restrain him. 

I will only continue when he is conscious.

The sound of his own breathing echoed too loudly in his ears, as if he stood apart from his body. The hand holding the knife seemed foreign to his gaze, yet moved with his direction. This disconnect with his own body contrasted the feeling of intense closeness to the man he stood over. His fingers twitched with anticipation, itching to begin as Hannibal rejoined him. For a moment, he could feel himself strapped to his autopsy table beneath his kitchen with Hannibal standing over him, a blade pressed against his stomach. 

I act as him. He acts as me. Tonight, we are one.

Seconds passed before Will spoke, “You know why you’re here.”

This is my design.

Hannibal’s response did not differ from Will’s expectations. While he at first attempted to hide the hint of a smile this brought to his lips, the younger of the two decidedly allowed himself the luxury of not concealing his emotions, not trying to understand and combat them. This night was not about hiding, after all. This night was not truly about justice. Will would not pretend it was. 

The fingers of his free hand moved to touch Hannibal’s cheek, tracing along his jaw from his ear before shifting down to his neck. As steady as Will’s hushed voice was, every word clearly articulated, he appeared to nearly be shaking, a fact no doubt made evident by his touch, “This is intimate, Hannibal.” 

The knife remained in place, not yet moving.

@hcnnlbal

Hannibal turns his cheek into the press of Will’s palm, relishes in the slight sheen of sweat he finds there, the way he’ll be able to feel the touch linger on his cheek because of it, long after Will has removed his hand. He’s shaking, too. Once, Hannibal might’ve believed it to be anxiety, or the encephalitis. Now though, he knows it is anticipation coursing through Will’s veins. He can smell it. 

He hums, still pressing into Will’s touch, eyes closed and accepting of whatever it is that will come. “So it is.” He has shared his bed for months without ever approaching the closeness he feels here with Will, beneath his blade, at his mercy. 

“Do you see it, Will?” He whispers, seeking out Will’s gaze with an almost urgent drive to the words. It’s never been more imperative that Will see him, than it is now. “Can you see how I would do it? What art will you make of me?” He is desperate to know, though even now, his words are delivered placidly. Only his eyes give him away, he can feel how they burn. 

And he does burn. His blood is pumping through his veins at a distracting pace, coursing with adrenaline and perhaps a bit of oxytoxin as well. Will has moved him in a way he cannot remember feeling since Murasaki, perhaps even beyond that. His affections have had time to grow, billowed by Will’s sight, by his refusal to turn away from the things he sees in Hannibal. Perhaps Will will kill him, but Hannibal believes he’ll do it without looking away, without breaking eye-contact, and finds he almost looks forward to it.