Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10983321.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hannibal_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Will_Graham/Hannibal_Lecter
  Character:
      Will_Graham, Hannibal_Lecter, Original_Female_Barney, Original
      Characters, Brian_Zeller, Jimmy_Price, Dr._Frederick_Chilton, Mason
      Verger, Jack_Crawford, Anthony_Dimmond, Beverly_Katz, Georgia_Madchen,
      Bella_Crawford
  Additional Tags:
      Dehumanization, Dubious_Ethics, Extremely_Dubious_Consent, Mildly_Dubious
      Consent, Breeding_Facility, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Watersports, kind
      of, Restraints, Implied/Referenced_Rape/Non-con, Clinical_Handjob, Slow
      Burn, Interspecies_Relationship(s), Interspecies_Romance, Violence,
      Canon-Typical_Violence, Hannibal_is_Not_a_Cannibal, Implied/Referenced
      Child_Abuse, Implied/Referenced_Past_Underage_Sexual_Abuse, Good_Hannibal
      Lecter, essentially, though_that_will_somewhat_depend_on_your_definition
      of_good, Post-Traumatic_Stress_Disorder_-_PTSD, Psychological_Trauma,
      Biting, Mating_Bites
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-05-23 Updated: 2018-02-13 Chapters: 15/? Words: 67696
****** An Approach to Academic Temerity ******
by Whreflections
Summary
     Alphas, omegas, and betas are a separate species- one considered sub
     human. They're parasapients, and varieties of them can be found in
     zoos and in the wilderness, working for police departments and on
     people's couches.
     Hannibal Lecter was born on a wealthy estate, only to be shuffled
     from shelter to shelter until he ended up first intended for military
     use then retired early for use as a stud alpha in a government
     breeding program. He's notoriously difficult, unpredictable, and
     almost out of chances.
     Will Graham is a brilliantly gifted parasapient trainer and
     researcher, who has a secret even those who've read his revolutionary
     papers and books don't know- he doesn't think parasapients are
     subhuman at all.
Notes
     I'm going to hell.
     This is...utter filth, guys. Well. Right now there's no porn, per se,
     though sexual aspects are discussed pretty freely.
     I originally intended for this to be a weird little oneshot but then
     I was like nah, it can't be, I have too much in my head for what
     happens after it, lol But, I have no plans for this to be...a
     traditionally cohesive story? Probably more like a collection of
     oneshots all gathered in this place, following Hannibal and Will?
     maybe one here and there that goes back to before they met each
     other? We'll see.
     Who was I kidding. Forget that bit; this is definitely going to be a
     WIP. Thanks, guys, for all the awesome feedback so far. I very, very
     much appreciate it.
     ...and I mean it, this is filth, XD
***** Chapter 1 *****
The keeper waited to speak until they were out of the elevator.  By the cadence
of her fingers drumming on the railing, she’d been wanting to from the minute
the doors closed. 
“He’s not like the doctor makes it sound, you know.  I mean—“  In a glance, she
took in Will’s raised eyebrows, his invitation to continue.  “—he did every one
of those things in his file, but it’s not that simple.  That keeper whose
finger he broke when he was on his way to being on loan at the Memphis Zoo, he
was trying to put a diaper on him cause he didn’t want to go through the hassle
of leashing Hannibal up to take him outside.”
From what Will had seen in the glossy evidence pictures in the file in his
hand, broken was an understatement.  The man’s finger had been bent so far
backward the skin had ripped on the underside of his palm, exposing tendon and
bone.  Will shifted his grip on the file, his pace slowing.  From either side
he could the sounds of the kennel echoing on and on,  somewhat muffled behind
glass and closed doors.  To the right, he could hear a desperate omega keening,
the blurred shape of them thrusting against the floor caught in the corner of
his eye.  Typically, he liked to pass through central halls like this as quick
as possible to stop the onslaught—he could already feel the first threatening
tinges of a migraine.  Still, there was nothing for it.  This was valuable
information, more relevant to the task he’d be taking on than any of the last
hour he’d spent in Chilton’s office had been. 
“What about the handler he bit during the last attempt at using him for live
cover?” 
The keeper—Keziah Barney, based on her faded patch on the front of her shirt,
unstitched and curling from one corner—shook her head.   “I told them not to
use that man with him, but I wasn’t here.  They don’t half read the charts
around here; sometimes I wonder—“ Whatever she wondered, she waved it off and
pressed on without it.  “I’d worked with him before, heard him making
comments.  No quicker way of setting Hannibal off and making sure he won’t
listen than making fun of him, and I’d bet my life he said something after
Hannibal mounted.  I know it sounds silly to most people and Dr. Chilton talks
over me quick whenever I say it, but he’s got his pride.”
“Anyone who’s current on parasapient behavioral science wouldn’t write it off
so easily; in my last paper—“ 
The smile tugging at the corner of Barney’s mouth told Will he needn’t go any
further; she already knew.  Will was a firm believer that the keepers and
handlers working with them every day were almost always more well versed on
their charges than most large scale parasapient owners and supposed
'behaviorists' ever became, and from what he’d heard of Frederick Chilton it
was safe to assume that rule would carry double strength, here.  The man
responsible for letting a private citizen buy a wild creature like Abel Gideon
could hardly be a good, stable judge of behavior. 
Will’s eyes tracked a moth pinging against the ceiling as it drifted down the
hall, drawn between the lights of the enclosures and the fluorescents above
him.  “The way you see it…all of Hannibal Lecter’s incidents of violence have
been provoked.”  No need for a question when he could feel it virtually
vibrating off her, the need to keep explaining, to make him understand.
“Mm.  In some way or other, but what he considers provocation isn’t always what
you’d expect.  Me and him, we get along just fine but that’s because I just
treat him like I know I’d want to be treated.  He’s no housepet that’s for damn
sure, but he’s no uncontrollable savage.”  Will could feel the pause she rolled
on her tongue as thick as if it weighted his own, an unsteadying pressure.  He
breathed, slowed again to wait it out with her. 
A loud smack against the glass almost made him jump. 
“Hey, hey doc; collect me or let me out of this thing; my nuts are gonna burst;
hey—“  The alpha banged his shoulder against the glass again, arms straining
against his straightjacket, cock bouncing heavy and red, smearing already
smudged glass with a sticky trail. 
Barney sighed.  “Look, Mr. Graham, I know we aren’t supposed to get attached
because it’s not often any of these are the kind that eventually make it up for
adoption and I usually do pretty good, but Hannibal’s good company and I can’t
stand the thought of him sold off to that damn butcher.  He’d get himself
killed for sure.  I can’t just watch that happen; I’d quit first.” 
Will’s stomach turned, instinctive and sharp.  Any man that’d sell a
parasapient to Mason Verger after all he’d done to oppose safety and health
regulations ought to be shot.  His jaw clenched, his thumb rubbing over the
sharp corner of the file as he nodded once. 
“Just give us some distance and let me work with him.  Once we understand one
another, I think we’ll be alright.” 
                                     -----
The very air in Hannibal’s enclosure felt thick. Irrationally so—it was no
warmer or cooler than the hall, no scent to it but that of the alpha himself,
and even that wasn’t overpowering.  If he’d scent marked anything in this
place, he’d done it…delicately, was the word that came to mind.  Sparingly. 
With only a single inhale Will could close his eyes and see him doing it, the
way he’d take a book from the shelf and rub it gently against the scent gland
on the underside of his jaw.  The careful process of gathering precome in his
hand and massaging it into his mattress. 
Hannibal rose smoothly from his chair, carefully tucking it back in under the
desk before he regarded Will, hands behind his back.  “Am I not to be
restrained before our session?”  With the tilt of his head and the angle of
light, his eyes were too dark to even judge the size of his pupils.  Not that
it mattered, really.  He didn’t expect this one to show any fear responses, and
from all he’d read, none of the attacks he’d ever made had been precipitated by
any sort of dominance display. 
Will set the file down on an equipment table by the door, Use Caution and
Muzzle for All Procedures stickers facing down.  “I only use restraints when
I’ve determined they’re necessary, and I don’t base that judgment off someone
else’s recommendation.”
The dip of Hannibal’s head seemed pleased.  “And your reputation for judgment
precedes you, Mr. Graham.  Barney has all of your books.”  A smile pulled his
lips, but it was thin, polite.  There was tension in him hovering beneath it,
like a taunt guitar string.  He hadn’t judged Will entirely, yet.  “We read to
each other sometimes on the night shift.  Of course, her books are more
interesting than mine but it’s only polite to share what I’m able.” 
Will ambled right, aimless and unthreatening, only coming closer by small
degrees.  “She had good things to say about you.”
“An outlier to your previous data, I’d imagine.” 
“Like I said, I prefer to collect date for myself.  Reports can be biased;
evidence is unflinchingly honest.”   
“And did you flinch, reading those biased reports?” 
Will exhaled around the sudden tightness in his throat, the hair-raising tingle
across his skin.  Hannibal’s voice was mild and he hadn’t moved an inch but
there was something predatory in his quiet, like a coiled cat.  “Cassandra
Boyle.  You bit her mouth and swallowed the pieces; yes or no?”
“Yes.”  No hesitation, no remorse.  His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. 
“Shall I tell you why?” 
“Please do.” 
“I’d already been collected from not a half hour beforehand; I told her I was
too still too sensitive for traditional collection and would need the probe. 
She was unwilling to take the time to get the equipment so I reacted in self-
defense.”
“The standard argument most would give is that as a handler she could determine
whether there’d be any real damage, and if she’d hurt you she would have
been...”  Dismissed, from a facility like this one?  Unlikely.  “Reprimanded. 
There could have been an investigation, if you asked for a government inquiry.”
“And if you agreed with that argument, you wouldn’t have bothered to quantify
it.” 
Will’s huff of laughter was sudden and mirthless, a show of agreement he hadn’t
intended but didn’t regret.  Not when he could see something in Hannibal’s
shoulders ease, like cloth smoothed. 
“May I venture a guess that those extenuating circumstances weren’t recorded in
the file?”
“You may.”  Forcing his spine into a straighter line, Will took an easy step
closer, continued at the same steady pace when the first came without
incident.  “And may I start fresh?  If I’m discarding your file, I have to make
my own.  I like to start with an examination.” 
“Of course, Mr. Graham.”  For most well raised parasapiets, a resting stance
came to them naturally from years of practice, but the way Hannibal widened his
stance and exhaled seemed practiced, deliberate.  The flare of nostrils as Will
cupped the back of his neck seemed far more a genuine reflex.
“I’m just Will, Hannibal.  We’re going to be spending a lot of time together.” 
Raking his fingers through Hannibal’s hair to test the waters felt more like
sating a magnetic itch of his own, the strands silk soft against his palm. 
Hannibal sighed and tilted into it, the very picture of content. 
He opened his mouth for Will without protest or nipping, exposing the sharp ,
predatory lines of his teeth, turned his head to let Will feel out the scent
glands on either side of his jawline.  His scent was strong there, musky and
rich yet somehow soft, like figs soaked in wine.  Drifting down, he traced
scars he filed away in his mind for later research, rubbed nipples that proved
sensitive though it was easy enough to get Hannibal to settle into the touch
with a simple murmured you’re doing good; be still. 
Between his legs, his cock hung soft but already decent sized, promising good
reach when he dropped, his testicles relaxed and average, not undersized but
not showy like some alphas he’d seen.  The gentle pressure of a hand to his
flank produced no change, nothing but the even stir of his breath against
Will’s curls, the dark eyes he knew would still be watching him when he looked
up to meet them.  This close, he could see it was the color that made the
pupils hard to see, though with the light shining better on him now he could
see the flecks of color there, blood red and gold all mingled with amber.  Too
slight to be ignored, too little to look overly unnatural.  An unsettling
beauty. 
Will stroked his flank again, from ribcage to hipbone.  “Were you not taught
pressure points when you came of age?” 
“I came of age at a shelter; our education was more…rudimentary.” 
Will stroked his thumb against the jut of bone below skin, soothing as he
considered.  He’d read of the place Hannibal had been taken to after the estate
he’d been born at had been destroyed by military action.  From all that Will
had read, it seemed he’d been the sole surviving pup from that kennel, on his
own in the woods when they found him.  With the conditions in many shelters,
especially in years past, it wasn’t such a leap to think they hadn’t had time
to train him properly.  Hell, it was a miracle they hadn’t gelded him but many
people kept even their pets intact and it’d likely been cheaper to avoid the
surgery. 
“I’ve never had a problem dropping when needed, even without scent.  If you’d
like—“
Will squeezed his shoulder, cutting off his train of thought.  As a reward for
falling quiet, Will squeezed gently again.  “Not now, but thank you.  The
problem isn’t whether or not you can drop, it’s whether or not you can do it
unconsciously.  When you work yourself into it, you’re thinking about it.  It
takes time, and you’re having to reach for it.  When I touch you and it happens
without any thought…”  To illustrate, Will dragged his palm down past
Hannibal’s ribs again, a slow, even stroke.  “That’s the benefit of training. 
It frees you to enjoy the process without having to struggle to get there.”
“ ‘Free’ is an interesting term.  I’d associate that more with erections that
happen outside sessions entirely, for the sake of my body’s own whims.”   The
reflex to catch Hannibal’s gaze was too strong to deny, the punch to his gut
when he couldn’t hold that point of contact stronger still.  His stomach felt
jittery, loaded with gnawing teeth.  “I find most trainers I’ve had discourage
those natural responses.” 
Most trainers are afraid their subjects have gotten too randy and are looking
to mount them. 
Will’s teeth pinched hard at the tip of his tongue, his focus shifting back to
the work of his hands.  He pressed lightly at Hannibal’s belly, waiting until
the familiar motions of examination steadied him.  “I don’t discourage them;
normally I’m in full support but since you’re in active rotation in a breeding
program you can’t just relieve that pressure whenever you feel like it.  So no,
you won’t be punished for dropping when you shouldn’t, but if you can’t get it
back under control I will apply an ice pack to help you.”  The first trainer
he’d worked with in Louisiana had taken a fly swatter or a riding crop to the
cocks of any alpha that dropped without request.  They learned pretty quick,
but Will’s nausea lingered far longer. 
“Quite civilized of you.” 
Despite the attention his paper on emotional expression in parasapients had
gotten, if he pinned the word he wanted to to that remark he’d likely be
laughed out.  Still, he could feel it, taste the sharp edged flavor of such
cool, dry sarcasm.  Will swallowed, crouched to continue his exam.  Many
handlers had been pissed on like this, but Hannibal didn’t seem the type.  Not
by a long shot.  Gently, Will took his cock in hand and tugged the foreskin
back, exposing the slick head.  Beyond a little subtle thickening, he remained
soft, pliable.  Will eased his foreskin back into place. 
“In your file I noticed you’ve been marked for occasional diaper use.  Do you
have times when house training is harder for you than others?  Leakage if you
get distracted?”
“I have times when Dr. Chilton sees fit to restrict my privileges.  When cut
down to a single trip outside per day and with my sanitary drain covered, I
choose to request diapers and relieve myself when I feel the need rather than
attempt to wait and lose control like a pup.”
Even as the bald truth of it shocked him, Will couldn’t say he doubted it, not
after meeting the man.  Still, to imagine that he’d jeopardize basic training
and force one of his charges into a situation that could cause significant
stress…he’d hardly been employed a day.  It wouldn’t do to file a request for a
federal inquiry.  Not yet. 
“Whatever his reasons, that stops now; I’ll make sure of it.  I don’t use
punishments that actively work against training.”  The murmured thank you that
received washed over him to be answered by a low sound, already distracted by
the weight of Hannibal’s testicles in his palm.  He was clean shaven, his skin
soft, the tissue itself heavy enough to feel substantial.  Better still, his
body didn’t retreat but rather let itself be touched and manipulated, no sudden
shift to pull in high and tight against his abdomen.  “Do you ever have any
pain here after collection?” 
“Only if it’s excessive.  Three times in the span of a few hours is my limit.” 
His inhalation was expectant.  Will could feel him looking at the file. 
Will’s mouth curved, his knuckles rapping so light they barely made contact
against Hannibal’s hip.  “I’m throwing almost everything in there out,
remember.  I believe in primary sources.” 
When he rose and ran his hands down Hannibal’s back, the cords of muscle he
could feel beneath his fingers didn’t seem to jut and bulge the way they had
when he’d walked in.  Softer, less prepared.  Will massaged lightly with his
thumbs down the line of Hannibal’s spine, repeated the motion when Hannibal
dipped his head forward just a touch.  It wasn’t the throaty growl of a purr he
knew Hannibal to be capable of; it wasn’t even a strong indication of pleasure
or submission, but it was a subtle lick of progress, and he’d take it.  He’d
chase it. 
With each pass, he brought his hands lower on Hannibal’s back until he was
standing with his legs a little further spread, the slight bend in his spine a
little more natural.  Then, Will crouched and spread the cheeks of his ass,
examining the muscle between.  Good tone, when he pressed against it—Hannibal’s
body gave to him and let the pad of his thumb press in without tensing, but he
was tight enough to cling a little when Will’s thumb withdrew. 
Hannibal himself was soundless, still as glass.  Will rubbed his thigh in
encouragement.  “No negative experiences taking a probe?”
“None worth mentioning.” 
Not an answer, and a reminder that though he didn’t trust the file, he’d need
to dig a little deeper into that shelter Hannibal had started at.  Not an
answer, no, but good enough for now.  Will patted his thigh again and rose back
to his full height, pacing back toward the center of the room so he could see
his charge from the front. 
“If you had your choice, which method of breeding do you prefer?” 
“Actual breeding.”  The answer came easy, but there was a lick of humor in the
tilt of his mouth, the sparkle in his eyes.  “Is that not a universal answer?”
“Not at all.  It’s common among young alphas who haven’t done this long, but
for an alpha of your age, the answer is almost always collection.  The lack of
opportunity to take a mate becomes frustrating.”  A polite word for impolite
events.  The last alpha he’d seen too burnt out for further use spent hours
banging his muzzle against the wall of his cell, lost in his own memories,
teeth constantly snapping behind the grate. 
Hannibal looked away, something nearly shy and almost omega pretty about him
for a moment.  He blinked, and the window closed.  “I’ve never felt the desire
to take a mate, so the lack of opportunity to do so doesn’t trouble me.  I can
enjoy the experience without wanting more from it.” 
He could, and he clearly had, but his wording niggled at the back of Will’s
mind, catching like a burr.  He’d never felt the desire, no, but…that didn’t
preclude the possibility that he might want to feel that desire.  He wasn’t
uncomfortable, now, but he hadn’t entirely been forthcoming, either.  Another
piece for another time, placed too far away from the others he’d gathered.  If
he’d been hoping to come away from here with a full picture of Hannibal Lecter,
he wasn’t going to get it. 
Truth be told, he was glad.  He could see, now, some measure of what Barney had
seen in this alpha, what Will himself had hoped he’d find.  A staggeringly
sharp mind, and fascinating expression of it. 
“If that’s how you feel, we’ll work toward getting you cleared for use in live
cover again but I make no promises.  We’d have to be able to prove to them that
my control over you is bulletproof, after what’s happened in the past.  It’ll
take work.”
“I look forward to it.”  Nothing there but calm, mild interest.  Nothing to
betray that this was the same creature that had once ripped out the throat of a
man he’d spent weeks fighting for. 
Now, perhaps, was the time to bring that up.  “Paul Momund.” 
The clench in Hannibal’s jaw was so swift, so quickly banished.  Beyond it,
there might as well have been no response at all—no shiver up his spine, no
twitch from his cock. 
“You worked with him for two months without a single word spoken then you
ripped his throat out in front of fifteen people.”
“I did.” 
Not at all unexpected, given how he’d answered Will’s prior questions about
his…incidents.  Will leaned back against the table and crossed his arms over
his chest, studying.  “And how did you feel, afterward?”
Hannibal’s mouth opened, closed again in consideration.  If the subtle shift in
his neck and jaw were any indication, this wasn’t a question he’d expected. 
Despite what he’d said about the file, if any one at any point had asked
Hannibal this in the past, Will probably wouldn’t have bothered, but no one
did, no one tried.  Emotional outbursts were considered, by and large, a human
trait. 
When Hannibal spoke, he wet his lips first, tongue hesitating afterward to
trace the fine points of his front teeth.  “Hungry.  Successful.  Cold.  It was
early spring, and they took my clothes before they tied me in the truck.” 
Will almost let his eyes close, almost tried to take himself there, back to
France and early spring and a teenage alpha with blood on his mouth being
stripped naked in air cold enough to mist his breath. 
Almost, but the picture was incomplete and it wasn’t wise to take his eyes off
this one, not yet.  No matter what Barney said, or what he himself thought. 
Best to wait, and learn, and know. 
“Thank you, Hannibal.”  The rapidity with which he met Will’s eyes was almost
comically sudden, his hair for a moment falling charmingly down below his
eyebrows.  Under different circumstances, he would have made someone a fine
show specimen.  A housepet.  “That’s enough for today.” 
Another alpha dismissed might have returned to their bed, petulant and tired
from such a thorough examination.  This one stayed, his shoulders only barely
rounding further as he relaxed.
Will stepped away from the table, only paused on his way to the door to study
Hannibal again when it seemed like an afterthought.  “I’ll be back tomorrow to
begin your training.  I know you’ll have done a lot of before, but I want to
start pretty fresh.  A lot of it’s reward based, so I need you to tell me what
you want, other than a chance at live cover.”
Hannibal’s eyebrows rose.  “It isn’t standard?”
“Has it been?”
“Suffice it to say Dr. Chilton’s chocolate cake is a reward so encouraging I’d
do much not to receive it.”
The reality of Will’s laughter shocked even himself, startled and still warm. 
This one was worth leaving the FBI academy, absolutely. 
Hannibal’s answering smile made it all the better.  “As you can see, I enjoy my
books, such as they are.” 
“Parasapient books?”
“Of course.”
In an instant, Will’s decision was made, formed and said before he could
reconsider.  “I’ll bring you some of mine.” 
Before he could let himself linger too long in the sudden charge in the air
between them, or even answer the boring questions he could feel in Hannibal’s
suddenly sharp gaze, Will collected the file, and left. 
Some would call it blasphemy, what he’d suggested.  Others, stupidity.  A waste
of resources or a waste of time at the very least, but Will had realized some
time ago just how many studies hadn’t been done because the answers were
assumed—or because they made the askers uncomfortable.  Could Hannibal
comprehend a book on music theory?  On fly fishing?  A novel above an eighth
grade level? 
No one who knew those answers had ever credibly talked about them, and maybe he
wouldn’t either, but soon enough, he’d know.  That’d be something, and maybe,
enough to save this one from Mason Verger.  That’d be a victory to make his
papers worth the ridicule, all by itself. 
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     As a warning, though it's not like, traditional watersports and is
     more...animalistic, there is piss present at one point in this
     chapter. It's not extensive and it's over pretty fast, but it's there
     in case that squicks anyone.
Alone in his house with a tumbler of whiskey neat in his hand, Will opened
Hannibal’s file again.  One side rested against Winston’s head where it lay
heavy on his thigh, pages and pictures not secured in place tilting to peek out
in a cascade beneath those that were.  He’d meant what he said when he told
Hannibal he didn’t trust the judgments of those that recorded this file, but
that didn’t mean there wasn’t a treasure trove of information still to be
gleaned from it with his own eyes.  Not everything in here was supposition, and
the file was massive.  He’d been in government facilities in four different
countries, including the six months he was loaned to the Toronto Zoo. 
To study him properly, fully, Will would have to start at the beginning, both
with training and with his history. 
Unsurprisingly, the first pages were incredibly sparse. 
 
Alpha male pup, approx. 3 years
No tattoo ID
Tagged Lecter, Hannibal 
 
The initial picture that had been taken was blurry, but it showed a bone thin
pup of around the same size and maturity as an 8-9 year old human boy.  His
ribs were bruised purple and yellow, and low on his hip on the left side was
what looked like a burn.  Will squinted, but when he pulled the picture close
the details fuzzed out too much to see.  Around his neck there was a vicious
mass of wounds in angry red lines, highlighted yellow with pus.  His face
wasn’t pictured above the chin. 
Will swirled his whiskey, took a sip then settled his glass to scratch absently
behind Winston’s ears.  Nothing of actual fact recorded in here would be
irrelevant, but that wound at his neck…what was it Chilton had said, when Will
had asked about the types of restraint they’d used with him?  How had he
phrased it?
An inexplicable response to the leash; it’s absurd.  You can’t hold him, four
men couldn’t.  It has to be a restrictive harness or a straightjacket, for his
own safety as well as ours.  You’ll understand, of course; absurd parasapient
fears.  You know, I read a study where-
In the moment, he hadn’t wanted to hear Chilton ramble; he certainly didn’t
want to relive it in his mind.  Will dismissed the memory with a soft sound of
displeasure, ended up catching shifting pages when Winston took that as a
reason to rise. 
“Easy, bud.  That wasn’t about you.”  Will scritched at the thick ruff of fur
around his neck and Winston resettled with a sigh, not precisely where he’d
rested before.  His nose was wedged a little more firmly against Will’s other
leg, now.  Will had always suspected it was the collie in him that made him so
attentive, but whether it was a natural tendency or just Winston himself, Will
was grateful for it.  He loved every one of his dogs equally, of course he did,
but it was…nice, if only partial effective, to have one that tried so extra
hard to look after him, too. 
Will’s finger traced the edges of the wound on the picture, its fall in two
clear bands that curved across his collar bone, higher against the soft skin of
his throat.  Much like a thick choke chain, left to fall loose and chafe then
drawn in again bruisingly tight.  Hot from the fire that burned his hip,
perhaps…hot enough to sear skin—
Abruptly, Will closed the file, disarrayed pieces sticking out at all angles as
he pressed his thumb hard just above the bridge of his nose, between his eyes. 
The images had sharpened too quickly, too authentically.  He wasn’t ready to
cast himself back to that moment fully, not yet. 
Instead, he could focus on altering his plans for Hannibal tomorrow.  He’d
intended to try a simple leather collar with him in defiance of Chilton’s
expectations, but clearly that’d be out of the question.  He’d be able to
defuse the situation if Hannibal reacted, no doubt, but they’d seemed to start
out on good footing, today.  It would be cruel—and foolish—to jeopardize that
for the sake of interpreting Hannibal’s reaction to the prospect when he could
imagine it well enough already.  More akin to self-defense, as Hannibal had
called it, than an irrational, simplistic fear.  If a dog had been beat, it was
only common sense to flinch from the whip, and he could imagine Hannibal
flinching from nothing.  Those that didn’t flinch lunged, but that, too, was
sensible.  The drive to live was strong, even if that life was full of
parameters laid by other hands. 
Will took another sip of his whiskey as he sat the file aside, brushed a kiss
to the bridge of Winston’s nose before gently relocating his muzzle to the
couch.  In the trunk upstairs he had the harness he’d used with Anthony, still
well-oiled and soft.  He’d have to let it out some to fit this one’s broad
shoulders, but it would give him a place to start of his own choosing, without
any of Chilton’s contraptions.  An alpha controlled with clamps at their
nipples that could slice through with too fierce of a tug wasn’t an alpha
controlledat all. 
Before he retrieved that, though, he wanted to go ahead and prepare to make
good on his promise.  A few books, kept in his bag and doled out one at a time
for good behavior.  Pacing back and forth with his fingers trailing the spine
he selected What A Trout Sees, The Art of Racing in the Rain, The Color Purple,
The Life of Mozart, and a book of classical sheet music.  Tomorrow, he’d stop
at the library on the way to work to get something to go with it. 
                                     -----
Hannibal eyed the harness in Will’s hands with thinly veiled shock, for the
span of a second at most.  He schooled himself quick, but Will caught the
widening of his pupils, the slight rock back on his heels.  Outwardly, he
clasped his wrist behind his back and surveyed the leather Will held as if it
were a bolt of cloth held out for his perusal. 
“Is that all?”
“It is.  Hold out your arms, please.” 
Slowly, like a crane unfolding its wings, Hannibal stretched his arms out to
either side, giving Will access to slide one loop of the harness down his right
arm.  He busied himself with the buckle around the other in silence, tightening
the supple brown leather with the speed of long practice, slipping fingers
underneath to check the fit.
“You aren’t afraid I’ll pull away from you?”
Will’s snort of laughter huffed against Hannibal’s chest and the backs of his
own hands, close as he was to the front buckle.  “If I relied on strength to
hold an alpha, I’d be a piss poor trainer, wouldn’t I?”  Before Hannibal could
answer, Will’s eyes flicked up to meet his, honest and firm with his
convictions.  “You won’t pull away from me because I’m trying to help you.  If
you work well with me, you can stay, and I’ll stay.  If you don’t, Dr.
Chilton’s already received an offer for you from Mason Verger.  He’ll take
it.” 
