There is an uneasiness to Will’s hand in the third gif as it hovers with uncertainty, trying to predict Hannibal’s movements. He lets it fall limp against the blanket, almost in disappointment, maybe even a sigh of silent relief, whenever Hannibal goes to scoop up the book instead of touching him. Even still, there’s a moment of forethought, his fingers twitching upwards as he watches Hannibal scoop the book into hands. There’s something sensual about it, about the whole scene really. From Hannibal’s smile upon entering to see a conscious Will, to the way he approaches the bed, unbuttoning his jacket, amusement and hope blooming beneath the skin of his cheeks. There’s even something ginger in the way he slips his fingers beneath the edges of the book, lifting it from the bed with slow, sturdy precision. Will watches in a haze as Hannibal makes a home in the curve of the chair. For a moment, everything feels almost domestic. Lead-footed realizations bubble in Will’s mind: the last thing he fully remembers is being under the knife at Muskrat farms, paralyzed in fear and pain. Yet here he is, waking in warmth of his own bed, fully clothed with treated wounds and a soapy cleanliness to his skin. He smells faintly of an aftershave that isn’t his own. The gears are turning. He knows the man settled beside him did all of this and he’s left mulling over the taste of such a thing. Will shakes the thoughts from his head as if that’s all they are: daydreams falling from his messy curls. He eases himself up, unsure of himself, preparing to deliver the blow he never wanted to give.
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