“Mason Verger…”  Hannibal tilted his head back, as if he was thinking.  Will
very much doubted it.  He couldn’t believe any parasapient who’d heard that
one’s name would soon forget it.  “He was involved in that black market court
case.  Felony charges of cruelty and indecency.”
“Yeah, well.  He was acquitted.” 
“An innocent man, then.”
It was chilling, even for Will, to hear such clear…not loathing, precisely, but
distaste.  Disdain.  A shiver that felt like crawling bone traced up Will’s
spine, and he cinched the final strap a little tighter, his eyes on his work. 
“As innocent as Dr. Chilton is, I’d say, and of far worse crimes.”  Will’s
murmur was deliberately low, his warning in his eyes when he looked up.  “His
parasapients live in stalls, from what I’ve heard, and that’s the best of it. 
You don’t want to go there, Hannibal.”
“And will you?”  At the surprise that must have shown in the slight step back
he took, Hannibal clarified, his head tilted, observing.  “Stay, I mean, if I
do.  Do you intend to stay in this position?” 
Yes, and no.  He intended, at the least, to stay long enough to make a thorough
study of Hannibal, to write a paper on him that would probably render him
effectively unhireable for the rest of his life.  Long enough, too, to teach
Hannibal a good foundation that would serve him well enough to keep him alive. 
If he had the chance to help any others while he was here, that’d be an
unlooked for bonus.  He’d been hired to deal with problems, with the
understanding that their chief and at the moment sole problem was Hannibal
Lecter.  For the forseeable future, he was almost entirely Will’s
responsibility. 
Unwilling to lie to him, Will gave himself a moment as he gathered the leash to
consider.  The chain wrapped around his hand five times before he’d turned the
words over enough.  “If I leave, it won’t be by choice, and it won’t be without
making sure you’ll have someone here to look out for you.  We’ll see how it
goes.  Okay?”
“That sounds more than fair.”  There was politeness there, and distance. 
Propriety.  Less of Hannibal, oddly, than there had been in his voice when he
commented on Mason Verger. 
Wary of losing him, Will pressed.  “Does it?  Because I’m not just asking you
to not outright disobey me; I’m asking you to work with me.  I’ll need you to
talk to me, sometimes about things you haven’t been asked or might not want to
talk about.  I’ll need you to do it anyway.  I will be more than fair and I’ll
fight for your best interests, but you have to work with me, or I can’t do any
of that.” 
Holding eye contact with an alpha was difficult, even for a human.  Near
impossible for an omega Will had been told when he was in school, but he’d seen
omegas do it.  If they could, he’d reasoned, so could he.  Hannibal’s rich eyes
were, at least, beautiful to look it, though there was something in them that
Will felt all the way to the back of his neck, the base of his spine.  Heat,
like a brushfire in the dark. 
Hannibal blinked, the little surprised sound that barely left his throat
immensely gratifying.  Clearly, he’d expected Will to look away.  Most probably
did. 
“I’ll do what I can.  We’ll see how it goes.” 
The thrill of having his own words thrown back at him was new, the sharpness of
his wit beyond what Will had experienced with Anthony or even Beverly, though
he’d been absolutely sure that she was holding back on him, always careful,
always wary.  After the life she’d led, he couldn’t fault her for that. 
Will breathed deep, locked and patted the buckle on the front of Hannibal’s
harness.  No time for reminiscing now, only for focus.  He could do nothing for
Anthony and Beverly he hadn’t already done, nothing but forward motion. 
“That’s all I can ask,” he said, already in his mind moving on.  With a touch
to Hannibal’s shoulder, he slipped behind him to clip the leash to the ring
between his shoulder blades.  “I’m going to take you outside and then we’ll go
to the breeding shed.  It’s going to be a long afternoon.  We’ll be starting
work on teaching your body to respond to pressure points for the next couple of
weeks so you can expect a lot of teasing and a lot of collection, but I’ll pace
you.” 
“I’ve not been collected for over two weeks.  After daily sessions for so long
the pressure has been—“  Hannibal shifted, his palm smoothing down along his
own hip.  Like he was settling himself, gathering composure.  Though Will
waited, patient and without a tug on the leash, Hannibal didn’t seem to have
the words to finish.  Instead, he shook his head.  “I prefer a moderate
schedule.” 
“We’ll get you back to moderate.”  In a few weeks, a couple of months at most. 
He had no doubts whatsoever that Hannibal would be a fast learner, if he wanted
to be.  “Today’s going to be rough, though.  I won’t dance around that.”
“Are you always so forthcoming?”
Will stepped forward, tugging gently at the leash to encourage Hannibal to fall
into step alongside him.  “Most trainers assume their charges will balk if
they’re told they’ve got something unpleasant ahead of them.”
“And you don’t.”  There was no question, flat and solid.  Hannibal cast a
glance over, the flecks of fire in his eyes harder to see in the relative dim
of the access hallway they emerged into.  “There was an entire chapter in your
last book on it.  Barney and I discussed your comparison to how a man would
react if you restrained him and cut his arm off without a word versus his
reaction if you told that man he had gangrene.  An extreme, inaccurate analogy,
but effective.” 
He’d found he had to go to extremes, often, to be heard.  “And yet, you’re
still surprised I told you.” 
“I doubt it shocks you that I’m not used to honesty.” 
“And look how well you’re responding to it.  Not an inch of balk out of you.”
He’d made Hannibal smile a few times now, at their first meeting and at this
one, but that was the closest he’d come so far to making him laugh.  He could
feel it in the air between them, hear it in the shift in Hannibal’s breath, see
the softer lines of his smile.  It warmed Will’s chest all the way down the
hall. 
                                     -----
As he’d requested, the omega was already in place when he brought Hannibal into
the shed.  If he did have trouble restraining him, he didn’t want it to be
while a receptive but potentially terrified and certainly vulnerable omega was
being brought in. 
They were a male, a thin little thing.  Will could only hope they’d done as he
requested and brought someone who’d been bred several times already.  As
threatening of a presence as he was sure Hannibal could be, he didn’t want the
poor thing frightened—or too desperate.  An omega used to the flow of life in a
breeding facility would have been used to tease studs many times over the
course of their life.  They’d be frustrated, undoubtedly, but even in the haze
of heat they’d have enough experience behind them to know the frustration
wouldn’t last. 
From the minute they walked in, Hannibal’s nostrils flared, though Will
couldn’t help but notice his eyes went first to the two keepers on either side
of the opposite door rather than to the omega.  Neither was Barney, and both
had tasers and clubs at their belts.  Will shook off his frown before it took
root, refocused on Hannibal with an encouraging rub of his shoulder. 
“Don’t worry about them; just focus.  They’re irrelevant.”
“Here for your safety?”  Already, Hannibal’s voice was huskier, thicker, just
at the scent.  A quick glance showed Will that even so, he hadn’t started to
drop yet. 
Will reached higher, kneading at the nape of Hannibal’s neck.  “Probably, but
it’s totally unnecessary.  I’m not afraid of you, and we don’t need them. 
Pretend they aren’t here.” 
Hannibal’s huff carried more irritation than amusement.  “Will they do the
same?”
“Hannibal,”  Will’s voice rose a little stronger, steel firm as his thumb
massaged near the base of his charge’s skull.  “Focus, please.”  Without a
doubt, he was remembering the last time he’d been here, the incident that had
led to Will being hired.  The floor was white, now, but if Will believed
Chilton’s talk the blood had taken days to scrub out.      
Will’s hand slipped lower, curling around the back of Hannibal’s harness and
using it and the pressure of his knuckles to urge him gently forward, toward
the glass box that held the little omega.  “Take deep breaths.  Think about
what you smell.” 
Given the circumstances, he’d be able to smell quite a bit—even Will could
veritably taste the omega on his tongue.  This one smelled like honey
and…something else, reminiscent of a hot house orchid.  Even from the distance
they approached from, Will could already see that his thighs ran wet with
slick.  The glass box with its thin slits for air meant there would be no
getting close enough to taste anything today, but the omega had plenty of air
and he could be both scented and heard, which was plenty to get any alpha
thoroughly riled. 
Will kept his grip and led Hannibal closer, beginning a slow stroke of
Hannibal’s left flank as he did.  Once he grew to associate being petted there
with sexual arousal, they wouldn’t need this process anymore.  He could collect
from Hannibal anywhere, quickly, and leave them both free to move on to other
pursuits. 
When they stood about five paces away, the omega whined and bucked against the
straps that held him in a receptive breeding position, fighting futilely to
spread his thighs wider, to drop his chest closer to the floor.  A spurt of
slick dribbled from his hole, and Will knew before he even looked that the boy
had to be responding to the scent of Hannibal’s arousal. 
The proof of it was beginning to drop between his thighs, his cock thickening
and growing, maybe halfway to full in the matter of a moment.  Will’s pang of
sympathy was sharp and sudden, a jolt in his gut he swallowed against.  After
years of being taught that his life revolved around this, daily, to have kept
Hannibal without release for two weeks…
It was more impressive, really, that he hadn’t responded like this when Will
touched him yesterday, that he hadn’t responded like this here the moment they
walked in the door.  Will stroked him with broad, long motions, urged him
forward a little closer.  “That’s good, Hannibal.  That’s very good.  Why don’t
you get a little closer?  It’s alright.” 
Hannibal, so readily talkative at every interaction so far that Will had had
with him, didn’t say a word.  He did, however, take the space Will gave him by
letting go of his harness to step forward and drop to his knees by the box,
nuzzling at an air slit with impressive restraint.  Will had seen alphas bite
the glass, try impossibly to thrust their dick against it. 
Hannibal didn’t even try to get his tongue through, just breathed, his eyes
blown black with want.  Carefully, Will crouched next to him to continue his
petting, unsurprised when at first he felt Hannibal tense a touch beneath his
palm.  With his history of violence, he probably hadn’t often been touched when
he was like this.  In his rut, they probably restrained him to the point of
absurdity. 
Will clicked wordlessly to him under his breath, stilled his hand but kept it
pressed firm until he could feel even a fraction of tension release.  He
squeezed lightly in reward before his hand moved again, Hannibal outwardly
unresponsive to the low that’s it he murmured along with it. 
The omega keened, the little cock that hung stiff between his legs suddenly
swaying as he began to piss.  Years ago, urination in a breeding setting had
been considered nothing more than wildness, fear, or poor housetraining, but a
study of parasapients in zoos that allowed for traditional ‘wild’ family groups
to form had made the argument for it as a sexual behavior in itself,
appeasement and enticement both.  The concept wasn’t unheard of, or even
particularly difficult to grasp.  Some humans practiced a form of the behavior
after all, and theirs didn’t smell half as sweet as what the omega had just
released, strange and almost floral with only a hint of inherent acidity. 
Hannibal’s breath hitched, his hips jerking forward once entirely out of
reflex.  Will studied the bob of his cock, the enthusiastic curve of it, the
moisture beginning to bead above his foreskin.  He observed, and maintained
touch, his ears as honed to the variations in Hannibal’s breath as the rest of
him was to everything he could feel spilling into the air between them. 
Desperate want, vague irritation.  Fascination.  A curious lack of the typical
possessive desire to claim. 
When Hannibal’s hips had begun to reliably jerk of their own accord and the
base of his cock was visibly thickening, Will rose to his feet.  From across
the room, Will could feel himself being watched.  This, this was where he’d
prove if he was the trainer Dr. Chilton had hired, if he was worth the money. 
Clearly, the keepers didn’t think so—from the corner of his eye he could see
that at least one of them had their hand on their taser.  To be fair, they’d
seen the damage Hannibal could do.  Will had no intention of sharing that
knowledge—not from their perspective, at least. 
His first tug on the least was wordless, gentle pressure.  Hannibal nosed at
the box, scenting, seemingly oblivious.  A little more pressure gained a snarl,
and the movement of the keeper to the right that Will stopped cold with an
outraised hand. 
“Mr. Graham—“
“I’ve got him.  Stand down.”  The man had barely moved two steps, and already
he’d felt the change in Hannibal.  He was unearthly still, the snarl gone, his
hands no longer gripping at the sides of the box but perched there like
butterflies.  Expectant.  Waiting. 
In a heartbeat, he could launch himself over the top of it and rip the taser
from the man’s hand before he could fire.  Will could feel him thinking it, his
mind suddenly thick with the heavy weight of planning.  One move, over the top
of the box.  Another to hit the keeper square in the chest.  Risk firing the
taser?  No, he’d never done it.  Too risky.  Teeth, instead, teeth and—
Will grounded himself by shaking his head, raking his tongue quick against his
own teeth.  Not sharp, dull.  Tilting toward the vegetarian end of omnivore
rather than the carnivore.  The outrage, he let himself keep, though he
swaddled it tight before he dropped down behind Hannibal close against his
back.  With one hand he took a firm grip on the harness to keep himself at
Hannibal’s back should he try to turn, the other rising quick to bury itself in
that soft, silky hair.  His hold wasn’t rough there, but enough to tear
Hannibal’s gaze from the keeper, enough to put his mouth alongside Hannibal’s
ear.
“Hannibal.  Enough.  Walk with me, and we’ll come back.” 
Hannibal stiffened, his back pressed against Will’s chest so firm Will was sure
Hannibal could feel the beating of his heart.  Steady, unafraid.  The moment
stretched, both their breath held, and then Hannibal exhaled, his head dipping
forward.  Will’s chin brushed his shoulder, rested there long enough to feel
muscle bunch and move as he nodded. 
“My apologies, Mr. Graham.  It’s been some time.”
“Unaccepted.”  The truth of his gentle teasing was in the slow withdraw of his
chin from Hannibal’s shoulder, the fond scratch at Hannibal’s scalp he gave as
he stood.  “I told you to call me Will.” 
Hannibal rose with him with feline grace.  If the angry red jut of his cock
pained him, he didn’t show it, though Will could see him breathing carefully
through his mouth, his eyes shark black.  It would have been almost worth it to
look away from him on the way out to see the look on the keepers faces as they
watched him lead Hannibal out as passive as a lamb. 
Almost, but not quite. 
***** Chapter 3 *****
Outside, the light seemed oddly blinding for a moment, a sharp adjustment
between fluorescents and sunlight.  They both blinked against it, and Hannibal
turned his head, his exhale sharp.  He was strung tight, his cock heavy.  The
sun alone probably felt almost too hot against his skin, and it was only
spring. 
Will pressed his palm to Hannibal’s spine, followed through with the pressure
by giving Hannibal a little more lead.  “Come on.  Let’s walk that off.” 
Hannibal’s nod was answer enough, under the circumstances.  It was enough,
really, that he allowed himself to be led onto the dirt track that made a
meandering circuit around the large exercise yard.  His gait was as smooth and
easy as it had been a moment ago, but between the lines the longer he moved
Will could see that his need did pain him—his breath caught, here and there,
particularly when his cock bobbed up against his stomach.  His hands, however,
hadn’t so much as twitched toward his groin.  Either his self-control was
ironclad, or he’d had excellent training. 
Excellent, or severe.  Will didn’t want to let his thoughts linger just now on
where on that list he’d place his money. 
“That didn’t go so badly.”  Will’s eyes cut to Hannibal’s face to see how he’d
take it, apprising. 
“That depends on what’s considered badly.  I can think of more than a few
trainers I’ve met who would not have hesitated to make an example of such a
slip.  Particularly after my latest…infraction.”  His face was blank, as
passive as it had been when he’d made his apology.  It was presented, on the
face, as an observation, but Will could feel the machinations below it settle
like an ache in the back of his teeth.  The careful restraint, even now, that
kept him from reaching for his cock, that had kept him from biting or even
lapping the glass.
Restraint far beyond what it would take to respond when summoned. 
The thrill of awe bubbled like champagne up from his throat, and Will
swallowed, willed his fingers to close firmly about the leash before it slipped
from his loosened grip.  “Your last infraction didn’t happen when I was with
you, so it’s got no more bearing on my decisions than Dr. Chilton’s
recommendations do.  But for your own sake,”  Will flicked the leash, just
enough for the chain to brush lightly at Hannibal’s bicep, enough to be sure he
had his attention.  “I’d hold off on testing me when we aren’t alone.  I’ve
been put in control of you, but I can’t promise your safety against every
trigger happy tech and keeper in this place.” 
He hadn’t exactly expected too much shock from Hannibal at being caught out,
given that he’d obviously been clever enough to plan it and pull it off, but
there was no quantifiable initial reaction at all.  Only silence, as soft as
the pad of Hannibal’s feet against the warm red clay.  It wasn’t an
uncomfortable one. 
Along the edges of the path, buttercups and clover bloomed between patches of
broadleaf plantain, scraggly sprouts of wild onion, and splashes of wild
strawberry.  It was reminiscent of the sort of garden a child would cultivate
along a playground, a collage of weeds. 
Hannibal breathed deep, and tilted his face toward the sun.  “You are, by your
own admission, testing me,” he said, speaking as if he weren’t speaking to Will
at all.  To the errant clouds, perhaps, or to the sunlight itself.  “Did you
think I wouldn’t test you?  You tell me your decisions are made by experience;
how else can you expect me to make mine?  I know a little about the face you
present to the world in your books and it has promise, but experience has
taught me more than enough to know much can hide behind a façade.  You could be
all that you appear—“  Hannibal’s glance cast across him didn’t linger, but
Will felt it.  “—or you could be more, or less.  I have myself to determine
that with; all else is situational.  I doubt you showed the face to Chilton you
show to me.”
Chastened, Will tipped his head in concession.  Despite all his work, all he
knew and felt, there were moments Will could feel himself confronted with his
own prejudice, like a rock inside him overturned to reveal black, gooey earth
and crawling things.  It wasn’t pleasant, and part of him rebelled with the
urge to turn the rock back over, but it was necessary.  If he was going to
commit to the path of proving to himself and a handful of willing ears that
that parasapients were a separate race rather than an unevolved base creature
with human passing similarity, he’d have to first admit that he had a great
deal left to unlearn. 
“We find ourselves in the same position, then,” Will murmured.  “Testing our
hypotheses about each other.  Hoping to be proved wrong, or right.” 
“And which are you hoping for?  Do you look for me to surprise you?” 
“I think you’d surprise anyone.”  It wasn’t an answer, but he wasn’t sure he
was ready, yet, to divulge his own questions, or the reasons he’d formed them. 
As Hannibal had said himself, they were still learning about each other.  Still
circling, like alpha coyotes over a kill neither had made and both wanted. 
The breeding shed was coming up again on the right, but Will maintained pace to
pass it for another circuit.  Between his legs, Hannibal’s cock had shrunk only
to a half hard wilt; for the best results, he’d need to start each time from
nothing. 
Will cleared his throat, let chain clink as he released the leash all the way
down to grab only the loop handle, giving Hannibal as much free line as he
could.  “You’re very well spoken.  Extremely.  More than most of the
parasapients I’ve met with institutional backgrounds.” 
“A benefit of my life not being entirely institutional.”  Hannibal stretched as
he walked, one long arm drawn back behind him and held by the wrist like a
gymnast warming up before a routine.  “After I killed Paul Momund I was deemed
unfit for combat situations—which was hilarious to me at the time because I’d
been fairly sure ripping a man’s throat out with my teeth would narrow my
tracking prospects and push me into strictly combat.  I’d considered that loss
a regrettable side effect.  I hadn’t thought they’d take me from the service
entirely.” 
“You killed your handler, Hannibal.  I don’t think there’s anywhere that
wouldn’t be an immediate disqualification.” 
Hannibal’s hum was mild, considering.  As if someone had only just told him
food would spoil if left out for too long, and he was weighing the truth and
risk against past times he’d tried it.  “In any case, I was transferred.  They
didn’t know what to do with me at first so I was sent to the veterinary
teaching hospital for the students to practice on.  It was good for them, and
good for me.  Most of them were very kind, and very eager to take care of their
charges.  They delighted in teaching me.”  
The six year stint at the National Veterinary School of Toulouse had been no
more than a blip in Hannibal’s file, but this revelation shed light on it that
would make it more than worth digging into.  In general, there were more good
vets than bad ones, and from what Will had seen, Hannibal’s observation wasn’t
wrong.  They tended to love their charges.  With a little detective work, he
could get his hands on the names of students who’d worked with Hannibal during
his time there.  Surely, at least a few of them would remember him.  If he
couldn’t imagine forgetting Hannibal after two days, it’d have to be near
impossible to forget him after caring for him and working with him for three or
more years. 
A tug on the leash alerted Will to Hannibal veering off to walk in the cool
softness of the weedy grass.  Will let him, meandering closer so there’d be no
strain on the line.  “You were an excellent student, I’m sure.  Eager to learn,
and engaging once you had.”
“They thought so.  Revana taught me to memorize the beginning of The Canterbury
Tales, as she’d had to do in secondary school.  I would repeat it at unexpected
moments to make her laugh if she was doing poorly.”  He smiled at a reflected
memory only he could see, the lightness of it reaching all the way to his eyes
as he reached down to pluck a miniature strawberry.   
Will tried to go there with him without closing his eyes, tried to call to mind
a classroom in Toulouse, a young girl with too much work on her shoulders and a
fondness for Hannibal that drew her to study in the rooms where he was kept. 
Hannibal, reciting The Canterbury Tales while another student drew blood from
his femoral artery. 
It made Will smile too, though the picture was too fuzzy for him to see it
clear.  Too many unknowns, but now he had at least one name.  Revana. 
Hannibal bounced the strawberry in his hand, idly amused, though his eyes were
tracking the sky rather than the motion. 
“What else did they teach you?” 
“Mostly, as much English and French as they could.  I’m fluent in both.  And my
native Lithuanian, of course, though I’m afraid my vocabulary there is a bit
stunted and childish.  None of the students knew enough to help me.”  He said
this easily, as if it were nothing to achieve something many humans never did,
as if it were expected.  “Bellamy was very fond of geometry.  He taught me a
little, and a touch of physics.  One of the instructors noticed and scolded him
for stressing me with concepts I couldn’t understand.  He didn’t bring me any
more problems to work, after that.” 
Will could well imagine the boy’s shame, and his despair.  He’d tried to do a
good thing, had started, but keeping it up wasn’t worth the cost of his degree,
of his own good standing.  Will could sympathize there, too.  He swallowed
against the taste of ash in his mouth. 
“Well, if you’d like to try again I’ll get you books on both.  I can’t promise
much help with them, though.  Math was never my strong suit.” 
At the end of the leash, Hannibal was still looking to the sky.  His cock was
soft. 
Somewhat reluctantly, Will wound a coil of the leash around his hand.  “Come
on, Hannibal.  Time to go back in.” 
                                     -----
After teasing Hannibal for the fifth time, Will determined he’d had enough for
today.  He’d responded when Will pulled him away, but outside he’d been
tellingly uninterested in conversation, and not even interested in walking at
first.  Instead, he’d led Will to a patch of ground in the shade, and once
there gone to his hands and knees.  His breath was harsh and heavy, a fine
shiver rippling across his shoulders and down his spine.  His cock leaked
freely, and his balls looked swollen, felt hot when Will reached beneath him to
get a feel for their tension beneath his palm. 
Hannibal’s back had arched like he wanted to scrunch in on himself, wanted to
thrust, wanted conflictingly to bare himself and spread his legs as he’d been
taught.  The disparity looked uncomfortable, and Will had seen his fingers dig
in a little into the dirt. 
With time, and patient, gentle massage to the nape of Hannibal’s neck, he’d
been able to help him unwind enough to realize being in a position to thrust
(as his hips were still doing, very faint little jerks) wasn’t helping him calm
down.  Gradually, he sank to the ground and lay flat on his back, breathing
with his eyes closed, letting the slightly too cool air of Georgia April in the
shade chill him and dissolve his arousal. 
The detached uncertainty in his eyes when he’d opened them had burrowed beneath
Will’s skin, as sharp a cut as the deliberate steadiness of his voice when he’d
licked his lips and said Time to go in?
There was fragility there, a burgeoning trust that was as thin as floss.  Will
wasn’t about to snap it. 
Instead, he’d shaken his head, petted Hannibal’s hair back away from his eyes,
and given him another moment to settle himself before he brought him here, to
one of the small collection rooms behind the shed he’d explored when he first
toured the facility.  They were regularly scrubbed clean, so there’d be no
scent of omega here to set him off, and no trace of rival alpha to make him
uneasy, either.  Not that this one was likely to feel uneasy; he was healthy
and strong and incredibly virile, aging but still easily in his prime.  He’d
have probably been able to drop if the room stank of every one of his
neighbors. 
Will clipped Hannibal’s leash onto a hitching post by the table, spinning the
lock into place.  He gestured at the sheet-covered cushion with his chin. 
“Climb on up, please.  We’re going to do it this time on your hands and
knees.” 
Obediently, Hannibal arranged himself on the collection table, his cock
immediately beginning to lengthen.  Will hadn’t wanted that to happen until he
touched him, to reinforce the training they’d begun today, but it wasn’t to be
helped.  As many years as he’d had these procedures performed, it was only
natural for his body to respond with marked interest at the prospect of
imminent release, particularly after he’d been teased to such a level of
readiness. 
At the counter, Will readied a basin of soapy water, and pulled on thin, Soft
Touch gloves.  After searching two drawers by the sink he found the sponges,
and opened a sterile one to dunk into the water.  With all his first supplies
prepared, he turned to find Hannibal with his head bowed in a graceful arc,
sweeping up with the arch of his shoulders, down with the dip in his spine.  He
could have been a sculpture like this, perfection of muscle and bone, the
surface dotted with silvery scars Will had only just begun to map. 
His cock was near fully erect now, but Will didn’t have it in him to scold
him.  Instead, he briefly pressed his bare arm against Hannibal’s left flank, a
reminder and encouragement.  “That’s good.  That’s very good.  I’m going to
clean you now, and then we’ll start the collection, okay?” 
Hannibal nodded, the muscles in his neck tight.  No sound came from him as Will
reached in to grasp behind the head of his cock with one gloved hand, but he
could feel in the brush of his thigh against Will’s side the effort it took him
to be still.  The muscle there was bunched, eager.  Ready to breed, as his body
had wanted to do all afternoon. 
Will gently peeled back Hannibal’s foreskin, exposing the brilliantly red head
of his cock.  It swelled so full under light scrubbing that Will did give him a
nudge toward caution, the slight sound that bubbled out of him before he spoke
somewhere between command and disapproval.  “Not yet, Hannibal.” 
“May I come as soon as you place the sleeve?”  There, Will could hear at least
half of the strain he was struggling not to show, in the thickening of his
accent.  Somehow, it made him sound younger. 
Will bought himself a moment before answering by sliding Hannibal’s foreskin
forward and scrubbing down his cock, around his balls.  They twitched against
his fingers, like overworked muscle.  “I’m not going to use the sleeve today; I
need to take a look at you, and get used to being able to do this for you
myself.  So you could argue—“  Will dropped the sponge back into the basin, and
moved it to the side.  He stripped off his gloves and tossed them in with it. 
“—that I didn’t fully disclose all my plans, but I think since this is a detail
and I said today would be difficult, you can forgive me.” 
In the quiet of the room, in the space that came after he opened the drawer
beneath the table, Will could hear Hannibal swallow.  “That’s not a
difficulty.  I don’t mind hands, if the person using them knows what they’re
doing.”  Cloaked in the rough tone of such thick arousal, Will found that
observation funnier than he probably would have if Hannibal had said it before
they’d started, back in the placid atmosphere of the room he inhabited with
such a light footprint. 
His chuckle was soft, without condescension.  “I know what to do, I promise. 
I’m not going to ignore your knot.”  It had seemed funnier too, perhaps,
because he’d known exactly the type of handlers Hannibal was talking about. 
He’d seen them at work himself, jerking an alpha’s cock like they’d jerk their
own or their lover’s, completely ignoring that a great deal of the pleasure in
penetrative orgasm for an alpha was in the pressure on their knot.  An alpha
that didn’t at least mostly enjoy collection wasn’t likely to be too
cooperative with the parts that weren’t as appealing. 
From the drawer, Will pulled out a packet of lube, which he wrapped in a
sanitary wipe and slipped inside his shirt and underneath his arm.  He should
have started to warm it sooner, really, but at least this way it wouldn’t be
going onto Hannibal’s skin starkly cold.  From the drawer he removed a
collection sleeve insert, sealed and sterile like the imitation slick.  Rather
than insert it into the end of the sleeve, he’d have to hold it to the tip of
Hannibal’s cock himself, but that wouldn’t be difficult.  At this point in his
life, he could have done this entire procedure blindfolded, but he wouldn’t
have wanted to.  There was too much to learn, particularly now, here.  In a few
minutes, he’d have other pieces of Hannibal to fit into his puzzle.  Round
edges, jagged points. 
Hannibal’s cock was fully extended now, heavy and curving.  From the rise of
fall of his stomach, Will could see that the effort to keep his breath steady
was substantial.  Will removed the packet from his shirt, shaking his head. 
“I’m sorry; this slick won’t be that warm.  I don’t want you to wait anymore.”
“The effort is appreciated.”  Hannibal rolled his shoulders, letting a heavy,
impatient breath.  “And unexpected.”
“Sounds like I have a low bar to step over.”  Will snapped on a fresh pair of
gloves, and opened the packet.  Unsurprisingly, Hannibal’s cock twitched at the
snap of the gloves.  Conditioning and experience were impressive in their
ability to sink into the mind, permeating the body.  Will had seen an omega,
once, who gushed slick at the sight of a bowling pin, after his former owner
had used the head of one for years as a way to provide enough stimulation to
partially muffle his cries during his heats. 
Will opened the package, wet the soft latex rim of the collection receptacle
with lube and slipped it over the head of Hannibal’s cock, effectively nudging
his foreskin back to bare it as he did.  Hannibal’s breath ratcheted up a
little faster.  Will stroked his flank with the inside of his wrist, letting
him feel skin on skin.  The rest of the lube went into his other hand, and down
the length of Hannibal’s impressive cock.  Next time, he’d get two packets. 
For now, this would be enough. 
“Okay, Hannibal,” he said, his fingers ready to close around his girth.  “When
I touch you, you can come as soon as you like.” 
“Thank you, Mr. Graham.” 
Will didn’t even bother to correct him, not with Hannibal so distracted. 
Instead, he grasped his cock with a firm hand, and began to jerk him in quick
short motions like those of a desperate omega fucking back onto his cock. 
Hannibal hunched his back and thrust into his grip in earnest, broken breathes
giving way quickly to aborted grunts.  Hannibal’s head hung low, eyes closed
like he was somewhere else.  Lost in a fantasy, perhaps, the omega’s body he’d
been taunted with all day underneath him and giving, giving.
The base of his cock started to swell gradually, but Will was careful not to
focus his attention on it until it had properly begun to thicken.  Then, he
stroked faster, a little rough, before he squeezed down hard and sudden around
the area where Hannibal’s knot was about to be. 
Hannibal cried out then, a sharp, high sound that was nothing like pain, his
hips spasming as his orgasm began.  Hannibal hadn’t expected that of him, the
effort of mimicking an omega’s orgasm down to the sudden clench intended to
lock him in place.  His surprise had been clear, and thoroughly satisfying, as
satisfying as it was to feel Hannibal’s knot inflate to full size against his
palm.  It was too big at final size for his hand to meet around, but he worked
it with practiced fingers, shifting his grip to milk steadily at him and keep
his orgasm going. 
A glance at the collection receptacle told him it was working—there was quite a
good sample already, and more was still coming out of him, sticky streams
seeping down the sides of the vial.  Will shifted his grip a little further
back, squeezing on the surface of his knot closest to his body.  Right where
the tightest muscle would be, keeping him tied to his mate and plugging them up
while his seed worked its way deeper inside. 
The muscles in Hannibal’s abdomen jumped, and his breath shuddered out as his
orgasm was spurred to another peak, his cock spurting so forcefully Will heard
the splash of semen shooting into the already collected pool.  Will’s thumb
rubbed at the base of Hannibal’s cock, just above where his balls had drawn
tight up against his body. 
“That’s a good boy,”  Will whispered, automatic and easy.  He was so used to
the phrase after years of charges who welcomed it, but it was only after it
slipped out that he wondered if Hannibal might not.  If it offended him, he
showed no sign.  Instead, his body shifted ever so slightly toward him, a
little more of his weight resting against Will’s arm.  Not offended seemed a
safe estimation.  “That’s good, Hannibal.  You had a lot in you.  I know you
can give me a little more.” 
With another swell of pressure on his knot, he did, though it was less of a
spurt this time and more of a surge in the trickle that had still been dripping
into the vial, matched by slower thrust and the shift of Hannibal’s body down
to rest on his forearms.  Ever so slightly, his biceps were trembling. 
Enough, then.  An omega might try to coax a little more out of him, but Will
knew he’d be using the probe to get the last bit.  He was already tired; Will
didn’t want to exhaust him before his last ordeal of the day.  Instead, he
shifted his grip to be a little lighter.  Firm, still, and encompassing as much
of Hannibal’s knot as he could, but he was no longer milking at him, just
holding.  Keeping him warm. 
He used the opportunity, too, to get a good look at Hannibal’s knot before he
began to deflate.  He needed to know what it looked like healthy, in case he
ever had trouble there.  It was more thickly veined than some Will had seen,
but the veins weren’t obtrusive.  They ran in almost artful stretch across the
heavy expanse of him, almost all vanishing when they joined his sparsely veined
cock.  His knot was thick in Will’s hand, hot like it should be against his
palm, even through the glove.  In all respects, he seemed thoroughly healthy. 
Healthy, and softening.  The semen going into the vessel now only ran in thin
rivulets.  Will held him and murmured encouragement until he was done, his cock
gone soft, his body leaning into Will hard enough that Will’s arm felt the
strain.  He’d have taken more weight than that if it meant Hannibal was lax and
purring, but for the moment on this first attempt, he’d take silent and
leaning.  He’d take all the tidbits of trust he could get. 
He hooked his arm around Hannibal’s waist to show his willingness to continue
supporting a little of his weight while he removed the receptacle, set it aside
and focused on guiding Hannibal to lie down on his side before he even stripped
off his gloves.  When he came around the table to place the collection on the
counter to prep for storage, he found Hannibal’s eyes open, clear and steady
and looking at him. 
There was something unreadable there that made Will feel strangely like he was
being pulled out of his skin and into somewhere else entirely.  A room of their
own making, spun around them like web, like cloth.  If he’d had to put words to
it, the first his mind supplied were dangerous fondness. 
Dangerous for which of them, he wasn’t sure.  He could feel the two of them
overlapping, blurring.  He hadn’t done this poorly shielding himself against
bleed through in years.  In his pants, he could even feel his cock trying to
stir. 
Will broke the moment by dropping into a crouch, pulling open the lowest drawer
beneath the table.  When he’d familiarized himself with these labs, he’d wanted
to make sure there were blankets.  Sweaty parasapients quickly became cold
parasapients, and these labs weren’t warm to begin with.  Will pulled the top
one free, a soft and faded blue and green plaid.  He draped it carefully over
his charge, tucking it in close to his body, his hand lingering near Hannibal’s
cheek when he pulled it up high over his neck. 
Hannibal turned his head to nuzzle delicately against his palm, and Will felt
something hot in his chest snap, seeping everywhere.  He swallowed, lest it
rise in his throat.  “Will you be okay to rest here while I get things ready? 
We still have to do the probe, but you can take a nap first if you want.  I
know you’re tired.” 
Hannibal’s breath tickled his palm, and the brush of his tongue against the
side of his hand was so slight, so ghost quick Will wasn’t even sure he felt
it.  “Yes, Will.  I’ll sleep.  Thank you.” 
Rattled, and unsure what basic kindness he’d just been thanked for, Will
withdrew his hand and slipped it into his pocket. 
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     First, you guys are all incredibly amazing. Thank you for taking this
     handbasket to hell ride with me, XD
     Second, this chapter includes content that requires the the 'past/
     referenced non-con' warning, so be careful if that's something you'd
     rather not read. If this is the case for anybody who still wants to
     keep reading the fic, just message me on tumblr and I'll summarize
     this chapter for you.
     Third, this chapter was supposed to be two scenes. Instead it's one
     because they wouldn't freaking shut up.
     Fourth, and final note, because of life things this fic will update
     1-2 chapters every other week...so no updates next week, but it'll be
     back the week after with more filth and hannigram bonding content XD
For a little over an hour, Hannibal napped on the table.  He’d drifted off much
sooner than Will had expected, which in itself spoke volumes about the progress
he was already making.  Hannibal was thoroughly tired, of course, but all the
same a parasapient that would sleep in the same room as newcomer was well on
their way to accepting them.  As with everything else, though, he couldn’t
discount Hannibal’s history—sleeping in a shelter that inherently exuded danger
in the form of countless unknown humans and parasapients had likely worn down
his instincts a bit. 
Barney had mentioned in his file that several times she’d tried not to wake
him, only to have him speak coherently to her out of a dead silence, as if he’d
been awake for some time and monitoring, waiting.  That he was well versed in
the art of not drawing attention to himself was likely another legacy of his
youth.  To stand out would be to be singled out.  In an environment with no
family group and no safety, the consequences could be dire. 
It was far too much to put on the shoulders of a child, and Will had put it out
of his mind before the nausea overwhelmed him.  He busied himself instead with
recording the amount of semen he’d gathered.  He’d come up just shy of 115 mL,
a fairly substantial collection but less than Will had expected since Hannibal
had been rested so long.  He could have stood to milk him a little more, it
seemed.  Beginning with any new parasapient was always a learning process,
though, and he’d adapt his techniques to suit Hannibal.  No doubt, it’d be
plenty enough to placate Chilton.  After the way he’d ranted about the money
he’d lost due to Hannibal’s instability , it had crossed Will’s mind and stuck
there that it might not be the incidents themselves that troubled Chilton half
as much as his prize stud being out of commission. 
With the sample labeled and refrigerated, Will set about gathering the
equipment he’d need for Hannibal’s final procedure of the day.  The probe kit
was kept on a handcart, which Will picked up and moved in its entirety.  If
Hannibal was a light sleeper, there was near zero chance the errant squeak of a
wheel wouldn’t wake him up.  Once in place, Will removed the sheet cover,
flipped open the lid of the carrying case, and took a look at Chilton’s
equipment. 
It wasn’t as new as the set they’d had at the FBI academy kennel, that was
clear.  Pulsar had been bought out by ElectroSafe about five years ago, and
Will hadn’t seen or used their products since.  Still, it’d be serviceable,
though a glance at the dial told him it could reach levels long deemed
unnecessary.  Ten years old, perhaps.  The probe looked clean and well
maintained, but Will took it to the sink and washed it quietly anyway, glancing
back over his shoulder as he did. 
Hannibal slept, the blanket rising and falling gently with his breath.  He
hadn’t moved an inch. 
Back at the cart, Will checked for slick, towels, an outlet for the cord, and
the restraints fastened around the table.  As tired as Hannibal was, it’d be
best to use the stirrups, rather than that straps that would keep him from
kicking out on his hands and knees.  They’d keep him still enough, but they
wouldn’t catch him if he slumped, and Will didn’t want him to have a bad
experience today.  The whole thing was difficult enough as it was, and he still
had his suspicions about Hannibal’s past experience with this procedure kicking
around in his head.
No bad experiences worth mentioning, he’d said.  If his apparent utter lack of
ever mentioning his past abuse without being prodded was anything to go by, he
might only have found it worth mentioning if one of his past facilities had
removed a limb.  The picture of him as a pup flashed in Will’s mind again,
grainy pus and raw skin, and Will bent to wrap the stirrups with hand towels so
they wouldn’t be cold against Hannibal’s legs. 
The first time he’d watched a probe collection, he hadn’t eaten for two days. 
The instructor’s voice had been utterly calm, matter of fact as he patted the
alpha he’d just strapped down on the rump. 
Now, she’s only done this once before so when I provide the stimulation she may
vocalize, but keep in mind that’s not an indication of pain.  It’s a very
intense sensation, but it’s closer to an orgasm dialed up to 1,000 than it is
to any kind of hurt.  If they’re frightened by it, it’s because they weren’t
trained properly or they’re not used to it yet.  Just give it time, be patient,
and they’ll come around. 
Will had felt her fear crawling in his throat, all legs and ridges, sharp as
glass.  When she screamed, the boy behind him at laughed. 
Must be one hell of a way to get your rocks off.  I’d give that thing a shot if
I thought it’d fit.
Will’s skin had felt too tight, too stretched, and his ears ached with ringing,
and wondering.  How could they not hear it?  It wasn’t pleasure, it wasn’t just
fear anymore; it was pain and it was everywhere and the students were milling
forward to look at the equipment and ruffle her hair and pat her on the
shoulders like they would if she’d just bred an omega. 
He’d thought, then, that he’d never use one of the damn things, but he’d
learned a lot since.  There were alphas out there who found a great deal of
pleasure in it, at certain levels, and a larger number than that who didn’t
seem to mind it.  A greater number still didn’t like it but took it like a
shot, even asked for it.  Those had baffled him, as a student, but he’d figured
it out pretty quick.  Some found it oddly less invasive, some liked that it was
over quick.  Others had been at facilities that didn’t use it, and suffered the
consequences. 
In his second year of graduate school, the first alpha he’d treated with a
permanently disabled penis after having suffered severe tearing to his knot
muscles from overuse confirmed what he’d already begun to decide—there were
worse things than the machines.  He’d use them, when he needed to, but never on
a young alpha without proper training in place to coax the alpha into accepting
its use. 
Among the young alphas brought into the breeding program during his tenure at
the FBI academy, none had shown any intense aversion to the probe.  He was
proud of that, in a quiet way; as proud as he could be of something that still
made his throat itch. 
Will left the machine where it sat, and moved on to opening other drawers and
checking their contents.  He was still so new here, still in the process of
familiarizing himself with this unfamiliar place.  When it came to taking care
of those under his protection, he wanted to be armed with as much knowledge as
he could be, know what he had at his disposal.  Dr. Chilton was a grade A
asshole—and Will was sure he didn’t yet know all the many ways in which that
was true, yet—but it seemed he did at least keep his labs fairly well stocked. 
He was examining a drawer of anal pacifiers for omegas when Hannibal’s
breathing changed.  It was subtle, but he caught the stop-start of it, a
whisper like an arm moving beneath the blanket.  Will slid the drawer closed. 
“Do you feel better?” 
The rustling became more pronounced, and he turned to find Hannibal rising to
sit up, the blanket pooling around his waist.  His fingers curled around it,
and he blinked slowly, like a computer coming online.  If Will was right about
the quick flash of a furrow between his eyes he thought he saw, he was
restarting slower than he preferred. 
“Yes,” Hannibal said, after another flex of his fingers around the fabric.  His
voice was a little scratchy with sleep.  Will couldn’t be sure Hannibal would
welcome it until he tried, but he followed the urge to go to him and provide a
little settling contact.  He approached slowly, and combed through Hannibal’s
soft hair with his fingers like he had when he’d started his exam yesterday. 
Hannibal tilted toward him, but Will wasn’t sure which of them it grounded
more.  Hannibal sighed.  “I’m hungrier than I expected to be.”
Will laughed, his fingers tangling a moment and tugging gently at a lock of
hair.  “You’ve been rested for two weeks; of course you’re hungry.  I’ve
already had your portions increased for the next week at least.  When we get
done here, you’ll have plenty to eat.” 
“I don’t suppose there’s a chance you could specify what form those extra
portions come in?” 
“I can look into it, but don’t get your hopes up, okay?”  Will withdrew his
hand with a chuckle and a last light rub of his knuckles against Hannibal’s
temple.  It pleased him disproportionally that he could see Hannibal’s head
turn just a little when he pulled away, chasing his touch.  The pleasure faded
at the unbidden musing that his responsiveness likely had less to do with
Will’s effectiveness than the fact that he was undoubtedly even more touch
starved than most institutionalized parasapients were.  How many would dare to
touch him, after the things he’d done? 
For good measure, and to soothe the sudden painful tightness in his throat,
Will petted him again. 
As he dragged himself away to head down to the foot of the table, Hannibal
removed the blanket fully in preparation, his arms immediately going to
gooseflesh with the cold.  Will touched his ankle to draw Hannibal’s eyes to
him, his own flicking to the blanket.  “You can lay back and wrap that around
your chest and arms; I’m going to do it with the stirrups.  I’ll talk to them,
too about it being too cold in here.” 
“If you intend to meddle in so many aspects of operation, Mr. Graham, there’ll
be employees here who won’t like you very much.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t give a rat’s ass if they like me; the only relevant
opinion I’m out to get is yours.  Lift your legs up.”  Though he could feel
Hannibal studying the top of his head, he didn’t look up.  He snapped the
stirrups up with one hand, used the other to guide first Hannibal’s right foot
and then his left into place.  With his calves settled against the towels, Will
reached for the first strap, though he froze in place at the sudden aborted
clink and resettling of Hannibal’s chain
By the time Will looked at him, he was perfectly collected, though it was clear
from the swaying leash chain he’d started to sit up, stopped himself, and laid
back down.  Everything from his jaw down through his shoulders looked tight. 
Will’s hand slipped lower, his thumb rubbing slow along the tendon in
Hannibal’s ankle.  “It’s okay, Hannibal.  This’ll be easier than it was with
the harness they were using with you, okay?”
Hannibal’s Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed.  “If you have to restrain me
further, I’d prefer the other harness.  I—“  Again, he swallowed, as if he
battled something climbing in his throat.  A scream, just under his chin.  Will
knew the feeling.  “Please, don’t.” 
Will’s thumb slowed, stopped, and started again.  As if a lock in his mind had
just clicked open, he found himself seeing the scene Hannibal had caused the
last time he’d been in the breeding shed with fresh eyes.  “You don’t want to
hurt me,”  Will exhaled, something oddly peaceful about feeling the certainty
of his own interpretation settle around his shoulders like a cloak.  “But you
will.  You can’t help it, can you?  You’ll take something that could cut you,
because some of the control stays with you; you know you could escape it if you
had to.  But something like this…it takes too much control and then you lose
control.  You don’t like that feeling any more than Erin Waters liked being
impaled on an IV stand.” 
Hannibal stared at him, looking for all the world like he’d had a layer of skin
pulled off his eyeballs.  Further, like he’d been stripped past naked somehow,
head to toe.  There was such incredulous amazement there that he looked like he
wasn’t sure if he was horrified or pleased.  The eyes of a cat spilling into a
vat of water and those of a dog sighting home over a hill overlaid, warring. 
Will probably should have looked away. 
“I’ve wanted to hurt many of those I’ve hurt.  Desperately,”  Hannibal said it
without bravado, without malice.  Something quivered underneath, though; the
same uncertainty in his eyes.  He meant it, but it didn’t make Will wrong.  He
had, after all, said many.  Not all. 
“I believe you.  I’d go so far as to say I have a strong feeling many of them
deserved it, or at the very least deserved consequences you knew they wouldn’t
receive.”  And there it was, the dog-gaze winning out over instinctive fear,
that bubbling of awe and something that wanted to be hope.  Tentative,
improbable joy.  “But not all of them.  Not Erin.  Chilton said you liked her;
you’d worked with her before.  On that much, I suspect he probably wasn’t
wrong.  Barney didn’t mention that most recent incident when she was telling me
about you at first, and I can see why.  It doesn’t look good, it doesn’t fit,
but I have a feeling Barney’s logic still holds.  Something sparked you to act,
and you meant to.  And then she tried to catch you.  Do you even remember what
happened after that?” 
 
“Yes.”  Hannibal rose up on his elbows, watching.  The line of tension along
his neck hadn’t dissipated an inch.  There was resentment in the set of his
teeth, the thin press of his lips. 
Will prodded a little deeper.  “You remember, but I’m not wrong.  You decided,
and then you lost the chance to decide until it was over, and everyone in the
room but you and the omega they were testing was dead.  Chilton said she’s
still terrified.” 
He flinched as faintly as a snake slipping into a lake would disturb the
water—a soft change in surface tension, reverting almost immediately to smooth
glass.  “That was not—“
“Your intent, yeah,”  Will finished, his exhale at least as heavy as the weight
of his hand on Hannibal’s ankle probably felt.  “I don’t think that was
remotely what you intended, but it’s a consequence all the same.  Consequences
scatter in all directions, Hannibal; we can’t pick and choose which ones we
want.”  Will leaned back, finally letting go to cross his arms over his chest
as he considered.  Hannibal seemed no more or less uneasy now that he wasn’t
being touched, but he did blink.  “I imagine it’s weird for you, regretting a
couple of your unintended consequences.  The times you’ve done something you
couldn’t prevent, you’re probably used to feeling worse about the lack of
control than what you actually did, aren’t you?”  For an alpha who requested
diapers rather than piss in a corner and who kept his belongings in such
meticulous order, the fact that he craved control of all aspects of himself
that he could control was obvious. 
It didn’t surprise him, then, that Hannibal’s silence confirmed his assessment,
but he could taste the triumph it brought, the balance he felt down to the tips
of his fingers.  He didn’t doubt his own gifts, certainly not when it was their
existence than had led him to realize the emotions he could feel coming off of
parasapients, though often simplisticly expressed,  weren’t any different than
those he felt coming off his own kind.  It was always gratifying, though,  to
see them confirmed, to have proof he wasn’t pouring so much of himself into raw
conjecture. 
Hannibal’s teeth dented his lip briefly, a quick flash of their razor sharpness
before the points of his canines were covered again.  “I don’t believe that
would be the case this time.  I would regret killing you with so much
unknown.”  He paused with his head tilted, his mouth just a touch open.  Will’s
fingers settled warm over his ankle again, and Hannibal’s eyes found Will’s
again.  “You’re far too interesting.” 
Will’s huff of laughter should’ve felt out of place, but followed as naturally
as the stroke of his hand down Hannibal’s calf, the light pat he gave below his
knee.  He wasn’t afraid; he was fascinated.  “Well, Hannibal, that leaves us
with a problem to solve.  This has to be done, and I won’t use the harness.  I
don’t approve of it.  I don’t think there’s ever an excuse for using blades and
clamps to pacify anyone.  I know you’ve worn a straight jacket; how did Barney
get you into it?”
“She asked, and I put it on myself.”  He voice was so easy, so placid, as if it
was the most obvious answer in the world.  Maybe it was. 
“If I ask, will you put these on yourself?”  Will held up the buckle end of a
leg strap, his question as much in his hands and eyes as his voice. 
Almost imperceptivity, Hannibal inched further up the table.  “I’d prefer a
compromise.  As you’ve already surmised I have no intention of hurting you
unless you give me a reason.  If it’s a matter of me being still, I can assure
you I will be.” 
“Whether it feels good or hurts, you don’t have to be entirely still.  I’m fine
with still enough not to hurt yourself and a lack of open struggling.” 
“Easily granted.  Do we have a compromise?” 
“Quite the debater, aren’t you?”  It could’ve been condescending, said
differently or from someone else.  In Will’s tone, there was only
appreciation.  “We’ve got a deal.  Go ahead and relax; it’ll be over in a few
minutes.” 
As it was, Hannibal relaxed by degrees—first in the arches of his feet as Will
gathered the last of his supplies, then in his thighs as Will washed his cock
again.  His abs relaxed as Will slipped on gloves and used a band to secure the
collection sheath and vial to his mostly soft cock.  The set of his shoulders
rounded as Will arranged his cock and the vial to lie against his stomach, and
he settled back with a sigh when Will stripped off his gloves and tucked the
blanket around Hannibal’s upper body. 
Will stroked at one of the last hard lines on him, the stretch of tendon at his
throat.  He watched the motion of his own hand, the slight shift of Hannibal’s
skin over muscle.  “You interest me too, you know.  I don’t want this over
before it even starts.  I came here with a lot of hope you’d be what I was
looking for.” 
“A subject for your next book, perhaps?”
Will shook his head, though it wasn’t entirely wrong.  His thumb curled against
Hannibal’s throat, knuckle pressed lightly toward his pulse.  “Proof.  A
friend, if you’ll have me.  If we’ll have each other.”  Before Hannibal could
answer, Will cut him off by an abrupt departure back to the equipment, his
fingertips just glancing off Hannibal’s hip.  “Relax, and keep your legs
spread.”  Whatever they may or may not become to each other, he wasn’t ready
for attempts at concrete answers yet—though he had a feeling Hannibal would be
unlikely to turn down friendship honestly offered, once he’d had a chance to
judge the offering true.  Isolation prioritized companionship, in a wide
variety of species. 
Standing between Hannibal’s spread legs, Will pulled on a fresh pair of gloves
and coated two fingers in slick.  With his elbow, he flicked on the Pulsar unit
to let it start humming to life, prepping the electrical current he’d be using
to force contractions in Hannibal’s prostate that would squeeze any remaining
semen out of his body. 
The jerk of Hannibal’s hips and the soft noise he made when Will found his
prostate with his fingers was entirely expected—what wasn’t was the sincere
confusion he could hear in Hannibal’s voice when his voice rose questioningly
from the table. 
“I’m—I didn’t realize there’d be an examination.”
“There’s not,” Will said, faintly bemused and more than a little curious.  He
stroked Hannibal’s prostate, and watched the play of almost childlike pleasure
and puzzlement flicker across his face, his stomach flexing.  Like much else
had with this one, as quickly as it seemed charming, the truth snicked into
place over Will’s eyes like a filter, clarifying.  He’d expected the probe, not
fingers.  Not quiet, gentle introduction.  “Has no one ever done this to you
before, Hannibal?”  To punctuate, Will crooked his fingers again.  
The rough little sound that shot out of Hannibal’s throat and died just as fast
might have been the rusty beginning of a purr, quickly aborted.  “I’ve been
examined, by veterinarians.  When I first came of age a speculum was used to
prepare me for the probe.”
“Neither of those things were what I asked.” 
“No, then.”  Seemingly of its own accord, Hannibal’s body bore down around
Will’s fingers, his head tilting back.  Despite the day’s exertion, his cock
against his stomach was half hard, twitching feebly. 
To settle him to the input of such starting new stimulation, Will’s free hand
curled around his thigh and stroked it, his fingers kneading gently at the
muscle.  “This should happen every time.  Your body’s made to be stimulated
from the inside just like it is on the outside.  That’s what the probe does,
but it works best if you’re warmed up a little first, if you’re ready for it.” 
In truth, it worked exactly the same, but the effect on the recipient was far
different, at least in Will’s experience. 
At the tip of Hannibal’s struggling cock, a bead of pre-come glistened, and
Will soaked in the knowledge that came with it.  This wasn’t just new; Hannibal
took a lot of pleasure in rectal stimulation.  More, in fact, than most alphas
he’d seen.  He’d only been massaging his prostate barely a moment. 
Curious, Will couldn’t keep himself from asking.  “They didn’t do this the
first time they taught you what the probe was going to do?” 
Hannibal’s sudden, utter stillness came with a leaden dread that infected Will,
too.  He was immediately sorry he’d asked. 
Hannibal turned his head, his chin resting on his own shoulder, voice muffled
against the blanket.  “Can we finish?  I’d like dinner.” 
Cursing himself, Will pulled his fingers free.  “Of course.”  Will lifted the
probe, coating it liberally with the imitation slick.  “In case you’ve never
been told this before, either, I like to give a reminder not to feel bad if you
have to pee.  Sooner or later it happens to everyone.”  Universally, due to the
nature of the procedure.  Some trainers punished heavily for it because it
ruined the sample, but the cruelty in that was pointless.  Contractions were
contractions.  Sometimes, they were going to happen in the wrong place at the
wrong time. 
 As if he’d just remembered that stipulation, Hannibal’s stomach drew in
tighter.  Will wondered what the hell he’d say next and wish he hadn’t.  The
last few minutes, he sure seemed to be swinging for the fences. 
“I usually ask to go outside first.  I wasn’t thinking.”
“You were sleeping, and I distracted you when you woke up.  It’s alright.  If
it happens, it happens.  I’ll tell Chilton it was my fault.” 
Hannibal’s fingers curled against the edge of the table, slow, bracing.  Will
hadn’t really expected that knowledge to calm him.  Any punishment he might
have received for that in the past wouldn’t be half as motivating for this one
as the shame. 
Will slipped the probe in with a single long, slow glide, the thick shaft of it
stretching Hannibal wide.  It always amazed him, how easily their bodies opened
for this, almost as easily as an omega’s.  It was easy to see, like this, how
it could happen than alphas in rut without an omega nearby could sate their
lust on each other. 
Hannibal exhaled, and Will turned on the current.  Waiting, he’d always
assumed, was likely the worst. 
The first pulse was marked only be a low grunt, and the expected reflexive
flexion of Hannibal’s hips, hunching forward with the confusing urges to hump
and bear down on the thing in his ass.  Watching him, Will could see his mouth
open as if he was about to speak, only to close as he rode the next pulse. 
Will has it set low, though not as low as he’d have used on those he’d trained
back in Virginia.  For Hannibal, likely used to pulses strong enough to knock
the sperm from him in two to three punches, such slight stimulation would
likely draw the process out too much for this first time. 
In itself, the medium level he’d chosen seemed a novelty, though Hannibal took
it in increasing silence, his clever eyes closed.  The further his body tried
to hunch, the shallower his breathing became, as if all of him was drawing in,
centering his mind and walling it off from his hips.  For all the shift and
play of muscle in his stomach and the halfhearted flicks of his cock, his lower
half had hardly moved at all. 
When the vial filled, it happened suddenly, as was always the way with static
stimulation.  Little was happening, and then abruptly everything was, his cock
rising quick to full attention, though his knot remained deflated as the little
vial filled.  Milk white, a clean sample. 
When the next pulse produced only a sharp inhale and a tired dry heave from his
dick, Will switched the power off.  He slid the probe from him very carefully,
rubbed gently at his hole once it was removed until it stopped gaping and
closed, twitching just faintly under the pad of his finger a moment more before
it settled.  A simple matter, but another courtesy he’d have been willing to
bet Hannibal was unaccustomed to. 
After he’d removed the sleeve and vial, Will let his hand rest a moment on
Hannibal’s belly, his fingers splayed out.  “You did well, Hannibal.  Does
anything hurt?” 
“No, Will.”  Will tried not to take note of the fact that orgasms, it seemed,
gave Hannibal the ability to use his name. 
Stepping back, the air felt cold against his palm after Hannibal’s skin, though
when he curled his palm around the vial the semen in it had warmed the glass. 
“You can go ahead and sit up.  As soon as this is put away I’ll take you
outside before we go back to get your dinner, and your books.  I think you’ve
more than earned two.” 
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
After years of regimented workdays, still wandering the compound past 6:15 felt
inherently extra, late and exhausting.  He’d have to get used to setting his
own hours, making a schedule for he and Hannibal that worked for both of them,
and with the rhythm of the facility itself.  Like so much else here it was a
promising thought, and he’d learned a lot today.  Those were positives. 
Tipping the scales in the opposite direction, he was exhausted, and he felt too
full of his experiences—his, and Hannibal’s.  All that he’d gleaned pressed at
his skull from the inside, clawed and gnawed between his ribs.  Too many new
certainties, and too many questions. 
Too many, and he was on his still on his way to gather more. 
Back in Hannibal’s room, Will had offered him the choice of two books from a
tote bag crammed to overflowing.  He’d deliberated over his choices with such
heartbreaking awe and care that Will had been unable to keep from reminding him
they would be working together every week, every day.  He’d keep earning
rewards, and when he worked through all Will had brought, he’d fill the bag
again. 
His eyes, then, had been too bright for Will to look at, but he’d watched
Hannibal’s long fingers close around Walden and An Introduction to Music
Theory. 
Unwilling to leave him abruptly after such a long day, Will had sat on
Hannibal’s table with his feet in his chair and pretended to work on paperwork
and formalities while Hannibal curled up in bed to read.  Hannibal had
pretended not to see through him, and they’d existed together there in
Hannibal’s little territory until he fell asleep with Walden still in his
hands, tipped forward and resting against his collarbone. 
Sleeping in his own bed, he’d looked even younger than he had in the lab,
despite the scars and the gradual silvering of his hair.  Will hadn’t had the
heart to take the book from him even to lay it by the bed, but he’d stroked his
fingers through Hannibal’s hair until he settled enough to let it rest more
comfortably flat against him.  The new angle allowed Will to pull his blanket
higher, too, covering the lower pieces of the complex of scars left by the
mystery chain he’d worn before he was found. 
With the image so fresh in his mind, though he’d technically reached the end of
a long day, Will hadn’t felt like going home. 
Sooner or later, he’d known he wanted to pay Hannibal’s current vets a visit,
to have a chance to discuss his case with them in private long before he
reached a point where he might need them.  The bet that they kept hours more
like typical veterinarians than the average dayshift employee was a solid one,
but Will was still relieved to walk into the compound’s hospital  and discover
that both doctors were still present, still working.  Working was better than
already wrapping up and eager to leave; he could wait. 
Though he had no access to any current patients from the hallway the technician
had ushered him into, he meandered down it examining the mixture of cheap art
and framed warnings on the walls.  A crooked sign that appeared to have been
replaced at least twice warned him all patients were to be restrained before
entering the treatment area. 
Around a bend in the hall, he reached a wide window providing a look into what
appeared to be the first treatment area itself, large and jumbled.  It was a
mass of white and steel with no discernable dominant proportion of either. 
Though Will took in 6 treatment tables at a glance, only one was occupied at
the moment, the young pup that sat on the edge of it looking almost comically
small. 
She looked to be close to 4, approaching sexual maturity but not yet there. 
Still a pup, still all round edges and boundless energy and curiosity. 
 Through the window, Will could see the red band on her wrist that marked her
for quick identification as an alpha, and another in deep navy alongside it
that he didn’t know the meaning of.  At a facility like this one, it wasn’t
much of a leap to consider it might have to do with her sire, or her social
group.  It might also serve as an indicator of an already determined buyer, or
lack thereof.  A handy, simple ‘for sale’ sign, to the knowledgeable gaze. 
The handler who’d brought her stood to the side, his arms lax, looking bored
out of his skull. 
In front of the table, a man with dark hair produced a stuffed manta ray from
the pocket of his lab coat and jabbed it playfully at her neck, making the pup
giggle and clutch at both his wrist and the little stuffed wings.  Will
couldn’t hear her from the other side of the glass, but he didn’t have to to
feel lighter for it, like the air around him had expanded under the force of
what she’d released into it. 
The veterinarian was smiling too, and Will caught himself nodding, a response
to a question he hadn’t even fully formed in his thoughts.  Yes, he’d been
right to come here.  If Hannibal had another ally in the facility beyond
Barney, surely it was this man. 
With her exam clearly completed, he lifted the pup down to the floor though she
could’ve easily jumped, and ruffled her hair with a casual ease that increased
his standing in Will’s eyes by another small increment.  Nothing about his
behavior looked forced, or self-aware.  If he’d noticed he had an audience at
all, it hadn’t made him slip out of his routine. 
Will waited to enter until they’d left through a different exit, slipping quiet
in through a swinging door near the window.  The vet’s back was to him at
first, but Will didn't even get the chance to introduce himself before he spun
around and started talking. 

"Will Graham.  I didn't believe it when Chilton sent out the email saying he'd
hired you.  Shows how much I know about how much money this place is making off
our studs."  There was a little bitterness, there, but none of it directed at
Will, and he projected mostly the round edges of good humor.  He held out his
hand, his grip was solid but quickly withdrawn when they shook.  "Dr. Brian
Zeller.  I’d say somewhere around you’d also find Dr. Jimmy Price, but I’m
pretty sure he’s headed home without me today.” 
Given that he’d just made it clear enough they weren’t just coworkers, Will
didn’t really need to know more, but the lift of his eyebrows must have asked
it. 
The doctor held his hand up, showing off a band that looked silver but was
probably something more expensive.  From the three Will could see, he could
tell diamond shaped emeralds marked the band like points on a compass. 
“It’s no secret; I was married to him before I got the job.  You might as well
know, but it mostly won’t come up.”
“I’m sure it’s nice, getting to work together.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”  Dr. Zeller’s grin dipped with a mischievous
curl, wry fondness wrapped around his jab like padding on a blade.  His eyes
were brighter than they had been when Will came in, and Will caught the quick
motion of his finger pressing against the band, like touching a worry stone. 
He was no expert, not with people, but he’d have been willing to bet it was a
happy marriage.  Working with parasapients, he’d spent a lot of time studying
signs of affection, of constancy of an individual in their mate’s thoughts. 
The details weren’t all that different. 
Will nodded toward the entrance the pup had left from, an unmarked door with a
slightly crooked window.  “You were good with her.” 
“I do everything I can to give the little ones a good experience; they need to
learn early vets aren’t scary.  This is a hell of a place to grow up.  It
doesn’t exactly inspire trust and love.  Not to mention—“  Dr. Zeller turned
away from him again, but only long enough to gather a file under his arm, and a
test tube into his hand.  “—c’mon back with me to my office.”  The tone he’d
interrupted himself with was faster, lower.  He picked up again when he looked
over his shoulder and saw Will following.  “She’s easy to be good with.  Her
sire was Abernis, and he was one of the best patients I’ve ever had.  I miss
him, but I’ll miss him more when we run out of straws and all his pups are sold
off and gone.  In here.” 
Following his direction, Will stepped into an office just a little larger than
a walk in closet.  The sharp edges of a saw palmetto plant that had protruded
well out from its own little corner jabbed through Will’s pants, pricking his
calves.  He dropped into a chair with a sagging, faded maroon cushion, and Dr.
Zeller squeezed past him.  The plant jabbed at him, too, but he seemed used to
it, moving a little further into it rather than away.  He tossed the file down
onto a small, round table crammed in next to a squat bookshelf.  The bookshelf
overflowed with paper like a waterfall, bent corners reaching down to the
table.  The uncovered portions he could see showed that the entire top of the
table was made up of a clock face.  Beneath the glass, the hands were still.  
"Was Abernis retired?"  Will asked, half certain he shouldn't ask, half sure
that was precisely why he should. 
"If he had been, he'd probably be asleep at my house right now."  From the
tone, Dr. Zeller had obviously tried for light hearted, but he didn't quite
make it.  There was too much tension in his mouth, at the corners of his eyes. 
"Retirement rarely happens around here for alphas.  Most of them are fertile to
some degree until they die, so why give up an asset?  Can't imagine the FBI's
much different so I'm sure you know how it goes.  He died in a training
accident.  I did what I could, and what I could was to put him down." 
Wil. did, to an extent, know how it went.  Still, every program he'd worked at
since college had been smaller than this place, more contained, a little less
ruthless at squeezing every last pup out of their breeding stock.  A
parasapient working in the field with an FBI agent could only work so many
years, much like field agents themselves.  It made more sense to retire current
sires and dams, now and then, and replace them with a proven performer from the
field.  
Still, he'd learned enough about large scale operations in school to imagine
how this place was run, and the sort of accident Abernis must have died in. 
He'd likely been too old to keep up with the young alphas, particularly in a
fight.  In name, parasapient fighting had been outlawed since the early
1900's.  In practice, it was permitted for military organizations and others
who dealt in forms of protection stock.  How else, they'd argued, could they
test and train their companions?  It was a thin excuse, but his urge to poke
holes in it had never been appreciated.  He could easily remember the scathing
look his professor had given him when he'd pointed out that in training,
soldiers didn't go at each other with loaded guns. 
A well trained parasapient, she'd argued, would stop short of the kill. 
For a moment, the thought of what Zeller might have seen filled him, blood
bubbling over his fingers, coating his ring.  Hands that trusted him grasping
at his sleeve-
Will sat forward, his right hand in a fist, pressed hard into the palm of his
left.  "I'm sorry.  I don't think I could do your job." 
"That makes two of us."  For all the bitterness in it, the smile he gave Will
then felt almost as real as the one he'd given the little girl.  Zeller leaned
back in his chair, tilting it precariously on wheels Will could hear creak. 
"Not sure I could do yours either, though; I get attached enough as it is
without spending every day with them.  Still, you don't usually have to watch
yours die.  That's a plus."
Will tilted his head in concession, and swallowed his arguments.  He hadn't had
to watch Anthony die, true enough, but he'd seen the life drain out of his
eyes.  He wasn't sure which was worse.  Maybe there was no ‘worse’ in matters
like this.  Pain and loss were hard to quantify. 
"So before we talk about Hannibal Lecter-" Zeller's chair clacked forward onto
all of its wheels as he shifted to lean against his desk "-I'd like to say off
the record that if I had anything actionable about the shit that's been done to
him, I'd have already gone to the police.  Jimmy would have too, years ago, but
it's not that easy and Hannibal doesn't help.  There's only so much we can do
if he won't talk." 
Nothing in the admission surprised him, beyond the absolute confirmation that
Barney wasn't the only one who'd met him who didn't see Hannibal as some
inexplicable menace.  That wasn't entirely a surprise either, but it did bring
an odd, triumphant tightness to his throat.  Grim satisfaction, perhaps, or a
version of hope.  These were the people he'd have a chance at convincing with
his observations when all was said and done—people  who invested time in
parasapients, who cared for them and about them.  People close to the line of a
monumental reshaping of opinion, like he was.  Was, had been...at any given
moment these days it was hard to say where he fell.  Thoroughly in a state of
flux was probably the best answer, all in all. 
"This entire conversation is off the record,” Will said.  Idly, he wondered if
he should have reached out to close the door, for emphasis.  He let it be.  
"I'm not here officially and I don't want official answers.  Those won't help
me understand where he's been.  If I don't know that, I can't help him." 
"Are you so sure you can?  I mean don't get me wrong, the way he is was totally
preventable, but he's dangerous.  At this point taking him like he is is
probably the best—“
"How much of the abuse you suspect happened after he got here?" 
The dark look in Zeller’s eyes said plenty on its own.  He tapped the desk,
rising out of his chair with enough force to knock it into the wall.  “Just a
minute.” 
Will leaned forward to let him get past, listened to him rummaging around out
in the hallway, maybe even into the room next door. 
Across the distance, his voice carried, “We got this out the other day because
I knew you’d be wanting to take a look at it.  There’s not too much you don’t
have access to already, but there’s a few things you’ll find interesting, and a
few more that should be in here that aren’t.” 
This time, when Zeller came in, he did close the door.  The medical file in his
hand wasn’t nearly as thick as the personal file Will had at home, but it was
long.  Long enough to contain x-rays, which he could see were inside separate
folders and tucked into the back, sticking out the end.  When he sat back down,
Zeller didn’t hand it over just yet. 
“About ten years ago, Jimmy comes home looking like he’s about to punch
someone’s face in.  You don’t know him but let me tell you, he’s not a violent
man.  I knew something was up before he even got it out, but when he did—“ 
Zeller shook his head, redirecting or refocusing.  His knuckles rapped against
the cover of the file.  “You won’t find a single picture from that afternoon in
here, but Hannibal’s eyes were swollen shut for days.” 
Will’s stomach jerked, a sharp, cutting chill. 
“The way Dr. Chilton tells it, Hannibal snapped, attacked an alpha.  At that
point he still had some off leash yard time, and he claims Hannibal used to
freedom to try and pick a fight.  In the process of subduing him, he was
injured badly enough Jimmy had to keep him here at the hospital for two weeks. 
The damage done was—hold on.”  Zeller flipped the folder open then, skimming
and thumbing until he stopped at a notice written in looping blue pen on green
paper.  Will could read it even upside down, but Zeller read it aloud anyway. 
“ ‘Necessary but regrettable force’.  Do you believe this shit?  I mean, I’ve
seen Hannibal do some impressive things, but I don’t think half a dozen grown
men beating an animal to within an inch of their life can ever be considered
necessary force.” 
Unable to get an answer out of his throat just yet, Will shook his head.  In
his mind, he saw only the bright depths of Hannibal’s eyes, shining and sharp. 
The urge to go back and find him sleeping peacefully was strong, and sudden. 
His eyelids would feel thin under Will’s thumb.  Fragile, and soft. 
Will shifted a little closer, perched now on the edge of his seat.  “Did anyone
ever ask Hannibal what happened?”
“Hell, I’m sure Jimmy did but,”  Zeller threw up his hand, let it slap back
down against the paper.  “He doesn’t talk about those things, I’m telling you,
not in any meaningful way.  He might calmly say he did what needed to be done
or something equally vague but it’s few and far between you can get him to
elaborate.  What he did get, though, were pictures of Hannibal’s injuries and
the testimony of an omega who’d been out in the yard at the time who swore up
and down that Hannibal kept her from being raped.” 
“They let them out together?”
“The ones that aren’t in heat or in rut and are considered appropriate for
playing well with others, yeah, but this guy was pretty new and she says he was
threatening her, keepers weren’t paying attention, Hannibal comes up calm as
you please and throws him to the ground to castrate him with his teeth.” 
For a moment, Will let himself go there.  Sunlight and birdsong and a crying
omega, Hannibal’s nails digging into the struggling alpha’s thigh, the stretch
of skin beneath his teeth, the spray of blood. 
Will could taste on his tongue when he swallowed, like burnt metal, thick and
dark and wild.  “A punishment to fit the crime.”
“Yeah, or the intended crime anyway.  If I remember right, Jimmy said Hannibal
agreed that was the way it went but there was no proof, just an alpha with his
entire genital area mauled off and Hannibal beaten to hell.  Chilton wanted to
cover it up quick and that’s no surprise, but what was was the way Jimmy’s
pictures disappeared.  You won’t find a thing on that incident in here beyond
what I just showed you.  He didn’t just want it hushed, he wanted it erased.” 
“Not exactly the mark of a man who uses necessary force.”  Will’s wry smile
turned his words sharp and brittle, tipped up a little further at the corners
when Zeller laughed.  Reaching over, Will tugged at the file.  Zeller let him
take it, though he kept the x-ray at the back, pulling it free to separate. 
Will skimmed by flipping quick through pages held up and released, scanning
information that was largely a mass of physicals and breeding soundness exams. 
“What do you know about what happened to him when he was a pup, before the
shelter?”
“Barely more than you do.  I tried the first time I gave him a physical, but he
doesn’t remember much.  Whatever happened to him, he’s got a span of memory
before it and after it.  Given what I know he’s taken and mostly kept his head
after, I don’t think I want to know what’s bad enough that even his mind had to
block it out.” 
He might not want to know, but Will had to.  It was an inextricable piece of
the puzzle, vital and near the core.  Whatever else he dug after, whatever
corners he filled out, if he was going to understand Hannibal, he’d always be
coming back there, to the picture of a boy with burns on his neck and hip and
cut off eyes. 
“You said barely,”  Will prodded, not looking up.  He’d found a list of
Hannibal’s children.  “What did he tell you?”
“He got sick one year, a bad virus that was making the rounds.  He was
hospitalized, kept complaining of the cold.  He doesn’t complain, so I was
worried.  Tried to get him warm, keep him company.  He was out of it, said it
was snowing again and blue eyes and feathers would be back.  I couldn’t get
much more out of him after that, but I tried to take the chance to ask him what
happened to his hip.”  Zeller sighed, and the sound was tired enough to draw
Will’s eyes up to meet his.  “He said a staircase fell.  If a staircase fell on
him, it was on fire because those pictures—“
“Look like third degree burns, yeah.  I know.”  He’d seen them before, in
Louisiana.  He was fairly sure he wouldn’t be forgetting any time soon the way
the skin bubbled up, all red and yellow and still hot to the touch. 
“Yeah.  And there’s this, too.”  Shaking out the x-ray, Zeller held it up
toward the light.  “Do you see this, here?”  The tip of his finger almost
touched the film, pointing at a subtly thick, somewhat uneven section on the
face of an otherwise normally curving bone.  “That wasn’t set properly, but it
healed a long time ago.  Probably when he was pup.  Maybe the staircase did it,
but he’s not holding his arm close to his chest in that picture.  You ask me,
the break came and healed before.  Now you can dig into all this as much as you
want and I can’t stop you, but as his vet…”  Zeller drooped back into chair,
the x-ray film bending with his hand with a strange, curling sound.  “I don’t
think he needs to remember any of this.  I really don’t.”
Will rubbed his thumb against the stack of pages resting on his thigh, felt
them slice just slightly into his skin.  “Can I take this, off the record?”  At
the sign of a face that held clear reservations, Will pressed harder.  “Just
for a few days; I’ll bring it back.” 
Zeller nodded, and Will immediately flopped it closed and held it close. 
                                    ----- 
The house still smelled like trout.  Will had fried it on autopilot, sautéed
green beans with garlic in a second pan because he needed something to go with
it.  After a bite of the fish, he'd divvied it up among the dogs and eaten a
couple forkfuls of green beans.  Since the dogs couldn't eat the garlic, the
rest of those had gone into the fridge.  It was just as well; the fish had been
enough of a treat on its own.  Moonbeam hadn't quite been able to accept there
wasn't more of it.  Nearly three hours later, and periodically she was still
lifting her short snout and testing the air hopefully as if the presence of
scent meant more fish might appear between her paws at any moment.
Will settled back against the headboard, swallowing a sip of whisky with a
sigh.  Hannibal's two folders lay on the bed next to him, heavy, pulling down
the blankets.  He'd spent his day full of Hannibal and still he'd brought his
work all the way into bed with him, filling up his life to the brim.  Easy to
do, when the draw wasn't just the work itself- after all, hadn't he felt
Hannibal's magnetism the first moment he'd met him?   And if he had, was it
even Hannibal that caused it, or Will's draw  to the race he'd spent his life
fascinated with?  Both, perhaps, or something more personal?  He couldn't
remember feeling that itch in his palm to touch even with Beverly and Anthony. 
Not even with Georgia.
Will set the glass down on his end table, sitting up to assuage the sensation
of having touched a hot eye in his mind, her memory bright and sharp.  Will
lifted the medical file, and shuttered his mind to all else.
From all that Dr. Zeller had and hadn’t said, it was plain the evidence of
abuse he’d find here was probably dwarfed by missing evidence he wouldn’t
find.  There was no doubt what he held was full of insidious secrets, from the
explicitly stated to the vaguely recorded.  Moving past the basic information,
he found notes made by the vet that had examined him some time after his
arrival at the shelter, their notes sparse. 
Alpha male, soon to mature.  Healthy and strong, though bears significant
scarring for his age.  Shows aversion to cold but doesn't easily catch chill. 
Compliant when directed.  When tested, socializes best with omegas, betas, and
less demonstrative alphas.  Not suited to group dynamics without supervision. 
Mute.
"Well that's shit."  Will's voice was scratchy, and chased by the wagging of at
least two tails that he could hear.  Preemptive soothing.  God, he loved his
dogs.  "It is; it's shit.  You'd think so, too."  The single remaining wagger
sounded swishy.  Probably Moonbeam. 
This piece was ill fitting, to say the least.  Hardly an expected
characteristic of an individual that would go on to in just a few short years
speak two languages fluently.  It was, however, entirely consistent with severe
trauma, and bore out exactly what Zeller had indicated—something had happened
to Hannibal too dark for his mind to bear.  Too much for a pup, too much for a
full grown alpha. 
Beyond that sobering thought, a dull ache in Will’s jaw from the clench of his
teeth forced him to acknowledge the other implications such early silence
carried, particularly after such drastic trauma.    There was a lot that could
be done to parasapients that could be contorted to escape notice, and more
still that could be done when they had no ability to tell anyone about it. 
How long had it been, before he spoke?  Long enough that he’d learned to keep
quiet, whatever was done to him?  Long enough that it felt natural? 
Eager to rid his mind of the sudden image of Hannibal alone and cold and
silent, licking his own wounds, Will skipped further, aimless, only slowing
when the handwriting on the pages became varied in style, showing a dozen
different hands in the span of a few sheets.  Roughly half of them had written
in French. 
Will leaned back, balancing he folder on his chest as his eyes tracked over the
notes.  Most of it was simple, physicals repeated over and over by different
hands, vitals taken, breeding soundness exams perform, fond notes—
Lydia crashed into his legs, and Will jumped so hard he almost dropped the
file.  When he looked up, she was hunched sheepishly over his legs like a
roosting chicken, tiny ears awkwardly folded back against her big head.  He’d
known it was her immediately by the razor sharpness of her nails, overgrown and
quick to draw blood.  As the newest rescue in the house, she still had a lot to
learn.  If he hadn’t spent two months trying to get her to sit with him when he
asked, he’d have ordered her off the bed immediately for not asking first. 
Under the covers, he could feel welts rising on his calves. 
“It’s okay, sweetheart.  It’s okay.  You did good; it’s okay.”  The more he
murmured it, the more her eagle grip on his legs relaxed.  By the time he’d
shifted his focus back to the file, she was laying across his lower legs almost
comfortably.  When her head came down to rest against his thigh, he could feel
her sigh. 
After another handful of pages he could barely read, Will’s eyes were burning. 
He was just on the cups of putting it down to call it a night when a note in
perfect near-calligraphy curls caught his eye, more for the signature at first
than for the words.  Revana Mercier. 
Will’s fingers leapt the page, trailing under her note with the sudden thrill
of treasure unearthed. 
The army wrote him off as unpredictable, but he isn’t.  He cannot be restrained
unless he wills it.  When careful, he poses no danger during any procedure.  He
does not cry.  Topical anesthetic is rarely required, and he’ll ask for it to
be avoided.
In the pen, he looks after the omegas, and the little ones.  It’s the
aggressive that aren’t safe from him, rather than the vulnerable.  He is
entirely predictable, and safe for use in even classroom demonstrations.  I
would take him to the primary school as the example of a laboratory parasapient
before I would take any of the others. 
Chapter End Notes
     I apologize for the lack of direct hannigram interaction in this
     chapter...however, there was mental interaction, from Will's side,
     and he learned a lot. The next chapter starts with the two of them,
     and I will prooobably be done finalizing it/ready to post it on
     Saturday, :)
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
     I will finish responding to reviews later tonight, but I wanted to go
     ahead and get this up now. You guys are amaaaaaazing and I love you
     all <3
See the end of the chapter for more notes
When Will entered the room, Hannibal was lost in his book.  Based on the
thickness of the pages Will could see from where it rested tipped up against
the foot of Hannibal’s bed, there was no question he was still working on Les
Miserables, the novel he’d just started three days ago.  In two weeks, he’d
already worked his way through seven books.  Will had teased him, gently, that
he’d be needing to refill the bag much sooner than he’d thought, at this rate. 
This book, though, was a special treat, picked out for him at the bookstore
over the weekend for the French connection he thought might interest Hannibal
and for the size, to challenge him.  The choice to buy a nice, leather bound
copy was all fondness, no trace of motive or practicality. 
He’d come by on his day off to give it to him, and Hannibal had taken it like a
kid being given a puppy.  Will’s chest had felt so tight it hurt to breathe all
the way home, and he’d rolled the windows down to get some fresh air. 
It wasn’t too far off from the look he got when Hannibal glanced up from his
book to see Will returning, unlooked for since they’d already finished their
session for the day.  Initial facial responses betrayed truth, even if they
were only a flicker, quickly corrected.  It hurt with a deeper ache than Will
was used to that Hannibal corrected nothing but let the pleasure in his
surprise remain on display, undisguised. 
“Will.  I thought you’d gone home.” 
“I had, but I thought Barney could use a shot to go home a little early so we
planned this the other day.  It gives me a chance to spend a little downtime
with you, too, and I wanted to surprise you.  Plus, I didn’t want to get your
hopes up until I’d made the arrangements.” 
Hannibal waited him out, still stretched out on his bed under his blanket,
unmoved.  Will had the idea that if the rest of his surprise wasn’t interesting
enough, Hannibal might ask to go back to his book.  He only just caught himself
before he laughed at the thought, the swell of warm amusement pressing him a
little closer.    
“How would you like to go swimming?  Barney told me it used to be your favorite
enrichment option, when you had them.” 
“I still don’t have them.  Dr. Chilton informed me informed me in no uncertain
terms the restriction of my privileges was permanent.” 
“Yeah, well you have me now.”  Will said, emphatic, pleased when the assertion
made Hannibal rise up a little higher with interest, the blanket slipping from
his shoulders.  “I’m supposed to be in charge of you, and I think you need to
get out more.  If he’s got a problem, I’m not afraid to call him on his
bullshit.” 
Hannibal’s eyes gleamed with humor, and there was anticipation in the way his
hand hovered now at the edge of the bed, ready to push himself up. 
Anticipation, and hope.  Will desperately wanted him to hope, and to have the
experience again and again of having his hopes realized.  The fact that he
hadn’t lost the ability to hope after the course his life had taken was,
frankly, utterly astounding. 
“So I’ll ask again,”  Will said, holding up the harness.  The leash clinked
against the buckle, and Hannibal’s fingers searched for the strip of paper he
used to mark his place, finding and placing it blind.  “I’ve got the pool
booked for an hour.  Do you want to go swimming?”    
Hannibal was up and out of bed with a rapidity that would have been hilarious,
if it didn’t hurt.  He’d been allowed exercise, sure—it was mandated, to keep
him in fighting condition, but God only knew when the last time was he’d been
allowed to get out of his room and have fun.  He clearly enjoyed his walks in
the yard when he could have them, but those were too few and he wasn’t really
allowed much freedom there, not like most of the other parasapients at the
facility were.  He was allowed no socializing, no opportunities for offsite
enrichment.  Few members of the staff would have had the proper permit to take
him home once he’d been marked dangerous anyway, and those who did had shown no
interest in trying. 
He’d been unable to resist asking Zeller about that, when he’d brought the file
back.  It was clear he cared about Hannibal, and Will had no doubts as a
veterinarian he’d have the permit required to take even wilder patients than
Hannibal home if need be.  His curiosity had been strong, but he’d suspected
the answer even before he asked, and Zeller’s obvious chagrin had given him the
answer before he spoke. 
He had the permit, and he cared, but Hannibal had a hair trigger that Zeller
didn’t trust his knowledge of.  Not with two of his own parasapients and a cat
alongside Jimmy and himself at home.  In all fairness, Will hadn’t really been
able to fault him for that.  He had a lot of patients—he cared, but he hadn’t
spent the in depth time with Hannibal it’d take most people to get a good feel
for him.  Some people probably never could, even if they’d come every day. 
Will, he felt like he’d known him for ages, like a shadow in the back of his
mind, a word on the tip of his tongue.  Like the scent of saltwater, old and
deep, grounding. 
Illogical, inexplicable, but true all the same. 
With Hannibal in his harness, they set off, a note left on the chart alongside
Hannibal’s door that he was out for exercise. 
The nod to protocol seemed to amuse Hannibal, though there was, too, genuine
tension in his shoulders when he spoke.  “They’ll expect to find me in the
arena, or in the yard.  If someone checks and finds that I’m in neither—“
“You’re with me, like I said.  You don’t need to worry about that.”  Will’s
fingers curled against the leash, absently possessive.  “I would never allow
you to be punished for something I did.  If anyone has a problem, they can take
it up with me.  I know you don’t trust me, but can you give me that much at
least and see if I follow through?” 
“I did say I wanted to go, didn’t I?” 
Will conceded the point with a tilt of his head, and for the moment kept his
silence.  He could feel Hannibal working his way up to saying more, his
deliberation in the way his hands tangled together and separated, the absent
scenting of the air between buildings that seemed more out of habit than
interest.
“In all honesty, I can think of little I’d like more than to trust you.” 
Hannibal wasn’t looking at Will when he said it, and it was whisper soft, but
solid with such weight that Will couldn’t have missed it.  There was worry in
the crease of Hannibal’s eyes, though he smoothed it out with the stretch of
his neck, his face tilted toward the soft navy of the sky.  There were no
stars, here.  The compound was too bright.  “It’s probably the most impossible
thing I could have imagined, but I’d like to believe it’s possible.  It
fascinates me to think that the world could be strange enough for you and I to
exist at the same time, if you are everything you seem.” 
Will felt oddly disconnected from his fingers, and more connected to the
leash.  As if they’d dissolved, and his pulse beat instead against the point
that tied them, vein stretched thin.  “What do I seem, to you?” 
The twist of Hannibal’s smile turned something in Will’s gut, like the click of
a key.  “If I told you, it might change.” 
“Like blowing out candles?  Can’t tell anyone or it won’t come true?”  From the
furrow in his forehead, Will could tell Hannibal didn’t get it, and he
regretted the grasp at levity.  He reached out to squeeze Hannibal’s shoulder. 
“I’m sorry; forget it.  It’s not important.”  What had been was the heaviness
of the air between them, the honesty in Hannibal he’d drawn out and now felt
like he’d fumbled.  Will turned them down the thinner gravel that covered the
last stretch to the aquatic center, his thumb digging in a little as he kneaded
at Hannibal’s shoulder again.  “When you do decide whether you can trust me—“
“I’ll tell you, yes.”  Hannibal hesitated, his breath still expectant after,
still close to speech. 
Will waited, continued to even when they’d reached the door.  He could feel the
rust of it beneath his fingers, the tickle of a mosquito buzzing against his
knuckles.  When there seemed to be nothing forthcoming Hannibal could get out,
Will exhaled slowly, and tried to help him. 
“I can promise to tell you the same, but that’s not what you want, is it? 
There’s something else you want from me, if I can give it.” 
Hannibal nodded, once, close and tight.  Like it hurt. 
“You don’t have to tell me that now, either.  Give it a chance to come true.” 
Will searched for Hannibal’s eyes in the dim light, and couldn’t find them. 
They hid behind the fringe of his hair, turned just slightly enough away to
matter.  “Maybe I’ll surprise you.” 
For that, Hannibal found his ease again, shedding tension in the flash of his
smile, the sweep of his hand toward the door like a footman showing in a
guest.  “Haven’t you already?” 
The door to the aquatic center creaked open when Will yanked on it, a rusty,
squealing sound  that hid Will’s huff of good humor.  The strange feeling of
turned gears lingered with him, though, as if in his admission of a desire for
trust and something unnamable besides Hannibal had reached into him and
rearranged him, left fingerprints where hands didn’t belong.       
Much like the out of date probe equipment, the aquatic facilities certainly
weren’t state of the art.  The arena was, entirely, but there were more than a
few reasons for that.  Breeding competitive, working parasapients well versed
in a variety of military and protection techniques required functional
equipment, and selling those individuals required a good way to show them off. 
Beyond the updated equipment itself, even the environment was looked after with
care, enormous bay windows fronted boxes that allowed visitors to look down on
the action while they took notes or sipped champagne.  It was one of the few
places in the compound intended to be in the public eye, and it showed. 
This place, on the other hand, probably hadn’t made it into any kind of public
brochure or press coverage since the 70’s.  The floor around the pool was made
up of small, tan tiles with dark grout that reminded Will of a roadside motel
bathroom floor, a throwback to his childhood.  The chipped paint in the pool
itself fit the age, too.  Still, the water was clean and well maintained, and
the pool was enormous.  Intended to be large enough for social groups to
exercise in, it’d be vast for Hannibal by himself. 
Not that Will could exactly give him the run of it, not this first time.  If
Chilton did choose to challenge him here, he needed to have at least partially
played by the rules.  Besides, as much as his instincts told him Hannibal
wouldn’t try to get from him, common sense still nagged him to be careful, for
at least a little while longer.  The desire to trust ran deep in Will, too,
present, and growing, but not yet able to stand on its own. 
At the end of the pool, Will reached out to snag one of the ropes that hung
down from the ceiling, white strands gone dingy brown near the ponderous clip
from countless hands over the years.  Above, it stretched on for ages to reach
the high ceiling, ending in a track too far away and too dark for Will to
clearly see it.  He’d done his homework, though, and when he’d tested a couple
swings of them before, the wheels at the top still moved pretty easily.  The
tether would serve as a restriction, but a less irritating one than it could
have been since he could still reach the length of the pool. 
Will clipped it to Hannibal’s harness, one hand lingering gently at the nape of
his neck as the other unclipped his leash.  “Just don’t chew through the rope,
okay?”  Will said, full of lightly prodding humor.  He wasn’t sure, yet, how
far to tease him, how much of Will’s humor he could effectively read.   
Plenty, in all likelihood, if Hannibal’s withering stare was anything to go
by.  The irritation stamped across his face was a little too pronounced to be
fully genuine, the glimmer in his eyes a little too bright.  “It smells like
mildew.” 
“If it didn’t, would you be tempted?”
In what seemed a clear refusal to dignify that with a response, Hannibal
reached up behind him and got a solid grip on the rope, using it to swing out
over the water and out of Will’s reach.  He’d known Hannibal was strong—looking
at him and feeling his muscles it certainly couldn’t be doubted—but there was a
difference in knowing and in the thrill of seeing the brazen display of upper
body strength before him now. 
It was nothing to him to haul himself up hand over hand a little higher without
even using his feet, nothing to tug the rope into a wider swing and drop with a
magnificent splash into the water. 
As he’d surely intended, Will was wet, and laughing when Hannibal resurfaced. 
His grin was charmingly smug.  “What a shame.  You were so dry.”
“Did I ever say I intended to stay that way?”  In truth, he had intended to
stay that way, but now that he was wet already there seemed little harm in
removing his shoes and socks, rolling his pants up and sitting on the edge of
the pool.  He’d look ridiculous, but he didn’t care one way or the other for
the lack of fashion.  The look of something like disappointment in Hannibal’s
dip in treading water when Will sat down, though, was certainly interesting. 
“You aren’t getting in?”
“Did you think I was?” 
Rather than answer, Hannibal ducked under the water again, cutting through the
water with a smooth breaststroke to put a little more distance between them. 
It was wordless, but Will didn’t have any doubts, now, about his assessment of
disappointment.  Not with Hannibal very carefully rising up only to go under
again, seemingly transfixed now by the broken tile on the bottom of the pool.
For all his  determined shows of independence, beneath them the closer he got
the more Hannibal seemed…clingy implied derogatory connotations, and Will felt
none.  Besides, it wasn’t the right fit.  He was touched starved, undoubtedly,
but Will had diagnosed that right away.  Attention starved, too. 
Intellectually bored.  Starved of a point of deep connection as well, perhaps? 
A hunger for intimacy?  He couldn’t pin down the right word for it in humans,
much less in parasapients. 
Will shook his head, self-correcting.  Whatever the word was, it would be the
same. 
He waited until Hannibal surfaced again to call out over the water, his voice
carrying weirdly louder than intended in the cavernous room.  “I don’t have a
swimsuit.” 
Like a dog recalled after a scolding, Hannibal drifted back. 
“Neither do I.” 
The rush of self-consciousness was strange, driving Will to rub at the back of
his neck.  How could he begin to explain that human nudity was different,
unnatural?  Explain, and admit the answers were based on foundations he now
believed were built on sand? 
Will cleared his throat.  “Maybe sometime soon.  I haven’t been swimming in a
long time.” 
“But you used to?”
“Yeah, almost every day.  I grew up on the coast, in Louisiana.  I learned to
swim in the ocean.”  Hannibal was close enough, now, that his hands almost
brushed Will’s calf as he kept himself afloat in deep water, lazy, easy.  He’d
done this a great deal.  On impulse, Will reached out and tucked a wet strand
of hair back from his eyes.  “Where did you learn, here?” 
Hannibal shook his head, and ducked under.  The rope stretched as he tried to
go further than it would allow him, the clip pinging with the tension before he
rose back up, on Will’s other side. 
Undeterred, Will carefully pushed forward.  “In Paris?” 
Hannibal studied Will’s legs under the water, rose up just far enough to put
his mouth above the waterline.  “I could pull you in, you know.”
“You could, but you won’t.  Drowning’s not really your style.”  It felt true,
as he said it.  The thought of what was Hannibal’s style didn’t even unsettle
him.  He wasn’t worried about those teeth, in the water or out of it. 
“Besides, I’m interesting.  I did tell you I’d want to talk about some things
you might not have been asked, but I’m fair.  I’ll answer a question if you
will.” 
In thinking, Hannibal swam away from him.  It was peaceful, watching him.  His
lines through the water were filled with a grace and strength Will had never
mastered, and he’d been pretty good, in his day.  Hannibal carried the same
easy physicality most parasapients had, but watching him then Will could only
wonder how much of it was really innate, how much stronger they’d be than
humans if they weren’t pushed so hard, trained so deliberately.  Human athletes
could reach some decent extremes, too.  There were undeniable biological
differences, but would a parasapient who’d spend most of their life as a
housepet outperform an athlete who’d honed their body to a certain task? 
Somehow, he doubted it.  Like much else, so far as he was aware the topic had
never been studied. 
After two laps Hannibal came back to him, his arms folding easily on the edge
of the pool as his legs kicked lazily behind him.  His chin dug into his arm,
and his elbow just barely touched Will’s thigh, water seeping into the cloth
from the point of connection. 
Will stroked his hair.  “You’re a very good swimmer, Hannibal.” 
“Tell me about swimming in Louisiana.” 
Will’s nails scratched gently at Hannibal’s scalp, again harder when a soft
sound escaped him and his eyes slipped half closed.  “It was a necessity, in
the summers.  It’s hot there, even hotter than it is here.  You step out your
door and it feels like the humidity might melt the fat and muscle right off
your bones.  Like you’re being steamed alive.  I didn’t really mind it,
though.  There’s something oddly comforting about air you can feel.” 
“You’re surrounded.  Held by the breath of the earth.”  Hannibal’s murmur was
lazy, almost sleepy.  Will resisted the urge to ask him if that had been from
Walden, or his own extrapolations. 
“You can’t swim in the lakes, though, unless you want to get eaten.  The
alligators are everywhere, but they’re not a problem unless you fuck with
them.  Respect them and they’ll ignore you.” 
“Hard to imagine a human feeling like prey.” 
“Is that how you feel?”
Hannibal’s eyes cracked open wider, then narrowed.  “One question at a time,
and you’ve already asked.  I’ll tell you where I learned, once you’re
finished.” 
Will’s laughter echoed, and he gave into the urge to let his hand slide down
and feel the curve of Hannibal’s smile against his thumb, warm and real. 
Hannibal’s teeth clicked together in the mockery of a nip, but he hadn’t moved,
had barely even parted his lips.  Hadn’t stopped smiling, either. 
“My dad taught me, off the docks where we’d go so he could work on boats.  I
loved helping him, and he loved taking breaks to play in the water with me. 
Gave me a chance to feel big and him a chance to feel young again, I think.  I
got to where I liked the swimming enough that in 8th grade I tried out for the
school team.”  Will could feel his throat tightening, chest pinching.  He
hadn’t meant to go for this memory, really, but it had just bubbled out of him,
drawn forth by association.  “I was so excited when they told me I made the
cut, but they gave us all this letter to send home and…there was so much in
it.  So much I’d need, a special suit and competition fees and…I knew he didn’t
have $150 to spare, and I knew he’d have found it anyway.  I tossed it and told
him I didn’t make it.  He took me out for ice cream and told me it was a
popularity contest and I didn’t need it anyway.” 
Will’s eyes burned, and he drew his hand away to press against the tile as he
leaned back, his head tipped until his neck ached, gazing up into the black
reaches of the rafters and smelling the harshness of the chlorine.  It still
wasn’t enough to overpower Hannibal entirely, not when he was so close, the
warm alpha scent of him rich and settling.  There were a whole host of reasons
people kept parasapients as pets, and Will could understand them.  Their
reasons weren’t wrong, in some ways.  They were comforting, but that didn’t
make them a thing to own.  Dogs were comforting, too. 
Hannibal’s elbow dug into Will’s thigh as he shifted, his breath warm as he
nuzzled lightly at Will’s hip.  Careful affection, hesitantly offered.  Will
swallowed, and didn’t look down. 
“You loved your father very much.”
“Very much, yeah.” 
The water rippled as Hannibal slipped fully back into it, a quiet, soft sound
like drips from leaves in the rain.  “I never knew my father.  I think I loved
my mother.  It was a long time ago.” 
Will’s eyes blinked open, the raw vulnerability in Hannibal’s admission drawing
him out of his own memories like the snap of a rubber band.   Looking at him, a
little more hunched than he’d been before, his eyes on the water without
searching, without seeing, Will could feel the truth as clearly and heavily as
tug he’d just felt toward his father’s memory.  Real, and pressing.  A lasting
impression. 
“You think?”  Will said, all softness, wanting too desperately to resist the
question to lead Hannibal to the truth of it himself, to make him admit he
already understood. 
“It’s not an experience that’s happened to me often.”
“Doesn’t have to, to know it when it does.” 
“She taught us to swim.  In the mornings, at the pond on the Lecter estate.” 
To keep himself from asking too much, from derailing this, Will bit down on his
tongue until he tasted blood. 
“We would go out when the mist was still on the water; it was cold, but I
didn’t mind it then.  She would put Mischa on her back and hold my hands and—“
Across the room, the door banged open, echoing gunshot loud.  Hannibal’s head
jerked around like a fox scenting hounds, and Will slammed his palm down
against the edge of the pool to keep from swearing. 
Dr. Chilton was flanked by two guards, and their shoes made an obnoxious, wet
sound as they marched across the tile.  Will had the sudden, vicious thought
that he hoped they all fell and cracked their heads open. 
He held his hand out, forced the curl of his fingers toward welcoming rather
than rigid.  “Hannibal, come to me.  Do it now.”  The cut of tension through
Hannibal’s shoulders was fierce, knotted.  It took nothing at all to know that
he was wondering how hard it would be to pull a person in, how tight he’d have
to draw the rope around their neck to drown them more quickly.  Will considered
slipping into the water with him, and quickly dismissed it.  He didn’t have to;
he still had control if Hannibal would listen.  “Hannibal, please.  He won’t
touch you; just come to me.” 
The shift in the water was gratifying, but it was the press of Hannibal’s wet
palm to his thigh that seemed to bolster the beat of his heart in his chest,
like the transference of some vital force.  The fabric of his pants soaked
through beneath Hannibal’s touch, and Hannibal was still watching Chilton’s
approach with grim transfixion, but he was there, and he let Will put his arm
around him, fingers curled against his shoulder.  It wasn’t trust ,but it was
something. 
Chapter End Notes
     Please don't kill me, XD
     First Will and Chilton showdown, coming up the week of the 2nd, :)
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
     I make zero promises cause I don't want to disappoint anyone, but as
     this is a holiday week for me here in the states, there's a chaaaance
     there will be three chapters instead of two. No promises. XD
     You guys are incredible and I love you all <3
Chilton’s head tipped up before he spoke, like a dog trying to gain high ground
in a confrontation by the tilt of his muzzle.  “I’d move away from him if I
were you, Dr. Graham.  He’s in the perfect position to dislocate your knee and
drag you in, but we’ll handle it.” 
With a wave of his hand, the flanking guards drew closer, as if they’d been
released to flush a bird.  Will could feel the increasingly deadly nature of
Hannibal’s stillness, though he didn’t look down to see it.  It was all reflex,
beneath concern so long as Will didn’t let this conversation get out of hand. 
If he could keep the guards back, Hannibal would breathe more freely and stop
clinging to his thigh like a raptor set to launch from a glove.    
Will made eye contact with each of the guards in turn as he held his hand up to
stop them, kept the force of command in his gaze in silence until they’d come
to stop.  Not close enough to touch, but still too close for comfort.  “I’m
handling him just fine, thanks.  You can move back against the wall; you won’t
be needed.” 
One of the guards made an aborted, weak attempt to move, his knee still cocked
when Chilton spoke for them.
“Dr. Graham—“
"I thought I'd mentioned this already, but it's Mr. Graham.  I never finished
my dissertation; there didn't seem to be a point," Will said, light and
careless, sounding as unbothered by both the interruption and the discrepancy
in their titles as he felt.  "I was already working in the field, making
strides that challenged the theories I'd studied in school.  Another piece of
paper and a few more semesters of tuition wouldn't have made me better at my
job."  Will's thumb traced against the curve of Hannibal’s shoulder, absently
calming.  He wanted desperately to see Hannibal’s face, but looking away from
Chilton now could lose him an important advantage.  So many of the rules he'd
learned working with parasapients applied to man, too.  It should have been a
wonder, really, that it took him so long to properly catch on to the truth of
the beings he studied, but there was no wonder in it.  All the strangeness of
his world was entirely by design, insidious and deep.  He kept his smile slight
and disarming, soft curves at the corners.  He was not intimidated, only afraid
of how this could end if Hannibal lost confidence in his protection.  

Chilton's answering smile was thin, pressed.  As if he was pinching it from the
inside to hold something in. "You do certainly have talent; I'll give you
that.  Be that as it may, Hannibal Lecter poses an extreme danger that even the
most skilled-"

"You'll pardon the interruption-"  If the look on Chilton's face could have
spoken for him, he didn't pardon it at all.  Will pressed on regardless.  "-but
isn't that why you brought me here?  I had mentioned that I'd be open to work
at another facility if a suitably promising situation presented itself, and you
contacted me.  You told me about Hannibal, and I agreed to handle him for
you."  A swell of protectiveness rose in him, spurred by the still vivid image
of how Hannibal had changed, all the softness he'd had when he spoke of his
mother gone from him the instant Chilton had opened the door.  “Well, I’m
handling him.  His care is my responsibility.”  That it was also a privilege
seemed best not to say, but the reverberation of it unsaid in his chest pushed
him to sit up a little straighter.  “I won’t put him in a position that’ll put
anyone but me at risk, and I won’t let him be treated unfairly, either.”
“You’ll be hard pressed to find anyone who’ll agree that monster’s been treated
unfairly.  The fact that he’s alive at all shows just how hard everyone around
him has worked to manage his instability.”  Chilton’s arms crossed over his
chest, gaping his blazer to expose the taser at his own belt—Will would have to
assume the slip was intentional.  It was no wonder, really, that he’d carry
one; five minutes with the man would be enough to tell anyone he was bone
terrified of the creatures he managed.  Probably had nightmares of falling into
the arena with the ones he’d wronged, feeling blunt nails plunge into his eyes
and sharp teeth catching flesh and ripping deep. 
Will blinked out of his recreation, cursing himself.  Now wasn’t the time to
lose focus, not with Hannibal next to him.  To settle himself and Hannibal
both, he shifted his hand to the nape of Hannibal’s neck.  In the water,
Hannibal’s leg brushed his.  As intentional as Chilton’s posturing, he was
certain, and far more welcome. 
“Since I’ve gotten here, I’ve actually had the time to start on some research
of my own.  I’m not nearly finished, but it’s interesting you feel that way,
Dr. Chilton—“ Will’s Louisiana drawl came out there, a mark of soft politeness
so often Will wondered if Chilton would catch the twinge of insult in the way
his title drew out just a little too much.  Will had learned when he was little
from the tourists, most Northerners couldn’t catch the intricacies of Southern
insults.  They were far too used to saying what they meant, less decorated. 
“—when it’s your assessments that don’t match.  It’s almost like you haven’t
worked with Hannibal on a personal basis at all.” 
Hannibal’s breath huffed against his thigh, and Will squeezed at his nape
gently, most of the pressure on the heel of his hand against Hannibal’s spine. 
In response, Hannibal sank lower in the water, his chin coming to rest
alongside his hand.  The position made it press sharp into Will’s muscle,
uncomfortable with the angle and the way Hannibal hung in the water.  Will
didn’t try to move him. 
“I’ve had sessions with him, though one was enough for his blatant instability
to rear its head.  If I’d restricted him sooner—“
“You’d have had more trouble.  There’s no animal in the world that becomes less
aggressive when it’s cornered and bored.”  Not tigers, not man.  Not anything. 
Chasing the point, Will took the chance to gesture toward the pool.  “That’s
part of why I brought him here.  You wanted me to make him a viable asset, and
I’m trying, but I have to have the right tools.  A large part of the equation
for Hannibal is a little background knowledge, a lot of respect, and a decent
amount of common sense but the rest—“ Will’s voice rose, carrying past the non-
verbal interruption of Chilton’s look off utter incredulity. “—are behavioral
issues that crop up in anyone in solitary confinement.  You can’t just let him
reread the same hundred simple books he probably memorized six years ago and
fight for his life in the arena once a week and expect him to not act out. 
Since I got here, have you had any complaints about him?”
The tick of Chilton’s jaw was answer enough, but Will felt a thick,
uncomfortable pleasure in watching him open his mouth and close it, swallow as
if he’d had mustard greens rammed into the roof of his mouth. 
“I’m not arguing with your skills, Mr. Graham.  Clearly I believe you possess
them or I wouldn’t have asked for you.  You’re quite the topic of conversation
in parasapient behavioral circles, you know.  Your peculiar talents are
undeniable but no one quite knows how you do it.” 
“I’ve written some books that go into pretty decent detail.  You might find
some clues there.”  Or, at least, as much detail as he could.  The average
reader couldn’t have his insight; he knew that.  Whatever it was in his mind
that let him feel so keenly, enough to reconstruct the past and glimpse
possible future outcomes, not everyone had it.  He wasn’t sure how he did that
much himself, either, but his particular peculiarities weren’t all Chilton was
referring to.  Will didn’t doubt that much for a second.  His theories in and
of themselves would be incomprehensible to most behaviorists—the concept of
paraspaient emotion was too much a fairy tale.  In contrast, in his own
developing mind, his old theories had begun to seem increasingly tame. 
“Yes, well.  That’s for the masses.  You do well writing it on their level,
too; they eat the sentimental stories in between the science up.  Those of us
in the scientific community just wish you’d share the real secret, but I
suppose it’s yours to keep.”  Chilton’s laugh was high and clear, clearly meant
to be conspiratorial.  It fell flat.  He looked irritated by his own failure,
absently swatted at the air as if his attempt at camaraderie was a mosquito he
could brush away from his ear.   “As for the matter at hand, I did grant you
full control of Hannibal, but his prior restrictions—“
“Cannot be maintained; they’re incompatible with my training process.  My
methods are working.  When they aren’t, or when you want me off his case, then
that’s a different story.”  Unable to resist, Will’s hand slipped higher,
stroking up from the nape of Hannibal’s neck, through the heavy, wet strands of
his hair.  Once, and again.  He wanted no misunderstanding, here.  Hannibal
hadn’t been wrong, before, that he couldn’t talk to Chilton the way he talked
to Hannibal, but what he’d said to Hannibal held.  He had no intentions of
leaving this job until he finished what he’d come here for, and made sure
Hannibal was at the very least stable enough to have a bearable quality of
life.  So far as he had any control over anything, he wouldn’t settle for less
than that, and he’d fight for more. 
“You’ve not even been here a month.  Hannibal—“
“Has done nothing to warrant alarm when he’s been with a competent handler
fully aware of who they were dealing with.  It’s still early, sure, but I took
precautions.  You might have noticed we’re the only ones here.”
“It was your name on the schedule that alerted me to the danger you were in. 
It’s an odd time for a swim, after dark, and you’ve not yet worked with anyone
else.  I knew he had to be here.” 
Until Chilton and his armed guard had arrived, Will hadn’t felt in danger at
all.  He breathed deep, full of chlorine and Hannibal and the unwanted scent of
Chilton’s overpowering cologne.  Undoubtedly, he wanted to smell strongly of
something in front of the parasapients, playing at scent the way a child smears
on their mother’s makeup. 
“I’ve taken precautions,” Will said, measured, careful.  A moment ago, he’d
been sure his voice had started to rise.  He refused to let it.  “I booked the
whole pool, at an hour it wasn’t wanted.  I will work him up in stages only
when I’m sure he’s ready for them, but he’ll keep progressing and when he’s
doing well enough to pass a temperament test with me handling him, I’ll be
submitting a permit to take him out for offsite enrichment.”  With a
temperament test, he’d in effect go over Chilton’s head.  Even with Hannibal’s
record, he couldn’t deny a handler with the right permit and the right test
results the chance to take him out of here for a weekend. 
Hannibal’s hand twitched, his fingers curling so tight for a moment Will could
feel his nails.  That wasn’t an offer he’d meant Hannibal to know about just
yet, but he couldn’t regret saying it, not when it was true and had spurred the
way Chilton was looking at him now, narrowed eyes looking for an angle he
wouldn’t find. 
“I’d appreciate the chance to talk to you in my office, Mr. Graham.” 
“Hannibal’s still got at least a half hour, and there’s nothing about his
training I won’t discuss in front of him.  Back them off—“  Will nodded to the
guards, still standing at an awkward half attention.  One had had his wrist
resting on his baton hilt in a way that couldn’t be comfortable for the full
duration of the conversation.  The one who’d tried to walk away still had one
leg cocked, the toe of his boot resting on the tile.  “—and I can let him
swim.  We can talk right here.” 
Compared to holding Hannibal’s gaze, holding Dr. Chilton’s was no effort at
all.  He broke easily, though Will wished he’d been able to hear what he said
to the guards as he stepped up to pass between them.  It was more complicated
than a simple direction, but they retreated, and he stepped forward, and Will
put it out of his mind. 
Chilton stopped far enough from the pool that Hannibal would have had to make
an impressive lunge to reach his ankles.  The thought crossed Will’s mind that
that was a mental image he wished he could share with Hannibal—Chilton flailing
at the slick tile, well-earned panic in his eyes—and he dismissed it quick. 
There’d be no time for distractions a moment ago, and there wasn’t now,
either. 
He did, however, allow himself a small one, just long enough to look down at
Hannibal.  He was far too guarded to read, but Will took a moment to cup his
cheek anyway, the pad of his thumb tracing against his cheekbone.  “Go on; it’s
okay.  Pretend they’re not here.”
The last time he’d said that, in the breeding shed, Hannibal hadn’t eased a
bit.  He didn’t this time, either, but there was hesitation in the withdrawal
of Hannibal’s hand from his thigh that seemed to have less to do with the
guards themselves and more to do with Chilton’s proximity.  With a chance to
get further from Chilton offered to him, it could only be his proximity to Will
that posed an obstacle. 
Will’s throat tightened, but before he could think too deeply into the
possibility Hannibal had pulled from him and disappeared beneath the water,
kicking off the wall to swim swiftly out of reach. 
“You know, I’ve heard the Native Americans used to compete to see how many
times they could touch a grizzly bear before it killed them.” 
“Did you hear that from a Native American?”  Will’s dry, wry twist couldn’t go
unheard, even by this one’s ego.  Internally, he reminded himself that at the
end of the day, he wanted to keep his job.  He needed to keep his job, and his
reasons had nothing to do needing a livelihood.  He had enough put back to keep
him and his dogs for the rest of his life if he had to, and books sales rolled
in all the time.  His reason was out on the water, climbing the rope with lean
grace to drop in with a splash like he had when they’d first arrived.  Somehow,
Will felt he was showing off for Chilton’s benefit with entirely different
intent. 
“In any case,” Chilton continued, the fuzz of irritability the only sign Will
had spoken.  “My point is, there’s only so many times you can slap a bear
before it takes off your head.”
“It’s a good thing, then, that I’m not slapping him.”  Even with wisdom and
reminders on his side, his tongue was hard to hold.  It’d given him trouble in
elementary school, and hadn’t stopped a day since. 
Dr. Chilton sighed.  “Mr. Graham, I understand you may disapprove of some of
our methods.  I knew that when you arrived.  Some of them are unconventional,
and I no more have to explain them to you than you have to explain this madness
to me.  We don’t have to like each other, but I need to know you can obey this
facility’s regulations.” 
“I can, and I did.  I’d marked our hour down as uninterrupted due to
potentially dangerous activity, so in fact, technically I wouldn’t be the one
in breach of protocol.” 
“Did anyone ever tell you you’d have made a clever lawyer?”
“First teacher I talked my way out of an assignment with.”  And his father, and
a few others.  His interests had always lain elsewhere. 
Hannibal dropped into the water again, much quieter, his body streamlined as he
slipped into the pool’s center. 
“On a…more personal note,” Chilton said, all carefully veneered geniality.  “I
would advise against getting too attached.  I did bring you here to make him
profitable, and I do sincerely hope that remains true for some time, but I
can’t ignore Mason Verger’s offer.  It’s substantial, and open indefinitely. 
He was quite taken with Hannibal when he saw him fight a few months ago.” 
The chill of threat tingled in Will’s throat, wrapping down and down with vine-
like precision.  When he breathed, he felt the pull of it in his shoulders, his
chest, down deep inside in places he couldn’t name.  As smooth as the cut of
ice.  In the center of the pool, Hannibal treaded water, looking up the rope
like he was measuring distance.  Considering. 
“I’m surprised you allow him to come here, after the court case.  I’d think
you’d want to avoid any…overt association.”  Will could hear the thickness in
his own tone, a shield tugged over any hint of nervous scratch.  He could only
hope Dr. Chilton couldn’t. 
“If he hadn’t been cleared, it’d be a different matter, but he was and besides,
you and I both know he’s unlikely to ever face a case he’ll lose.  The name of
Verger still holds a good deal of respect.”
“And a good deal more cash.”  Will swallowed, a dull ringing needling at his
ears.  “Black market sales, cruelty, trafficking and bestiality.  That last one
seems a strange charge, doesn’t it?  I mean, it could apply if you take into
consideration the kind of beast it would take to do to immature pups half of—“
“No doubt you’ve read Freddie Lounds sensational account, but I testified at
his trial, Will.”  The use of his name grated across Will’s skin like rusty
metal, sharp and flaking, too much left behind to dirty the wounds.  “It was
all a misunderstanding.  He was testing them for sexual maturity.  Really, of
people in all disciplines I would think you would understand—“
“That’s not how you test for sexual maturity.  When it’s reached, it’s
apparent.  It’s painfully obvious.  You don’t go looking for it, and you sure
as hell don’t—“  He had, in fact, read Freddie Lounds’s article, and it swam
now behind his eyes, made far too real by an imagination always in overdrive. 
Will shook his head, grim and quick, unwilling to go further, there.  If he
did, he’d say too much.  “I’m sure the rest of it was a misunderstanding, too. 
He didn’t actually sell any body parts as meat, he just kept them in a deep
freezer.” 
“Like any other breeder, he was within his legal rights to cull individuals not
up to his standards.  What he does with their remains as long as he doesn’t
sell them expressly for consumption is no one’s business but his.  It was all a
drummed up witch hunt; you know how easy it is to stir the masses with a sad
story and a few pictures on the news.” 
The vise of chill talk of Mason Verger had brought to him felt so tight around
his shoulders he would have sworn he could feel it cutting in, reaching bone. 
He hadn’t wanted to believe that Barney’s warning was being seriously
considered, that even this man would find that abomination a viable
alternative.  Belatedly, he noticed that his heart was wild with fear,
thrumming hard, though he’d managed to keep his breath even. 
It would do Hannibal no good to lose his head. 
“Hannibal’s got another twenty years as a stud in him, easily.”  Impressed at
the calm in his voice, Will felt bolstered, able to tear his eyes away from
Hannibal still hovering in the water like some aquatic hummingbird and look up
at Chilton.  He was fairly sure he even managed it without overt venom.  “If
you look at the money he’d make you over that time as a stud and the children
he could father that may go on to bring this place into an even more
prestigious standing…only a fool would throw that away for a quick lump sum.” 
Chilton tilted his head, his sound of musing carrying oddly with its unpleasant
tone up and out, discordant somehow as it bounced back from the tile.  “I
suppose that’s up to the results of your work, Mr. Graham, isn’t it?” 
                                     -----
Though Chilton had gone, and taken the oppressive air of his presence with him,
Hannibal still got out of the pool in silence.  He’d been dead silent since
Chilton had come in, as quickly and fully as if his vocal cords had been
clipped.  Either he’d been watching to see how Will dealt with him, or Chilton
had managed to instill a level of respect for past consequences that could pass
for fear.  Pass for it, or inspire it.  He didn’t suspect Zeller had used the
phrase beaten to within an inch of his life lightly. 
Will tugged a thick towel off the rack, impulsively keeping it rather than
handing it over as he’d intended.   It was more settling to reach up and tousle
with smooth, gentle rubs at Hannibal’s hair, far more gratifying to feel
Hannibal lean into him after only the barest hesitation.  Will tugged the towel
along a lock of hair that hung down near his eyes, squeezing water, letting the
fabric creep lower and lower toward Hannibal’s eyes until they both reached to
push it up. 
When their eyes met, Will smiled.  It didn’t feel as difficult as he’d have
thought a moment ago it would be.  “I told you I’d take responsibility.  How’d
I do?”
“I’m afraid that’s still under review,”  Hannibal said, though there was far
too much good humor in the hands that took the towel from Will for him to be
believed.  Still, there was something straining at him just under the surface. 
Will could see it, so he held his tongue and waited for it, watching Hannibal
dry his face, then his chest, then his face again.  “Did you mean what you said
to him, or was it merely a dig at his authority?”
“You’ll have to be more specific; I’d hope I made quite a few digs at his
authority.” 
Having expected at least a little laugh for that, he couldn’t say he wasn’t
disappointed when Hannibal didn’t.  He studied the weave of the towel, pressed
the thick fabric between his fingers.  “You told him you wanted to take me
somewhere offsite.  An enrichment activity.  Were you posturing higher than you
intend to reach, to make my privileges seem less and get them back?”
Will’s stomach burned, too full to bear of yearning for the mist thin hope
bearing up Hannibal’s words.  The question was so fragile he hadn’t even looked
at Will to ask it—he’d already busied himself with drying his legs and between
them, feigning an air of being thoroughly distracted and absorbed.  An attempt,
no doubt, at giving Will a moment to find a polite refusal, and himself a
moment to recenter his priorities, to remind himself what was and wasn’t
possible. 
“I wouldn’t taunt you with that, Hannibal.  It’s too big.  I said I wanted it
because I have every intention of getting you out of here and letting you spend
a few weekends out at my house.”  If the specter of Mason Verger wasn’t still
clinging to his skin like ice and oil, the naked shock in Hannibal’s eyes would
have washed Chilton’s visit away entirely.  “You need a chance to be in a
different environment.  You can read outside, come fishing with me.  I’ve got
six dogs, though, so—“
“I like dogs.”  Hannibal cleared his throat, looked almost surprised at his own
interruption.  “There was a hunting pack, on the Lecter estate.  Foxhounds. 
Some of the parasapients worked with them to bring down game.  I believe my
father may have been one of them.” 
“They don’t hunt anything but scraps from under the table and roadkill off the
highway if they get too far from me, but they’re good.  You’ll like them.” 
Finished, Hannibal folded the towel carefully before placing it in the bin with
the others that had been used, tossed in all haphazard and bunched.  “We were
trained extensively against desertion when the French military took me from the
orphanage.  It was quite effective.  I won’t run from you.” 
As they started out into the night, Will tried his best not to imagine how
they’d taught freshly mature parasapients not to desert so thoroughly Hannibal
sounded unequivocally certain he wouldn’t consider it decades later.  There was
no fitting answer he’d want to envision. 
Instead, he nudged at Hannibal’s arm with the chain of the leash, light and
teasing.  “If you were going to run, you’d tell me you wouldn’t.  No one in
their right mind would admit otherwise.”
“And yet, I’m still telling the truth.  I would no more run from you there than
I could here, now.  All other considerations aside, practically I’d have
nothing to gain and much to lose.” 
“We’re still not there yet, Hannibal,” Will reminded, though it pleased him to
see that Hannibal looked neither discouraged nor surprised.  The initial shock
he’d had in the aquatic center had melded into something warmer, still
calculating, but more in the way Will’d counted birthday money as a kid than
the way he’d counted days until summer.  Like a reward already won. 
Will slowed his pace to lengthen their walk, shifted until his shoulder just
brushed Hannibal’s, providing a point of contact.  “What do you think of your
new book, so far?”
“It’s difficult, in places.  There are cultural and historical references I
don’t understand, but Victor Hugo seems to do his best to explain a great deal.
 I’m enjoying it very much.”  It wasn’t the same softness he’d had when he’d
let his guard down enough to talk about his family, but it was warm, and real,
and Will wanted to keep it, to let Hannibal talk with such fond interest until
he lost his voice.  “I find Valjean interesting.” 
“I thought you might.” 
“I can’t help but think Hugo made a mistake.” 
Will’s eyebrows rose, though he quickly strangled the urge to laugh at his
newly minted student of literature, already altering the classics.  “Do you? 
Where’d he go wrong?” 
Hannibal’s low noise of frustration was as unexpected as his critique had been,
a betrayal of emotion in itself though the turn of Hannibal’s head cemented
it.  Whatever it was he’d found wrong, he meant it, sincerely.  Will had
thought the trials of a man unjustly imprisoned might appeal to him; he hadn’t
imagined Hannibal might see a different angle, attach himself to an unintended
variable. 
“His sister’s son,” Hannibal said, clear and solid, as if the statement alone
should make his point.  When Will only waited, he kept going.  “He gave up his
freedom to feed this boy.  He was family; he loved him.   Why would he serve 19
years of his life for someone if he had no intention of going to him the moment
he was free?  If he didn’t matter, why not let him starve?  And if he did, why
let him go?” 
There was more here than bread and prison sentences and literary critique—more
even than the precious glimpse it gave him into Hannibal’s mind.  Beyond all
that, there was a piece of history, buried deep.  There was too much vehemence
in Hannibal’s voice, too much honest wondering.  He’d been giving this question
a lot of thought. 
Will intended to tread carefully. 
“Maybe he thought his nephew was better off without him?”  It wasn’t hard to
imagine, for Will, the thought of a man letting go of someone he loved with
only the hope in his mind that somewhere else, they would shine.   “Maybe he’d
written to him in prison, knew he was stable and wouldn’t be helped by knowing
an ex-con.” 
“Better off without someone who cared enough for him to give up his right to
his own life?  He couldn’t be.”  There was such endearing, painfully stubborn
certainty there that Will couldn’t argue. 
Up ahead, Hannibal’s building was approaching, a conglomeration of square
lights in the dark only distinguishable from the others by its pattern. 
“You’ve known love, Hannibal.  You’d have to, to have such a high opinion of
it.”
“It’s rare.  Rarity inspires high opinion, doesn’t it?” 
“Sometimes.  Sometimes it inspires ridicule.  Disbelief.  That it inspires
reverence in you is telling.” 
“And what does it inspire in you?”  The question was soft as breath, Hannibal’s
eyes cutting to him almost furtively, if they hadn’t continued to watch so
closely. 
Will ducked his head, his mouth suddenly bone dry as he raked his fingers
through his hair against the grain.  “Love, or rarity?”  His throat ached
oddly, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to wait for clarification.  “I mean, I
guess it’s the same for both.  The world tries to crush them.  Stamp them out. 
I just like to see them survive, but if you ask around I’m considered rare
myself, so—“  his shrug shifted his shoulder against Hannibal’s, solid and
strong, not pressing into the contact but not moving away.  “Can’t say I’m
unbiased.  I’m not done yet.  Still got too much work to do to be stamped out
before I’m done.” 
“Love, to you, is more protection than devotion?”
Will’s throat worked against nothing.  His hand lifted, driven by increasingly
familiar habit to rub at the nape of Hannibal’s neck.  The contact helped
unstick his throat.  “It’s no one thing, Hannibal.  Love doesn’t have a simple
definition.  Not for me, or for you.” 
Behind the wrinkles at the corners of Hannibal’s eyes Will could see his
thoughts turning, considering, classifying.  Assimilating feelings he knew, and
knowledge he hadn’t, reaching for a better understanding of himself. 
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     <3 You are all utterly incredible and I adore you. I can't tell you
     how much all your comments mean to me, but please know they /make my
     day/ and I'm working my way through responding to every one, :)
     Also, as some like...general notes-
     -This is looking like it will probably come out at around 48 chapters
     or so, so we're in for a long ride here, XD
     -There is still a chance there'll end up being 3 chapters this week.
     Today was not a good day, though, so we'll see. x.x
     -There are so many points in this journey I'm excited for you guys to
     see, and to read your perspectives on. SO MANY. And yet, some of them
     have gotten moved around because these two won't friggin shut up,
     lmao Story of my life with writing hannigram...they never shut up.
     Thank you, thank you, thank you <3
See the end of the chapter for more notes
When Will stepped inside, Hannibal wasn't reading.  Will had become so
accustomed to the sight of him cocooned under his blanket with a book propped
up that the lack of it was jarring, enough to feel like cause for concern. 
Once he'd taken a proper look, he could tell he wasn't wrong.  
Hannibal sat at the table with his arm outstretched, presumably to have better
light, prodding at the end of a short line of stitches on his arm.  The skin
around the point he was worrying at had already gone an angry shade of red,
stark against the blue-black dark of his stitches. 
Torn between worry and exasperation, Will shrugged the bag he'd carried over
his shoulder down to the floor, already moving forward before it had even
finished settling. "Hey, stop that." 
Hannibal's answering growl was so soft the sound of his dinner tray and Will's
fast food sack being half tossed onto the table almost covered it entirely, but
Will had good ears.  Excellent hearing, but little fear.  Even if Hannibal had
properly snarled he wasn't sure at this point he'd have heeded it—that  
probably wasn't wise and might be worth examining later, but for the moment he
couldn't be bothered.  The wound looked more irritated up close, and there was
no dangerous readiness in Hannibal's posture, only rounded shoulders and quick,
stiff fingered jabs that betrayed petulance underpinned by anger directed
inward. 
"Come on; cut it out."  Will's hand closed around his wrist, a firm squeeze
though he didn't try to jerk his hand back, only to hold him.  Will had moved
so close he ended up sitting on the table, the vantage point helping him close
the distance between them a little more.  Hannibal's finger jabbed at the last
stitch again, javelin direct, and Will gave up on his wrist to tangle his
fingers with Hannibal's, immobilizing as he dipped his head.  "Hannibal, hey,
look at me." 
Hannibal squeezed until it hurt, Will’s knuckles aching.  Nameless, irritating
panic began to bubble up in Will's stomach, goading his breath until it was
quick and shallow.  By the time the sensation equalized, he was sure that if it
had been liquid it would have come to a sloshing rest midway through his chest,
slopping back and forth between the two of them like a wave contained, licking
at Will's lungs.  Hannibal had been struggling alone to contain it, and as well
as his own awareness of its senselessness.  Whether the distress, its
pointlessness, or his inability to fully quell it had troubled him the most
Will wasn't sure, but Will held onto him fiercely and breathed with him until
his fingers started to tingle from the force.  Near numbness replaced pain, and
their breath began to steady in tandem. 
Only then did Hannibal properly look at him, something still wild and hunted in
his eyes like he'd been taken somewhere else and dropped to wander in the
unfamiliar, dazed and off balance.  His grip loosened, and Will's tightened,
clumsy with lack to feeling.  He didn't dare let him go.
Even slightly fumbling as it was, his grip drew Hannibal's eyes down.   He
blinked, slowly enough that Will had thought for a moment his eyes were going
to stay closed. 
Will couldn't hold his concern any longer than that.  "Do you want to tell me
what happened?" 
Hannibal's fingers tugged at his, a softly frustrated noise blowing out on his
breath when Will didn't let him go.  He wasn't trying very hard to pull away. 
"The last stitch,” Hannibal murmured, his chin tipped toward his wound.  He
moved to reach toward it with light enough pressure that Will let him go,
relieved when Hannibal’s fingers came to rest on either side of the wound
rather than troubling it again.  “It’s not even.  It’s much larger, and I can
feel it more underneath the skin.  Dr. Price’s work is more precise; I should
have waited—“  Hannibal breathed in sharply, drawing up with tension that eased
when Will took his hand again.  This time, Hannibal’s fingers curled around his
with feather-light care.  “It’s not important.”
Will had half a dozen questions, at least.  He’d known Hannibal had practice in
the arena today, but Barney had been taking him every week for years.  It was,
to this point, an aspect of Hannibal’s life—and Barney’s—that he hadn’t seen
fit to interfere in, or so his answer had been when Barney had asked two weeks
ago if he’d like to take him.  Deep down, the truth felt far more complicated. 
He had no trouble taking Hannibal and letting him run an obstacle course in an
empty arena, or walking him outdoors.  Taking him swimming. 
Watching him mimic the struggle to kill or be killed in supposedly safe
practice trials of the kind that had killed Abernis…
He’d never enjoyed combat training at the FBI, either, and after Anthony he’d
liked it even less. 
Still, it was an aversion he’d likely need to get over.  Whatever had happened
today he should have been there, at least should have been called after it
had.  All things considered the wound was small and looked fairly clean, but
Hannibal was enough his that he had a right to know. 
That much he could settle with Zeller, but the matter of what had left Hannibal
agitated and half present, lost and entirely capable of hurting himself…that
was more pressing. 
The further Hannibal calmed, the more he looked ashamed.  There was even a
touch of color to his high cheeks, his head tilted father away from Will than
it had been when they’d first met.  He’d hoped that waiting might give Hannibal
a chance to continue, but seeing him try to swallow around indignity he
couldn’t stomach was too much for Will to wait out. 
“It happens to people too, you know,” He said, soft, barely above a whisper. 
Hannibal’s fingers twitched around his.  “Soldiers, prisoners.  Anyone who’s
lived through something they shouldn’t have had to face.  Sometimes there’s not
an external reason at all.  If it’s not trauma it’s all…brain chemistry.  At
the end of the day we’re all just a mess of biological systems.  Most of the
time they work well; sometimes they don’t.” 
Hannibal swallowed, his left arm flexing.  The stitches shifted over muscle,
pulling in a way that couldn’t be comfortable, though his breath didn’t so much
as change.  “Neurons.  Communication of thought.” 
“That’s right.” 
“I remember a little, from the vet school.”  Hannibal’s hand slipped from his
to shift his hair away from his eyes.  The loss of that point of connection
wasn’t pleasant.  Will rested his hand against Hannibal’s arm just below the
wound to alleviate it.  “Does it ever happen to you?”  Hannibal’s eyes found
his, steadier now, less searching.  “A failure to communicate within your own
mind?” 
“Sometimes, yeah.”  More often when he was younger, in school and seeing much
he’d like to forget.  With his free hand, he pressed the nail of his thumb
against the corner of his eye, for focus.  For a moment, his eyes closed under
the effort of thinking without fully recalling.  Caging his demons.  “I haven’t
slept well in years.  I have nightmares.  Sometimes they’re worse than
others.” 
“So do I.”  Hannibal’s tone matched his, a cathedral hush. 
It wasn’t news, not when Barney had warned him that Hannibal would occasionally
wake up screaming, but hearing about it from Hannibal would be more than even
she had gotten.  According to all she’d told Will, she’d never been able to get
a word out of him that wasn’t an apology for disturbing her, or quiet thanks
for bringing him a cold cloth for his face, letting him rest a moment against
her shoulder. 
Will stroked his thumb against Hannibal’s arm, waiting.   
“They’re always the same, but I can only ever remember pieces of them, no
matter how hard or long I try.” The layer of exasperation across his words was
close to the frustration Will had felt in him when he’d arrived—anger at his
own perceived shortcomings, at the pieces of his mind and body he couldn’t
direct.  He had control over so little in his life.  Losing control of the
pieces that should have been wholly his must have seemed a horrible betrayal. 
“Even so it takes a while to come out of them.  It’s usually some time before I
feel like myself again.  I fell asleep after I came back from the clinic.  I’d
barely noticed the discrepancy in the stiches when Dr. Zeller did them, but
after…” 
“You woke up, and it was all you could notice.” 
Hannibal nodded, short and tight.  “My arm had hurt in the dream, too.  It
was…an ill-timed coincidence.  I didn’t intend for you—“
“I’m glad I got here when I did.”  To stop him, and to have the opportunity to
help him understand.  To tell him as no one else had clearly ever seen fit to
do that he wasn’t alone. 
Hannibal’s eyes tracked over Will’s bag at the door to the tray and sack on the
table as if he was noticing them for the first time, his forehead slightly
furrowed.  “We had no training session today.  I didn’t expect company.” 
“I know.  I thought it might be nice to have dinner together.  Maybe do a
little test of your training afterward if you felt up to it.”  He’d been fairly
sure Hannibal wouldn’t object to a training session with no strings attached—no
teasing, no trip to the lab.  No probe.  Just the two of them, getting a feel
for how Hannibal had progressed.  Now, with the state of his mind, Will was
less sure it’d be welcome. 
The desire to focus on putting Hannibal at ease was far too great for that
realization to be more than fleetingly disappointing. 
“And now your dinner’s getting cold.”  It was more than plain in both
Hannibal’s words and his tone that he was trying hard to stay angry at himself,
still, but it was harder to maintain when Will’s arrival plainly pleased him. 
Since their second week together, Will couldn’t remember a time when his
arrival hadn’t pleased him.  Grim as he’d been when Will came in, the
beginnings of a smile pulled at his lips.  “I don’t have another chair.  You’ll
have to take this one.” 
Will’s laughter was a little hoarse, but Hannibal didn’t seem to mind it, his
head tilting up at the sound as if to savor the trickle of it into his ear.  
“I’m not going to take your chair, Hannibal.  This is your room; I’ll sit on
the table.  On the floor, if that’d be better.” 
Hannibal’s hand covered Will’s, pressing it against his arm as if Will had
already tried to pull away.  “Stay, please.  The table is fine.” 
“Even if it is, I still have to see to your arm first.  I’ve got some supplies
in my bag; I can—“
“Zeller said it’s not to be washed for 48 hours.”
“Pretty sure he also would have said don’t poke it until it bleeds and looks
infected, too.”  Will kept his tone light, his fondness clear and thick as he
reached to smooth Hannibal’s hair.  Now that he knew he’d been sleeping, it did
look a little more mussed than normal, a little tangled in places beneath his
fingertips.  “He’ll be gone for the day by the time we get to the clinic if he
isn’t already.  We’ll have to go see him tomorrow morning, but I guess I’ll
hold off washing it until then.  I might cover it before I leave, though.”
“It won’t be necessary.”  A touch of stiffness returned, there, and Will wished
he hadn’t said it.  The last thing he wanted to do was make Hannibal feel…
The only comparison that came to mind was the image of Anansi with an e-collar
on his head, trying valiantly to get at the IV line he’d already ripped out
once from his other leg.  The parallel didn’t sit well in his stomach, but the
reason was harder to pin—was it the uncomfortable reminder that his mind on
some level still classed Hannibal as more animal than man, or the inherent
truth of the touch of something animal in man? 
Panic was universal.  A terrified man could claw his own eyes out to chase a
phantom itch in his brain; a terrified rabbit could break their own spine to
try and escape a trap.  No one was immune to mistakes of biology, breakdowns in
sensible neurological communication.  In that respect, the field was level. 
What, if anything, that meant was far harder to determine, and nothing Will
wanted to think about. 
He was with Hannibal.  If he couldn’t stay in the moment with him, later he’d
wish he had. 
Hannibal uncovered his tray to expose a slab of raw ribs, with cups alongside
it containing cooked carrots and some form of corn relish.  Absolutely none of
it looked remotely appetizing.  The hollow portion of the tray underneath the
meat clinked and sloshed as Hannibal moved it, proof that the ice put there to
keep the meat good and chill had started to thaw some time ago.
Will grimaced, paused in unrolling the top of his sack.  "I'm sorry; I didn't
even think to check how long it'd been sitting out.  If it's too warm-"
"It's perfectly fine.  So long as it hasn't set long enough to begin to spoil I
honestly prefer warm.  It doesn't come out of the cow refrigerated."
Will laughed, pleased more by Hannibal's little smile at his own wit than the
morbid humor itself.  The bun on his Krystals had gone soggy with the wait, but
they were never overly dry to begin with.  His first bite had too much onion,
his second too much pickle.  Will set the little burger down to fish in the bag
for his fries.
"And have you ever had it like that?  Straight out of the..."  Will gestured
with a fry before he ate it, a vague motion meant to indicate something large,
and living.   "Source." 
Hannibal separated a bone and stripped meat from it with delicate grace and
precision, incongruous with blood seeping out around his fingers, red showing
in the marrow.  The thought crossed Will's mind that he'd never managed to look
that dignified eating ribs—no one did.  There was always sauce everywhere,
fingers and faces as coated as if they’d made a kill that bled barbecue. 
After he swallowed, he answered, the bone still held primly between his
fingers.    “When I was very small.  Those who hunted with the foxhounds were
sometimes permitted to bring something back to the kennel.  We had rabbit, and
fox, and once a small deer.  More often than not, we had whatever cook provided
us.  He was good at his job, and indulgent.  Our food was often no different
than the human Lecter’s themselves.”
As when he’d mentioned the estate before, there was a certain wistful fondness
to his voice when he spoke of the place.  An almost careful appreciation, as if
he both recalled it well and tread gently around its memory, like a sealed
tomb. 
Will took up another square burger.  “I thought you might have.  Most
parasapients I’ve met prefer cooked meat.” 
“Most parasapients you’ve met have never had to dine here.”  Hannibal’s reply
came without a second’s hesitation, only pausing afterward to separate another
strip of meet from the bone.  His teeth sheered it off impeccably cleanly. 
“Taking my meat raw gives them minimal chance to ruin it.  Since I can digest
it, it’s preferable to their attempts at making food appetizing.  If you’d like
an example, try one of the carrots.” 
Will cast his eye to the cup, where sliced carrots so pale they looked near
yellow lay seeping in orange water.  Bits of what was probably supposed to be
basil dotted the carrots like pox.  “I’d rather not, thanks.”
“I’d have been concerned if you’d been interested.”  Hannibal’s humor reached
his eyes, a sparkle that seemed to dance a little brighter as he studied the
hamburger Will was eating.  “Although…well, it’s not for me to say.  It might
smell better, to you.” 
Will couldn’t help but laugh behind the hand that still held half his burger,
cuffing Hannibal so lightly with the other against his shoulder that he barely
made contact.  “Hey, now, I grew up eating this stuff.  When my dad was a kid,
you could get 12 Krystals for less than a dollar.” 
“Unheard of now, I would assume?”
“Completely, and a hell of a break if you’re poor.” 
“And you no longer are,”  Hannibal continued smoothly, detaching a second rib
as he spoke.  “Barney can’t be the only one who has all your books.  But they
remind you of your father?” 
Will shrugged, wiped his hands on a too thin napkin.  They were greasy, like
fair food.  “I guess.  Eating in the back of the truck on a blanket, tossing a
bite to the dogs.  I didn’t know they couldn’t have onions back then; it’s a
miracle no one died.  Mostly I guess it’s an acquired taste.”  Will tapped the
next box on the table to settle the contents of the burger, his eyes catching
Hannibal’s under the fringe of his curls.  “I’d offer you this one but I’m
guessing it smells too terrible to risk?” 
“I’m not sure it’s a taste I can acquire.  My sense of smell is a good deal
better than yours.” 
“Not sure that’s the problem, Hannibal.  I think you might just be picky.”
Unusual, given his circumstances, but oddly endearing all the same.  “Tell you
what, I’ll cook you some trout sometime soon, okay?  You’ll like it.”
“I’d appreciate it very much.  I don’t think I’ve ever had trout.” 
They slipped into companionable silence, and for a time ate that way, forearms
brushing here and there in a way that was entirely coincidental on the surface,
and felt less so.  The contact was easy, as was the silence, easier even than
he’d experienced with other parasapients he’d worked with, and he’d never had
trouble bonding.  Trouble letting go, that he’d had in spades.  That he already
felt closer to this one than any of the others should have frightened him, in
part, or given him trepidation for his eventual departure at the least, but
even though the training he put Hannibal through every day was intended to
prepare him for Will’s eventual absence, it all seemed a long ways away.  The
time they’d have together stretched out like a tunnel before him, utterly
welcoming, drawing him deeper into a labyrinth he wanted only to lose himself
in. 
Eventually, finished but for a handful of straggler fries, Will’s hand found
its way again to the patch of skin near Hannibal’s stitches, his fingertips
light and searching.  Near the surgical thread itself, the skin felt too puffy
to the touch, too sensitive.  Hannibal held still, and let him feel, and Will
found his mind tripping backwards.
The arena, faced off for practice.  Another alpha, this time—the cut was on the
back of his arm, like it had been forced up and out by someone stronger, a
wider chest, thicker arms.  Hannibal had wounded them first, undoubtedly, and
they struck back.  Fierce, determined if not to gain ground then at least not
to lose it.  To keep clear of the teeth they’d been so warned about, teeth that
killed.  They pushed back, arms wide, and Hannibal—
Something startled him, jarred him.  With his balance taken, he’d fall heavy
enough on the arm against an obstacle to cut deep.  It hurt, but the shock of
it was worse than the pain, the moment of lapse. 
Will exhaled slowly, drew his fingers back and breathed in.  He smelled blood,
cold and stale, and reminded himself it was the ribs, not Hannibal.  Not
Hannibal. 
Still, he had to ask. 
“Can we talk about what happened to your arm, and why Zeller didn’t call me?” 
Down to the last of his ribs, Hannibal left his single strip of meat remaining,
and began to eat the surely cold carrots.  Carefully, mechanically.  Detached
from every bite but eating it, like a wolf storing up calories for later.  Like
a child who’d known hunger. 
“For the first part, there’s nothing to talk about it.  I was almost pinned,
and the angle was off.  Barney said I still would have won if the buyers had
been watching, but I’d lose points for not stopping when called down.  I
regained the upper hand before I disengaged.  As they weren’t watching, it
seems irrelevant.  It was only practice.” 
To an extent he wasn’t wrong, but he also wasn’t entirely right, either. 
Heritable traits were recorded for public record at the demonstrations buyers
attended, but they could be recorded by a breeder at any time, to keep track of
their breeding pool.  There were aspects, like scrotal size, that had been
determined definitively to have high heritability and some relation to
fertility, while others such as aggression and obedience were far more hotly
debated.  Both traits had been determined heritable, able to be passed with
some degree of regularity to offspring, but just how much of that transfer was
truly genetics and how much lie in upbringing remained to be seen, in Will’s
opinion.
Regardless, Hannibal would be judged for his results.  The better his scores,
the better his prospects as a stud.  It wasn’t Will’s area of specialty, but
he’d have to start being present for it, for both their sakes.  Hannibal would
listen to him; he became more sure of it every day. 
Whether it would have been easier or more difficult to stomach if Hannibal had
been hurt with him there to direct him remained to be seen.
Will’s thumb stroked a little too close to the last stitch Hannibal had taken
exception to, felt the skin grow just a touch a warmer where it had been
disturbed.  “And the second, about Zeller?”
Hannibal’s noise was noncommittal, and might have been written off as distaste
at his mouthful of corn relish if Will hadn’t just asked him a question.  He
swallowed slowly.  “I asked him not to trouble you.  As he knows you at least a
little, it was easy enough to convince him you’d prefer he took my judgment
since it wasn’t serious.”  Hannibal turned his fork over in his hands, his
fingers feeling out the edges with something akin to nervous energy.  “You
mentioned taking half the dogs to the vet, on your day off.  I assumed it was
today.”
Knowing the root of his deception probably shouldn’t have loosened anything in
Will’s chest, but it did.  Tension drained out of his stomach as if it had been
smoothed out by and iron, hot and warm, its impression still lingering.  His
fingers found the inside of Hannibal’s wrist and curled around it, too loose to
be taking his pulse. 
“It was,” he confirmed, his grip twitching a little tighter when Hannibal
didn’t immediately look at him.  “Appointments can be rescheduled, Hannibal. 
If something happens to you, I need to be here.  End of story.” 
“But you aren’t angry.”  It wasn’t a question, ostensibly, but it held weight. 
Will reached to stroke his hair until Hannibal tilted toward him, and he could
cup Hannibal’s jaw in the palm of his hand.  His hair still looked disheveled,
and for a moment the urge to kiss the top of his head out of sheer fondness
struggled in his throat. 
Hannibal hadn’t finished his dinner.  It wasn’t the time. 
“No,”  Will said, a little hoarse, a little too quiet.  He cleared his throat. 
“No, I’m not angry, but I don’t want it to happen again.  I won’t talk to
Zeller about it—“ as the words came out, they shocked even himself.  He’d
intended to, fully, but somehow hearing Hannibal’s fragile consideration had
jarred him with the sensation that it would feel like going over Hannibal’s
head.  He could do that—in other ways he did it all the time—but it didn’t feel
right, here, and his feelings chose for him.  “—but tell him to call me next
time, okay?  I don’t care where I am.” 
“I will.”  Unlike the first time he’d suspected he felt the brush of Hannibal’s
tongue, after his first collection, there could be no doubt that when he turned
his head to nuzzle Will’s palm it darted out.  A soft lap, warm, almost dry. 
So quick it was there and gone, a slip of affection too slight to comment on.
Slight, and yet Will felt as if his gut had been forcibly shaken, rough like
the whipping crack of a rope in a dog’s mouth.  Half conscious, his middle
finger rubbed against the spot on his palm where Hannibal’s tongue had been,
felt the barest patch of damp. 
As he tried to untangle the sudden, half uncomfortable white noise of his mind,
Hannibal stripped his last rib, laid the bone down in an even row alongside the
others.  Finished, he covered the tray, and folded his hands under his chin
before looking up at Will. 
“You mentioned a training exercise, if I feel up to it.  I do.  What did you
have in mind?”  
With his mind so tangled, the prospect suddenly sounded far more riddled with
subtle strings than Will had intended.  He was sure he could feel them already,
like piano wire around his throat, his wrists, binding him to hooks under
Hannibal’s skin, rooted to the warmth in his eyes. 
Chapter End Notes
     ...if you wanna see what a set of cattle heritable traits looks like,
     you can go here-
     https://www.pubs.ext.vt.edu/404/404-084/404-084.html
     No, I don't remember how to calculate jack shit with any of that.
     It's been a few years, XD
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     I did succeed in getting bonus third chapter ready for you, <3 Enjoy
     :)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Will swallowed, his head shaking once in token denial.  “We don’t have to;
you’ve had a hell of a day.” 
“Will it be unpleasant?”  Hannibal asked, something a little bemused in the
tilt of his words, his chin still resting easily on his folded hands.  
“No, no of course it—no.  I wouldn’t suggest anything difficult for a day we’d
normally not have a session.  I just thought we might test how well you’re
coming along with the pressure points training, no teasing, no collection.”  
Hannibal hummed, soft, close to laughter.  His left arm stretched out along the
table to let his chin rest in his palm, but Will’s eyes were drawn to the
stitches.  There were four of them, a good 2 inch long gash, if not longer.  3,
more likely.  Hannibal hadn’t shown any sign of pain. 
“No teasing, beyond the training exercise itself, I’m to assume?  I’m not
opposed; I feel well enough, but if there’s to be no collection—“ 
“There’s no need for collection, but that doesn’t mean I won’t let you finish. 
This would be an exercise, not a punishment.”  A reward, of sorts.  It had
almost a month now the two of them had been working together, and Hannibal had
performed impeccably.  Now, he could have a chance to gauge how the groundwork
he was laying was developing, and give Hannibal something of a reward in the
process.  Pleasure unmarred by process.  
“I may be wrong,” Hannibal said, in a tone of such clear resonance it was
perfectly clear he was positive he wasn’t.  “But isn’t what you’re proposing
against Chilton’s regulations?  No release unless it’s for collection?  I’ve
heard him explain to many who’ve toured the facility that the process makes the
alphas…ask for it.”  There was such chilled, barbed disdain beneath the surface
with that turn of phrase that Will felt cut through with it, his breath seized
up short.  
“Hannibal—“ 
“Don’t trouble yourself, Will; we aren’t talking about you.  We were discussing
Dr. Chilton.”  The blaze of heat in Hannibal’s eyes was strong enough to sear
him when their eyes met, all the more odd for how well the color was hidden. 
They were wide and dark, and though Will could feel the padding of Hannibal’s
substantial fondness toward him blunting all sharp edges, he could, too, feel
the force of the spear of anger behind it, old and well-tended, tempered in
fear and outrage and hurt. 
Will swallowed, an odd pressure squeezing at all his joints from the inside, as
if he’d dived too deep.  “It’s not a regulation, it’s his method, and my
methods aren’t like his.  I’m not Dr. Chilton.” 
“I’m well aware of that, Will.  Are you?”  
The observation hit Will as firmly as a spear thrown, though even in the moment
he knew he felt it far more keenly than Hannibal had intended.  Hannibal was
learning him, yes, but for all he’d gleaned he couldn’t possibly yet be sure
how deep Will’s doubts ran, how rampant his own thoughts and fears had become. 
He didn’t have the benefit of knowledge of Will’s history, his revelations. 
His regrets, or his triumphs.  He knew none of it, couldn’t have a full
picture, but maybe he didn’t need one.  He’d seen Will’s insecurity thoroughly
enough, had a keen enough eye to hit him in a soft spot Will both tried to be
aware of and keep a blind eye to.  
The wound throbbed.  Was he aware?  He was, certainly, different from Chilton
in a number of ways, but in doing his job as well and as ethically as he could,
was he still doing a disservice?  Was it not better, to do what was going to be
done badly without him and do it well instead, to make what difference he could
inside a system he could no more dismantle by hand than he could change
Hannibal’s past?  
Will rubbed his hand over his eyes, and still felt nauseous.  As if the table
were too high, enough to give him vertigo.  He sighed, and it felt louder than
it could have been.  Everything was amplified.  “I’ll go.  You should rest. 
I’ll tell—“ 
Hannibal’s hand closed around his wrist, warm and tight.  “Will, please…that
wasn’t for you.” 
“Wasn’t it?  You addressed me that time; you weren’t talking about Chilton.” 
“The anger wasn’t for you.”  When he dared meet them, there was far less
seething in the dark behind Hannibal’s eyes.  Far more softness, the genuine
damper of regret.  “You haven’t earned it, and you don’t deserve it.  I meant
what I said.  You are not Dr. Chilton, or any other man I’ve known.  You’re an
anomaly among even the best of them.”  
Will both wanted, and didn’t want, to let that reassurance wash over him.  He
held it at arm’s length instead, struggling with the many arms of a rarely
glimpsed leviathan to wrap around him and pull him down.  “You haven’t known
that many good people.  If I stand out—“
“You’d stand out anywhere.  I’m sure of that.”  Hannibal’s grip loosened, then
left entirely, the tips of his fingers trailing down Will’s arm.  It felt more
a caress than withdrawal.  “If we’re going to be…friends, as you said you
wanted—“
“I do,” Will interjected, rough and tight with the force of wanting it. 
Sometimes, it seemed he wanted that even more than he did the work he’d come to
do.  He’d began with the intention of sharing Hannibal with the world and
already, he felt selfish.  When he was with Hannibal, the desire to maintain
and deepen the settling sensation of rightness he felt when they were together
was powerful. 
“Then we’ll have to adjust to honesty.  I doubt even you have often received it
from my kind, and for obvious reasons I’ve not often given it.  Few have ever
given me the impression they wanted it, but you have.  You asked for it, and
told me I might not always like your questions.”  Hannibal settled back in his
chair, his voice softening and losing none of its strength.  “You should be
prepared to not always like my answers.”  
As he had been when Hannibal tested him, Will felt unpleasantly slapped by
reality.  A grating reminder of the world and his place in it, of the depth and
layers to it that his life inherently removed him from the ability to
understand.  He could put himself in Hannibal’s position far better than most
could, but at the end of the day he was a human man, born to human parents and
raised with human conveniences.  He could envision, and he could feel the choke
of fear and confinement weighing down on him when he walked the kennel halls,
but he’d never properly lived it.  Even he with all his gifts would forever be
at least that critical degree removed. 
Will shifted to sit cross legged on the table, the heels of his boots digging
into his thighs.  A wry voice at the back of his mind reminded him he hadn’t
even asked if Hannibal would mind his shoes on the table, a nagging note of how
much he still worked at putting into practice.  He had offered to sit on the
floor, done his best to respect Hannibal’s space.  He was trying. 
“With the nature of my job—“
“As I said, you’ve done nothing to offend me.  If I could search your history
and find a list to reproach you with, it’d likely be short.” 
“Yeah, well.  Be that as it may—“ Will brushed his curls back and forced his
head up, too in need of watching every facet of Hannibal’s answer to allow
himself to withdraw into introspection now.  “I didn’t ask you if you wanted to
learn pressure point training, and I didn’t explain too well to you why I do
it.  I should have.  It makes it easier to disconnect from the process, and get
it over for you quickly if that’s what you want.  Or, to enjoy it without
teasing.  Teasing’s not always bad and I’ve known some that even like it, but
it can be a stressor, and it’s exhausting.  Taking that out gives you more time
in your day, and for you…”  Will’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, suddenly
oddly aware of the strain it took for his heart to beat, like the quiver of a
muscle stretched beyond endurance from a run, overworked.  “Eventually, when
Chilton gets rid of me, you’ll have to work with other people.  If collection’s
easy, they’ll have less reason for restraint, less…reason to fool with you at
all.” 
“Paving a road for me, with your hands,” Hannibal murmured.  In the tilt of his
head, Will could see him considering.  The chosen words of his observation
played over again in Will’s mind, leaving him uncomfortably warm, his skin
tight.  “Is it for your care you think Dr. Chilton will ultimately reject
you?” 
Will tilted his left shoulder, felt the scar tissue from his old injury in
Louisiana shift in a way he usually didn’t.  The amplification of sensory input
that had so overwhelmed him moments before hadn’t gone, but it had dropped to a
duller roar.  “Care, and what comes from it.”  Will’s mouth quirked up, a smile
that felt more at home when Hannibal returned it before he’d even spoken
again.  “The symptoms of it.” 
“A disease of care, spreading through your actions, with the potential to
infect those around you.  Dr. Chilton would see it that way.” 
He would, and too much of the world would agree with him.  Even those who loved
their parasapients dearly might rebel against what Will had to say, when he
could bring himself to say it.  When he’d come here weeks go he’d told himself
he couldn’t be certain of how much Hannibal could comprehend without testing
him, but even then it had tasted a lie, if he was honest.  He’d known then, and
known again when he’d come in to see Hannibal with his music theory book open
in front of him, tearing bits off his breakfast napkin and rolling the strips
thin to lay them out into a staff, practicing the placement of notes with
strawberry tops. 
Will let his hand rest on Hannibal’s, his thumb tracing the ball of the joint
at his wrist.  The last of the vertigo left him, blowing clear like mist.  As
if Hannibal were solid ground.  With that point of contact, the words that had
to come next seemed much easier.  “I didn’t ask you if you wanted that training
when I got here, but I can now.  If you don’t, we’ll go back to your schedule
from before.  It’s up to you.” 
Hannibal’s head tilted up toward the fluorescent lights, eyes closed, like he
was seeking sun that wasn’t there.  “If you’d asked me when you got here, my
answer would have been different.  You called it freedom, and it isn’t, but I
find that I enjoy what it is more than I’d have ever expected.  For different
reasons than yours, perhaps.” 
Will was tempted, sorely tempted to ask what those reasons were.  His tongue
felt oddly pinned to the floor of his mouth. 
“I don’t hate my…job.  I’m better off than some, and I’m better off here than I
have been elsewhere.  I miss the vet school, sometimes, for the variety.  I
wonder what I would have become in other circumstances, but the variables are
too many.  I get angry, and I try to avoid it.  There’s less point in worrying
about a future I can’t obtain than there is the future ahead of me, and I don’t
concern myself with that at all.  It will be better, or worse.  My control over
it is laughable, but I do what I can.  I enjoy what I can.”  His eyes cracked
open, a smile that warmed Will down to his bones crinkling at the corners of
them.  “I enjoy being surprised by you.  So to answer your question, if you do
something I’d like you to stop, I’ll tell you, as I did in our first proper
session.  Otherwise, assume you have my consent.  I’m quite content with being
under your care and in the spirit of honesty, that’s as much a surprise to me
as anything else you’ve managed.” 
“Guess that answers the question of whether this—“  Will intended to gesture
between them, but his hand didn’t lift.  It squeezed at Hannibal’s wrist
instead, but the point, he had to assume, was communicated.  “—is as…weird for
you as it is for me.  I’ve had friends, but not many good ones.  Human or
parasapient, I’ve always…I see too much, when I don’t even mean to.  If I’m
actively trying…”
“Try, and you see everything.  Risky, when many don’t want to be seen.” 
Hannibal sat forward, leaning fully into the table.  His wrist pressed into
Will’s hand.  “If we are going to know each other, properly, I expect we’ll
continue making each other uncomfortable, at times.  Unless we abandon honesty
for strict civility, I don’t think there’s another way.” 
“I don’t want to be civil with you, Hannibal.” 
“Nor do I want you to be.  I prefer you exactly as you are.”  Hannibal’s arm
turned, exposing his palm.  Traditionally, a gesture of submission,
acceptance.  Will pressed his own against it, and breathed deep when Hannibal’s
fingers curled lightly against the back of his hand.  “I’ve met no one else I
would rather be uncomfortable with.”  It could have been an insult, if it
weren’t so full of humor, a level of fond regard that almost reached good
cheer.  The anger and contemplation that had risen in him discussing Chilton
was gone.  Part of Will hoped his own honesty had helped it along, but he
wouldn’t take the credit, not when their conversation had let his brain feeling
as if the moment he left Hannibal’s presence it’d be unmoored, lost in a sea of
memory and feeling and doubt. 
Hannibal slipped his arm free and stood, stretching to his full height.  The
languorous pull of muscle under skin reminded Will strongly of a big cat, lithe
and lean, at home in his skin.  His cock was soft, for the moment, but there
was interest in his eyes, a spark usually only seen before he scented the air
for an omega. 
“How does my test begin?” 
Will’s huff of laughter gave him a moment to flex his hands, gather himself and
slide from the table.  “It’s not a difficult test; it probably won’t even take
long.  You can face the wall, or a bookshelf.  Something you can lean your
hands on.  Don’t try to think about getting ready, though; just think about
anything you’d like.” 
“Anything I’d like, so long as it isn’t breeding.” 
“You’ll be thinking about that soon enough.” 
Hannibal pressed his hands to the bookshelf, his head hanging a little between
his arms.  The tension in his shoulders looked more like anticipation than fear
or stress, like the coil of a predator preparing to pounce. 
Approaching from behind, Will stroked smoothly down his flank, a long, even
caress.  The noise that escaped Hannibal was small and startled, his hands
clenching against the shelf so smooth and quick his knuckles went white all at
once.  Moving in closer, Will could see that his cock had indeed responded,
likely with a brisk jerk that had left it as it was now, thicker than it should
be at rest, clear interest indicated in its rise. 
Will steadied him with his right hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, his chest close
enough to his back that if Hannibal pushed back at all they’d have been flush. 
“That’s good, Hannibal,”  he murmured, petting him again with the same smooth,
full-handed touch.  “It’ll feel a little strange at first, like it’s come out
of nowhere.” 
Hannibal swallowed heavily, a faint shudder passing through him that stilled
when Will increased the pressure against his ribs.  “Strange is…a word for it.”
 Hannibal’s accent was thick, as if in his distraction enunciation had become
too much.  “As if you pulled a string bound to your palm.”
Will’s pulse pounded in his neck, his ears.  The room felt hot, air thick like
it had been the first time he’d walked into this room.  Full of scent, full of
Hannibal.  Fronted by glass windows, baring them to anyone who walked by.  It
wasn’t a surprise, that knowledge, so why did it feel, now, like something to
make his skin burn?  There was nothing illicit, nothing private about
training.  They had no need of closed doors. 
“Not just my palm.  Anyone could do this, if they know how.  Your body responds
to the trigger, like it already does to the gloves, to the table, to the scent
of an omega—“
“It’s different,”  Hannibal said, clipped, less rounded.  Closed off, like he’d
already categorized the effect in his mind, and didn’t want it explained. 
Unusual, for someone who more often than not appreciated an explanation for
everything.  “Keep going.” 
In response, Will curled his fingers, let his nails skim faintly across the
tracks of Hannibal’s ribs.  A continuation of sensation, and something of
escalation.  A test, to gauge response. 
Hannibal’s hips jerked, his cock rising further with a quick pulse Will this
time didn’t miss.  He wondered if, underneath the arousal, Hannibal could smell
the rush of his own blood to his cock, the rearrangement of his body from sense
memory alone. 
“You’re doing really well,” Will murmured, sure now from the times he’d
provided it that as he’d suspected, Hannibal certainly didn’t mind praise.  In
his life up to now, it had likely been scarce—for stretches of long years not
given at all, for all Will knew.  He’d offer as much of it now as he could,
because it was earned, and to make up some small portion of the discrepancy. 
Compared to others Will had trained, or who had come to him trained, Hannibal’s
cock was rising slowly.  Still, that he’d reacted so instantaneously at all was
a sign of progress.  He was doing well, enough that a few more strokes had him
almost fully hard.  The effort of holding himself up was starting to show in
his arms, little twitches in the muscle.  The skin strained around his
stitches. 
On impulse, Will stepped in close to press against him, his right arm reaching
across to catch Hannibal’s left wrist and tug his arm away, bending it in
toward his chest.  “Careful.  Just use the other one; you’ll be sore enough
later as it is.  We don’t want to make it worse.” 
Hannibal’s eyelids fluttered, and he seemed for a moment to reach for something
around the heaviness of his breath.  Whatever it was, he gave it up and
swallowed, folded his arm in against his chest like a wounded bird and let Will
hold it there with a low murmur of yes, Will that sounded almost reverent. 
The choice to shift from stroking his side to taking his cock in his hand was
easy, after that.  This was, after all, meant to be a reward, and Will could
hardly imagine when the last time he’d have had a bare ungloved hand on him
would have been.  Years back, he’d have guessed—the sharp, ragged sound that
slipped from Hannibal’s throat seemed to bear that out as truth. 
Will shushed him, wordless comfort.  He turned his head against Hannibal’s
shoulder, breathing into the space formed between their bodies, warm and
steady.  He’d been kept from so much contact; it could only do him good to have
as much of it as Will could provide, closeness and warmth from a soul working
hard to earn his trust. 
His forehead pressed to the ball of Hannibal’s shoulder, and Will’s eyes
closed, continuing by feel.  He knew the shape of an alpha’s cock in his hand,
the heft of it, the subtle changes.  He’d know when it was time to stop, and
get the sleeve.  For now, he could give Hannibal a chance to soak in something
he’d been denied. 
For that very reason, it couldn’t last long. 
Will could feel the shift as Hannibal’s head dropped lower, his breath harsh
and heavy.  His hips canted forward, pressed back against Will’s.  There was
hardly a point they didn’t touch, from where Will’s head tucked against him
down to the brush of his shin against Hannibal’s calf. 
Since he’d started working this job, Will had worked hard to seal himself off
from picking up on the arousal of those he worked with, walling that emotion
off to keep it from bleeding too thoroughly into his.  Most often, it was a
separation that wasn’t too hard to make.  With Hannibal, that had been
difficult from the beginning—he felt him too strongly, it seemed, to excise any
one piece.  More bled through than he’d had to worry about since his earliest
college days, and it could happen in various stages of collection. 
Like this, with Hannibal in his arms and moving against him…
He could hardly keep from feeling some measure of what Hannibal felt, when he
so eagerly sought Hannibal’s emotions out.  How could he keep any facet of him
out entirely, particularly like this? They came together too easily to fully
disentangle, too entwined the minute they occupied the same space. 
Will swallowed, and tried his best to keep a little distance in their hips, the
angle a little off.  They’d made progress, today, but they’d faced hurdles,
too.  The last thing he wanted was to have to try and explain to Hannibal the
stir of inappropriate arousal he couldn’t fully contain. 
The beginning swell of Hannibal’s knot came soon enough to rescue him, but Will
felt a twinge of disappointment all the same.  Hannibal was comfortable, at
ease even in his exertion; Will could feel it.  It seemed a shame to disturb
him. 
He moved slowly to disengage, careful to touch Hannibal’s flank again as he
did, cementing the association. 
There was glazed confusion in Hannibal’s eyes when they found his, studying as
he caught his breath.  “You said—“
“We aren’t done.  Go ahead and get in bed; I’ll get the sleeve for you.” 
Hannibal’s tongue wet his mouth, soft and pink.  Will went for his bag, and
kept his eyes carefully averted until he could hear the rustle of sheets, the
creak and shift of Hannibal’s mattress.  He had seemed, for a moment, on the
verge of asking a question Will was certain he didn’t want to grope for an
answer to, not now.  He didn’t feel he’d done wrong, in offering what he had,
but he hadn’t intended it when he showed up, either.  It had come naturally, in
the moment, and while the intimacy of it hadn’t felt wrong the more seconds
that passed since he’d stepped away the more the knowledge of where his hand
had been seemed to settle on him like a film, coating his fingertips when he
rubbed them together. 
He’d not anything he wouldn’t have for any parasapient in these conditions, had
he?  It was all still process, a little unusual, but process.  Simple
kindness.  A road to giving Hannibal something he needed. 
When he’d repeated his chain of thought once more, he felt calmed, and lifted
the collection sleeve from the case he’d carried it in.  As this wasn’t a
proper collection he connected a receptacle to the end quickly, without washing
up.  Nothing need be sterile, and he’d clean this all again before the next
use, as it had been cleaned before this one.  He’d already turned it on and set
it to keep to a steady warm when he left the house, not knowing when or if he’d
actually need it. 
He turned it up, now, setting the dial to that of an omega’s body in heat—only
to turn it down, to standard omega.  Something… more subtle, lingering. 
Intimate. 
Over the work of his hands, he glanced at Hannibal.  “Would you like a long
tie?  We could do 30 minutes; no time constraint here.” 
Hannibal’s soft sound already bled approval, but he nodded as he shifted
against his blankets, rolling onto his back to thrust a little against the
air.  Like so many others, he was far too well trained to even sate himself for
a moment against his bed.  “Yes.  I’d like a long tie.” 
Carefully, Will reached in to coat the interior of the sleeve with slick,
feeling, too, to make sure no one area felt too hot.  All that he could reach
check out, from the expanse that would hold Hannibal’s knot to just beyond it. 
In his hand, the sleeve made a low humming noise as it prepared to work, and
Will brought it to Hannibal. 
At his bedside, he crouched down to put it on, guiding it carefully first then
pressing his hand to Hannibal’s belly to steady him when it was almost fully
on.  Once it had been, Will used it to stroke him twice, long enough to hear
him inhale sharp and see his fingers twist into the blankets. 
His thumb hovered over the switch to activate the tie simulation.  “Ready?” 
Hannibal nodded, and reached for Will’s hand.  Will let him have it, and used
the other to flip the switch, triggering the simulation and Hannibal’s orgasm,
the sleeve clenching as vise tight as any omega around his knot. 
Hannibal groaned, low and rough, his body curling in with the intensity, one
leg kicking out aimlessly until Will helped guide him to rest on his side, the
sleeve propped up against his blankets.  The evidence of his pleasure was plain
in the continued roll of his hips, the soft little grunts and sighs that left
him, the clench and splay of his fingers against the bed like a kneading cat. 
The sleeve was milking him, coaxing him, but all for pleasure.  No semen to
save, no lab to vacate.  Just Hannibal, able to enjoy this process as if he’d
buried inside a willing mate, curled in bed and riding out their tie. 
Well.  Not as thoroughly as that, perhaps, but Hannibal did say he’d never felt
the desire to take a mate.  This wasn’t the live cover he wanted, but it was
something Will could give.  For the rest, they’d keep working. 
As he moved to stand, Hannibal’s loose grip on his hand became an anchor,
tugging.  The confusion that had glazed his eyes before was gone, replaced by
the settling calm of pleasure, and something so fond Will could taste it on his
tongue.  Not cloying; just right. 
“Stay,” he asked, soft and smooth, more deliberately casual than he knew
Hannibal felt.  Ready for rejection. 
Will gave himself half a second to consider whether it was unwise, and decided
it wasn’t.  As he’d considered before, Hannibal needed contact, intimacy.  He
could provide. 
He sat down, first, on the edge of the bed, but it was easier after a little
shifting to get on it properly, to stretch his legs out and let Hannibal lay
against his side, a long, hot weight, slightly curled.  His head nestled
against Will’s ribs, and in petting his hair, there, Will came to realize why
he was straining his ears so hard the hum of the sleeve seemed deafening.
For all the comfort he exuded, even now, Hannibal wasn’t purring.  In all their
sessions, the most Will had gotten out of him was a rusty sound here and there
from prostate massage, or at the end of a session, limp and curling up under a
blanket.  The desire to ask him if he ever had was strong, but there could be
no answer to suit this moment—if he had, the lack of it indicated lingering
distrust or discomfort, or that he’d been trained against it.  If he hadn’t,
he’d never in his life been comfortable enough to experience it. 
The pain of any of those answers didn’t suit the mood, not with Hannibal’s
breath falling warm against his shirt to be felt through it, stuttering here
and there when the sleeve clenched.  Instead, Will slipped his arm around
Hannibal, and leaned back a little more fully against the bookshelf behind him
when Hannibal’s arm came to rest around him, over his stomach. 
“I know that you and Barney sometimes read to each other, before you sleep. 
When this is over, if you’d like me to read a little for you—“
Hannibal nuzzled at his stomach, his body shifting a little to press closer. 
“You can read to me now.  I can listen.” 
“If you had a mate, you know, they’d probably be offended that you had the
presence of mind for the classics right now.” 
“If I had a mate, they would also appreciate the classics.”  A wave of pleasure
took him by surprise, and he moaned into it, his fingers curling tight for a
moment in Will’s shirt.  “You can read.  If I start to fall asleep, stop.  I
don’t want to miss anything.” 
From under the bed, Will fished out Les Miserables and began to read. 
“Chapter three, Marius’ Astonishments.”
“Marius is astonished by existence.  I’m far more sheltered than he is and he
acts—“
Will found the nape of Hannibal’s neck and kneaded, silencing him.  “Shh.  Just
let me read.”  In the silence, he felt Hannibal shift a little higher against
him, and he continued.  “In a few days, Marius had become Courfeyrac’s friend.
Youth is the season for prompt welding and the rapid healing of scars.”  Unable
to resist, Will’s thumb found a piece of the old map of scars around Hannibal’s
neck, skimming it with his knuckles.  “Marius breathed freely in Courfeyrac’s
society, a decidedly new thing for him.”
“Perhaps he’s less foolish than I thought.”
The second time, Hannibal shushed easier, and Will could feel his smile. 
As he read, Hannibal relaxed into the tie until it was over and the sleeve
removed, until they were ten chapters away and Will was wishing he’d brought
himself water.  He stopped when Hannibal was still awake enough to grasp at his
shirt, but too weary to get his tongue before Will could catch his hand, answer
a question unasked. 
“I’ll stay.  Just awhile, to make sure the nightmare doesn’t come back.” 
As instantly as a patch of cloth released to settle, Hannibal’s fingers
unfurled. 
 
Chapter End Notes
     This probably should have been called, Will Is In Trouble, Volume 9.
     XD
     Thank you guys so, so much for reading! I can't tell you how much I
     appreciate it, and I can't wait to see all your thoughts...more even
     than normal since I'm going to be visiting with extremely difficult
     family on approx 2.5 hours sleep in about....5 hours, XD eep.
     For everyone who may be new to this fic, it updates 1-2 chapters
     every other week, so these boys will be back the week that starts
     with Sunday the 16th.
     If you want to get in touch with me on tumblr, I'm always happy for
     you to! I'm whreflections over there too.
     And now, I'm gonna go crash.
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
     Hiii :)
     As always, you guys are the best and I love you.
     Also, a visual aid for this chapter can be found here-
     http://whreflections.tumblr.com/post/163082031998/because-i-am-an-
     absolute-animal-dork-for-those
Late May in Georgia was a time of slow and fluid change, like the last drop of
honey reaching down from a dipper, the long trail of final ties to spring
stretched out behind and soon to break.  The golden whole of summer stretched
out before this point.  This far south the mass of it was long and thick, the
farthest reaching season of the year.  

Will loved it.  He had grown up in Louisiana where the summer pressed on his
lungs like a weight and the sun could burn your scalp after an hour in it on
some days.  The lengthening days had begun increasingly to feel like balm
against his soul, the beckoning of lingering light in the evenings calling him
to pleasures he'd almost forgotten he craved.  He'd stayed far too long in the
chill of Virginia.  There was enjoyment to be found in ice fishing and watching
the dogs plow through the snow, to be sure, but it was nothing to evenings like
this—settled into a chair on his own dock, listening to the lake lap with shy
fingers at the shore and the dogs ramble around him with wild energy they'd
waited all day to release.  

When he'd bought this house, it had been the lake that decided him.  The
prospect of being able to fish off his own land was idly tempting, but in all
honesty he was more a fly fisherman than the stationary sort.  Mostly, when he
looked at this place he'd seen the dogs leaping into the water with a fantastic
spray, himself swimming out with them, holding Moonbeam up under her chest when
her short little legs started to tire.  Picturing his life here had been easy. 
The reality of his work had become...a good deal more complicated.  

To the left, Anansi and Moonbeam played like choreographed dancers, Anansi ever
feather-light on his toes, darting in and out around her like there were
springs in the pads of his feet.  She took it all with good humor, her tail
swishing across the grass, stubby jaws snapping with no real intent here and
there at his dainty little dipped white feet.  Buster busied himself tracking
squirrels, and Winston had settled into his now familiar perimeter sweep,
heading first back toward the front yard to sniff at the tires of Will's car
and see who he’d meet and where he’d been.  They were far enough off the main
road that Will worried little letting them run, but the need to keep loose
track of them was always there in his mind, keeping him counting them like a
mother hen with errant chicks.  Lydia lay on her own demolishing a stick with
endearing efficiency, and Dragonfly—

Will could hear his warbling bay rolling out from beyond the treeline, had
heard him on and off singing and crashing through the underbrush ever since
he'd shot out the door like his tail was on fire, but it took craning his neck
to see a flash of his red-brown coat darting through the ever encroaching
green.  It was far too early in the evening for him to be on the current trail
of a coon, and there were no flocks of birds scattering before him.  Whatever
he was chasing, the trail was probably cold, his quarry bouncing before him
only in his mind.  

Will's swell of affection for him warmed him all the way to his fingertips,
pushed them to reach down and feel for one of the bumpers he kept stashed in
the bag hanging from the side of this chair.  The grit of dried lake water came
off on the pads of his fingers on his first attempt, until he gripped it a
little more firmly.  He tapped it on the wooden edge of his rocking chair, a
solid sound the dogs had in just a few weeks become well familiar with. 
“Dragonfly!  Come on back.”  
Based on the volume of sound from the woods, he’d be receiving a small
tyrannosaur back in place of an overeager hound and spaniel mix.  The rapid
click of nails on the dock—too small and quick to be large enough—alerted him
to Buster before he was there.  He rose up quick like a little meerkat, his
feet hooking over Will’s knee to snuffle at the bumper.  
“You know, I don’t think your name is Dragonfly,” Will said, his wry affection
further gentled by the scratch of his fingers behind Buster’s ear.  “Pretty
sure you don’t even like this toy, either.  If you answer to everything, you’re
gonna be disappointed a lot, little man.  Not everything I do involves food.” 
 They had had this conversation before, and would have it again, an amusing
constant that made Will smile almost as much as the little furrow of confusion
between Buster’s eyes at the realization that there was not, in fact, anything
more interesting than a toy that didn’t squeak and the smell of dried mud and
algae and fish.  
Dragonfly himself arrived with all the grace of a baby rhino, hurtling onto the
dock to trip over a coil of rope and crash to the ground.  Belatedly, he yelped
as he stood up, a tiny tuft of fur left behind and caught in a sliver of
wood.  
Will sighed.  “Dragonfly, c’mere, buddy.  Come here.”  
Too excited now that he’d seen the bright orange bumper, he pranced out of
reach, the fall already forgotten.  Will could see, though, that it wasn’t his
only problem—burrs had amassed behind his ears in numbers large enough to look
the size of sweet gum balls, and a touch of blood marred the speckled white fur
on his chest, near his left shoulder.  Likely, he’d run through a thorn patch
on his way in, or on his way out.  
Will stuck the bumper under his arm, and held out his hand.  “Copter, c’mere,
you little monster.”  
Whether he responded to the nickname or the hand Will wasn’t sure, but it was
gratifying to be able to catch his collar and tug him in close, a big, sloppy
tongue lapping enthusiastically at his wrist all the while.  Will had named him
Dragonfly the day he’d brought him home, and that name would stick, but the
nickname belying the reason for it wasn’t likely to go anywhere either.  His
own not-so-little helicopter, forever at his heels or underfoot when he got up
in the house, hovering at doorways and car doors, always vigilant.  Filled to
the brim with fear of missing out, Bella had said, such genuine tender
amusement in her voice that Dragonfly had actually gone still enough to press
his face into her stomach.  
The truth of his vigilance was, like the stories of most of his dogs, more
painful.  He’d been returned to the shelter in Silver Springs three times,
likely due to his occasionally overwhelming exuberance.  On the website he’d
been listed as having a ‘zest for life’, in need of a ‘large family to give him
plenty of love’.  It was true enough, but the dogs best with kids were often
too much dog for the parents of the kids, and it was plain by the history he
could glean that for a two year old dog he’d had far too rough of a road. 
Will had closed his laptop, driven an hour to get him, and never looked back,
not even when his new arrival had chewed a seat belt buckle into near
unidentifiable pieces on the way home.  He had a big family, and he needed zest
for life.  More often than not, he found himself thoroughly deficient in it. 
As a dog owner, it was his privilege to know he could promise Dragonfly a home
and a bed and a bowl and all the love he could soak up for the rest of his
life, and his curse to know he couldn’t say the same for himself. 
 One day, he’d lose this bright light of his, and he’d take some of Will’s own
already dim enthusiasm right along with him. 
 Will dropped the burrs to fall between the slats of the dock, and planted a
quick kiss to the irregular diamond on Dragonfly’s head as he let him go.  The
cut was nothing, and bothering him over it now would just be a struggle, but
he’d wanted to take care of the burrs before they started to properly mat. 
Judging by the irritated sneeze and rake of Dragonfly’s paws one after the
other behind his ears, his efforts weren’t appreciated. 
 Even so, Will was smiling as he threw the bumper, though his mind had started
to drift.  He didn’t expect Dragonfly’s appreciation, and he didn’t expect
Hannibal’s either, but he was getting it.  Every week, the clarity not only of
affection but of respect in Hannibal’s eyes when Will walked in seemed to
sharpen by degrees.  Soon enough, Will wasn’t sure there’d be anywhere left for
it to go, and he’d done precious little to earn it—what had he done, really,
beyond the bare minimum Hannibal should have expected of anyone?
Provided him with books?  A pittance, when Will’s bookshelves were full of them
and he had more than enough money for a few extra.  Given him honesty? 
Unusual, but hardly worthy of…
Of whatever it was that tied a knot his stomach when Hannibal nuzzled against
his palm, now, of the bald depth of feeling in his eyes that pulled that tether
tight when Hannibal looked up at him.  How much of what he felt was his, and
how much Hannibal?  When had he lost the ability to be sure?  He’d never felt
this…bleed around the edges half so strong with any of the others.  Was the
difference in his change in perspective, or would this have happened with
Hannibal regardless, whether he’d met him now or twenty years before? 
Dragonfly nudged the wet bumper into Will’s hand, the slimy nubs of it dragging
across his knuckles. 
Will took it and chucked it hard, shook the water off his hand but used his dry
one to pull his phone from his pocket.  Last week, after he’d gotten home from
reading Hannibal to sleep after his injury, he’d e-mailed Jack, and asked about
Anthony.  The e-mail he’d gotten back had been short, to the point, and Jack
all over. 
Don’t do this to yourself, Will.  He’s fine. 
We could sure use you back here.  That new kid we hired is all fired up to try
all the steps you left her, but it’s not the same as having you here.  If you
want to teach Miriam to run a breeding program like you, you’d do a better job
of it helping her out. 
The new class starts in a couple weeks; the first omega’s showing signs of pre-
heat.  I’ve attached a picture of them here for you.  They’re a great bunch. 
Tyler’s got more fire than any omega I’ve ever seen; she’ll be a pistol.  Give
me a call when you can. 
Bella says to ignore me and enjoy Georgia, and I gave her my word I’d say it. 
Give her love to the dogs, too.  I hope you’re well. 
-Jack 
The screen had dimmed out on him three times before Will closed the e-mail, and
pulled up the keypad.  Impatient, having already bumped him at least twice,
Dragonfly tossed the bumper directly into Will’s lap.  The lake water was cold
soaking through his slacks, but it was warm enough now, even with evening fast
coming on, that he couldn’t mind it.  He’d dry. 
Will ruffled Dragonfly’s ears, made his throw, and dialed.  Jack answered on
the fourth ring. 
“Agent Crawford.” 
Will settled back in his chair, and tried not to let the spider of tension at
the base of his spine crawl any higher.  “Shouldn’t you be home, by now?” 
There was a pause, and then Will could hear him huff, almost a laugh.  Will
could see it, Jack’s tension receding even as Will’s threatened to climb.  “I
am, but you called my work phone.”
“Old habits,” Will said, the laughter that chased it only marginally scratchy. 
“If you’re busy—“
“Bella’s cooking; I think she’ll be glad to get me out of the kitchen.”  The
phone shifted against Jack’s shoulder, and Will could see him meander out of
his kitchen, some unknown and unseen hand signal or mouthed word confirming for
his wife that this was Will, and he’d take it.  He’d still be wearing his suit
jacket, in all likelihood.  Barely home, pseudo working.  Bella did it too,
sometimes.  “Did you see the picture of the pups?” 
He had, and it had done precisely what Jack had wanted it to.  Or, it had at
least banked on the feelings Jack had wanted it to.  He’d stared a full five
minutes at the group of fifteen young parasapients draped all over each other
in front of the obstacle course wall like human children at a summer camp, all
smiles.  The FBI kennel was, so much as any institution could be, a gentle
place to grow up.  Will had worked hard to make it so, and to keep it a safe
place to learn, to grow into adulthood, to come back to as retired and
cherished studs and dams. 
He had a picture of Anthony smiling like that too, and Georgia.  Beverly’s
didn’t pain him so much.  He had it on the wall in his hallway, framed, Beverly
utterly familiar and ever a stand-out, hanging up above the other pups and
upside down on the limb of a magnolia tree.  It had been before his time, but
after he’d become her handler, he’d searched it out.  He had a folder full of
them, all of those he’d worked with frozen in a time at a point before they’d
become the individuals he knew.  Some of them hadn’t changed much.  For others,
the comparison was drastic, and sobering. 
Will rubbed between his eyes, began a slow rock in his chair that made
something in the seat and legs creak.  The rockers themselves moved smooth—a
relief, since unlike he usually did he hadn’t looked first to make sure he
wasn’t going to catch anyone’s tail.  “I’m not coming back, Jack.  I told you
that when I left.  I’m here to work with Hannibal, and then I’m going to
retire.” 
“Will, come on, would you talk sense?  You’re 35!  Hell, you could work another
40 years!  More, maybe, if you keep your health.”
Will’s laughter was sharp, hitched a little when Buster leaped unexpected into
his lap.  Will tugged him against his stomach until his nails weren’t digging
in to his thighs.  “That’s assuming I have my health now.”
“Don’t you?”
Will’s noise of dissent was noncommittal, but lingering.  He didn’t talk about
the nightmares, much, and they hardly kept him from functioning.  His migraines
were rare, so long as he stayed out of the main hallways of the kennels, kept
from being too overwhelmed by the press of the confined.  “Mostly, yeah, but I
won’t if I do this 40 years.  I’m not sure I could do it 20.”  Some days,
lately, he wasn’t sure he could leave it either, but that was more…specific. 
Contained. 
Across the line he could feel Jack’s frustration—a realization that brought
with it an odd pause, a slight smile.  Across the line was, really, on the
borderline of becoming antiquated.  Phone lines stretched the length and
breadth of the world, but they ran so lightly used, these days.  Contact was
more ethereal, no physical tether, just the bounce of signal flung far and
wide, reaching the ears of the intended.  Was it more personal, like this?  No
potential to cross into a conversation that wasn’t yours, like he had as a
child.  He and his Aunt Tina had sat mostly quiet on the line, seven year old
Will giggling, listening to a woman with a Yankee accent tell her friend about
the paint samples she’d picked up.  It had been entirely mundane, and utterly
magical to a child.  An insight into another life, like a hole cut in a living
room wall.  It had seemed to Will, then, that his own burgeoning gifts weren’t
so abnormal.  Overlap happened to other people sometimes too.  Wires were
crossed, unusual connections made. 
Jack was talking about the pups. 
“—they’re such a solid group, Will; you wouldn’t believe it.  One of the alphas
is already alerting to the scent of C4 at a distance of 50 yards.  I mean think
about that, 50 yards; that’s a bigger window than any bomb parasapient or bomb
dog’s ever given us.  When we teach him to sharpen that up, it’ll be even
further.  Imagine being able to tell our soldiers a football field away that
there’s an explosive.” 
It was promising; Will’d be a hell of a heel if he said it wasn’t.  At the end
of the dock, Winston splashed into the water, paddling out to grab onto the
other end of the bumper so he and Dragonfly could carry it back in tandem.  The
house, then, must be secure.  Rounds finished.  Not a blade of grass out of
place. 
“It’d be amazing, Jack; it would.  When it comes to minimizing lives lost, I’m
as much in support of that as you are.”
“But?”  It was a relief, to hear little anger in Jack’s voice.  There was a
barb there, sure, but he wanted Will’s thoughts, Will’s instincts.  He valued
them too highly to ignore, even when he chose to override them. 
“But, what toll is the work going to take on him?  If he misses a bomb because
the wind is wrong, that’s—“  Will tossed his hand, more useless than gesturing
to a blind man.  “—500 lives we taught him it was his responsibility to save.”
“That’s the same kind of choice soldiers and firefighters make every day,
Will.  The same choice our agents make.  If—“
“They make the choice, Jack.”  Will sat forward, half consciously dumping
Buster out of his lap and onto the deck.  He landed with an irritated huff.  “A
firefighter chooses to walk into a burning building.  A bomb parasapient’s been
trained to do nothing else from the moment they were born.  All other interests
are disregard, regardless of what they would choose—“
“This is not—“  Jack was almost yelling, but Will’s momentum was too far gone
to stop, too embedded at the root of his tongue. 
“—or what they need, what the cost might be on their health, if they’re even
healthy enough for it at all—“
“This is not about Anthony and Georgia!”  There was proper volume, that time. 
Will hoped he’d gone upstairs and closed the door.  Bella didn’t deserve to be
disturbed by their arguments now any more than she had when he’d been living
within driving distance. 
Will rose to his feet, the rocker carrying on his momentum, like little waves
gliding in the wake of a swell.  The dogs had clambered up the ramp and out of
the water, and they stood now in a deadlock at the end of the dock, intent in
their argument over who would get to bring the prize to Will, a debate full of
soft, good-natured growls and wagging tails.  Will’s own arguments rarely went
so well. 
He could do his best, though, to back this one down from the precipice it had
reached.  “Of course it’s about Anthony and Georgia, Jack.  It all is.”  He’d
softened his voice, attempted to bring it down to the tone he’d use to talk a
parasapient through a procedure.  In reality, it had come out sounding too
tired to be a match.  “It’s about Hannibal, too.  These aren’t…chess pieces
we’re talking about, and they aren’t volunteers, either.  We placed Anthony
with an FBI team working with the Navy, why?  Because he was born on day X in
month Y?  It’s an inherently flawed system; it’ll never fit.  He was as suited
to be a diver as I’d be working customer service, but no one ever would have
made me.  I developed, I chose based on my skills.”
“You’re a human, Will.  Try to keep that in mind.”  In the aftermath of his
yelling, Jack sounded now every bit as tired as Will did.  There was a measure
of small, unexpected comfort in that.  
“It doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t work.  It never can.  It’s worse than
condemning me to life as a boat mechanic because it’s what my father did.”
“You like fixing boats.”
“That really isn’t the point, Jack.”  Will exhaled, crossed to the end of the
dock and dropped down into a crouch.  Both tails wagged faster as he rubbed his
knuckles across each scrunched nose in turn, slow and easy.  “It doesn’t matter
what ‘stock’ they’re from; each parasapient should be assessed on an individual
basis.  Send Beverly off to the Marines because she’s chomping at the bit,
sure, but it’s not gonna be that way for everyone.  It never will be.” 
Jack sighed, and Will imagined that in the distance he could hear dishes
clattering.  Bella got noisier the closer dinner got.  She’d learned to, over
time.  Her husband needed an advance warning system to stop working, and show
up.  He liked to do it without being told, to seem like he’d known. 
“If I’d known that accident was going to happen—“
“Don’t, Jack.  You’d have sent him anyway.  I knew it was bad for him; I told
you it was bad for him so just…just don’t.”  It was still crystal clear in his
mind, the first warning he’d had, the first he’d taken in and given out. 
Little bright-eyed clever Anthony, always with a joke just behind his teeth,
his eyes on the beauty of the world wherever he went.  He could find patterns
in broken tile.  In another life, he’d have made a hell of artist, maybe a
historian.  In this one, due to his species and the time of his birth he’d been
marked an FBI diver for use in joint operations with the Navy.  The fact that
the first time he’d performed a diving exercise in a mock cave he’d come out
near frantic with fear had mattered not at all. 
It would have been enough that he threw up every time he took an oxygen tank,
more than enough that he shook like a leaf and clung to Will with alarming
frequency the closer they came to the date of his departure.  He was, in all
other respects, a fairly traditional alpha.  Solid and strong, his personality
in its own way as bold as Beverly’s. 
After the training accident that had taken place at an offshore facility a few
months after he’d been shipped off and out of Will’s hands had rendered him the
sole survivor of a group of seven, he’d been sent back to the kennel of his
birth, far too early for typical retirement.  He was, the report stated,
afflicted with a ‘mental defect’ brought on by his near death experience,
though the medical record stated he’d suffered no brain damage, no physical
injury at all beyond the torn nails he’d suffered trying to escape a faulty
simulation. 
He did, however, now suffer from an aversion to water so strong he could only
drink it when mildly sedated.  The majority of his hydration was provided, out
of compassion, intravenously.  Though he obeyed every request made of him with
a trail horse’s dependability, there was little more than a sliver left of the
cunning little coyote Will had known.  The tile in the halls held no shapes for
him, and he kept his eyes fixed forward.  Always watching, always careful. 
How could the core of what drove him, now, notbe about Anthony?  Or about
Georgia, mentally unwell and pushed toward a career that would have destroyed
her, too, if Will hadn’t intervened? 
There could be no extraction, and he wasn’t in the mood to hear Jack lie.  He
wasn’t a bad man, but he wasn’t always a good one, either.  The same could be
said of most men, Will himself not excluded. 
On the receiving end of the mass of thought and words he’d sent out into the
ether, Jack’s chagrin came in the shuffle of the phone, his urge to try and
contradict Will’s honesty played out but a few aborted breaths. 
“I regret what happened to him.  I regret what…what he is now.  He came from my
facility; that’s on me, Will.  You’re right; you warned me.  His blood’s on my
hands, not yours.” 
“There wasn’t too much blood.  Just his fingernails.  I saw the pictures.”  The
reminder was light, and full of dreamlike horror.  Will flexed his own hand,
and tugged the bumper easily from both dogs’ mouths.  “Tell him I asked about
him.  Tell him I’ll come visit, in a few months.  Beverly too.” 
“Visit.”  The disappointment was flat, but Will could hear it, feel it pull
down the length of his neck away from his ear like vine coated in thorns. 
“Yeah, visit.  Hannibal needs me here, and I like being here.  I can help him. 
I can do something for him no one else can.”  Or, with a little less arrogance,
something no one else had tried to.  Maybe someone else could have succeeded. 
He was, guiltily, glad they hadn’t.  If they had, he never would have come
here, and they never would have met. 
“So, tell me about this Hannibal.  I don’t know much, but if half of what
Chilton was saying was true when he hired you, you’ve got your hands full.”
The sense memory of Hannibal’s hand in his was so strong, suddenly, that Will
looked down.  In a deep, visceral, utterly nonsensical way he felt bereft that
it was empty. 
His laugh was soft, and mostly at himself.  “I’ve got my hands full, and so do
you.  We’ll talk about Hannibal some other time.  It’s dinner time.  Tell Bella
I miss her.” 
Faintly, he heard Jack’s chair scrape.  He’d gone to his office; that was
good.  “We miss you, too.” 
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Barney turned her face toward the sun, eyes closed to better soak in the rays. 
"Lord, today's the kind of day you wish you didn't have to work."  Her
observation was broken by the faintest noise of pure contentment, chased by the
upward stretch of her arms.  She'd rolled her sleeves up to bare them to the
sun, too.   The prominent muscles now visible as they shifted under her deep
brown skin might have startled him, if he hadn't been well aware of her
strength.  She didn't have to use it for him to see it in her movements when
she worked with those under her care; it was visible in her deliberate
gentleness rather than in spite of it.  His father had taught him when he was
young that inadequacy yelled; real strength was almost always quiet. 
It was often true with alphas too, as it was with Hannibal.  He was one of the
gentlest parasapients Will had ever seen, and the quietest about his power.  He
never postured, he rarely growled, and yet Will didn't believe there was a
single parasapient in the facility that could take him in a fight. He probably
could have bested even Beverly, though that wasn't a fight Will would ever want
to see. 
From the end of his leash, Hannibal gave Barney the faintest smile over his
shoulder.  "Forgive me for being grateful you do have to work.  Many of the
others prefer to tether me to the treadmill."
Set up under UV lights in a room with peeling paint and the smell of bleach and
sweat, it was technically considered an enrichment activity on par with a walk
outdoors.  In reality, there was no comparison at all. 
Will ruffled the hair near the nape of Hannibal's neck.  "I wouldn't let them,"
he said, his fingers kneading when Hannibal pressed into the touch.  It would
have been best, perhaps, to follow that with a reminder for both of them that
Will wasn't always there, that he couldn't solve every problem, every slight,
but it felt too good to see Hannibal's smile reach his eyes, and to smile along
with him.  He couldn't say for certain how it felt for Hannibal, but the harsh
realities of this place  seemed to melt down to hurdles that weren't so hard to
cross, when they were together.  There was something exhilarating in knowing he
would fight for Hannibal, that Hannibal would give him if not trust then at
least the patience to let him try. 
"If taking a walk with you was all I had to do, I'd have no problem coming in. 
Hell, I'd pay for this."  Barney was teasing, a little, but Will was certain
there was truth there, too.  She'd tipped her hand from the moment he'd met
her- she tried not to get attached but she did, and she was more attached to
Hannibal than she'd ever been to any of the parasapients she'd worked with.  If
she had the right permits, she'd have applied to take Hannibal for offsite
enrichment.  If she had the permits and the money, she'd have put in a bid to
buy him, though whether Chilton would have accepted was another matter
entirely.  Pettiness aside, Chilton would be a fool to take less than $15,000
for a proven stud of Hannibal's caliber.  On a keeper's salary, that wouldn’t
be in Barney's price range, not unless she had a lottery ticket or inheritance
up her sleeve. 
Even for those with the money, Chilton had to be willing to sell, and if he
wasn't selling to a man who'd likely offered well over market value, he wasn't
likely to sell to anyone.  It certainly wasn't moral compunctions that had kept
him from it. 
Will breathed in long and slow, tasted Hannibal and weeds and baking earth on
the air.  He could smell a fraction of what Hannibal could, he knew, and still
he found the effect soothing, natural.  Scent was a powerful memory trigger,
and equally powerful in soothing nerves, halting unproductive tangents.  He'd
put too much thought into the mathematics and probability of Hannibal's future
already, at quiet moments, at ragged ones in the middle of the night.  It
wasn't productive.  He wasn't stupid enough to throw himself into a bidding war
with Mason Verger that would only make him more like to come out with an offer
Chilton couldn't refuse, and besides all that he'd resolved long ago to never
personally own a parasapient.  That Hannibal had even made it cross his mind
after he'd decided so thoroughly to stand by his conviction with Georgia was
proof of his singularity, and that in itself likely deserved a little more
study. 
He wasn't about to force that introspection right now. 
From his shoulder bag, he pulled out the 50 foot check cord he'd stashed in
there a few weeks ago, waiting for an opportunity like the one he had now. 
Made for working with hunting dogs in the field who couldn't quite be trusted
off lead but needed to work at distance, it was long and thin and light,
infinitely less cumbersome and restrictive than the chain leash Hannibal was
used to.  It was, also, definitely not hefty enough to restrain a struggling
alpha, but his success with Hannibal had never been about overpowering him. 
Will's hand curled around the strap on Hannibal's harness to hold him in place
while he clipped the leash to the D ring.  The clip was so small and light it
barely closed around the thicker metal of the ring, but he managed.  In his
curiosity, Hannibal had gone still, his head frozen half in the motion of
trying to turn, as if he'd realized only halfway the futility of trying to see
his own back.  It wasn't easy, halting instincts.  Though he wouldn't have
called it out out loud, Will rubbed his knuckles lightly against the line of
Hannibal's spine for a moment as he drew his hand away, a silent reward for his
efforts.  With his right hand, he unclipped the chain leash and let it fall. 
It fell in a coil, landing like a snake at Hannibal’s heels. 
"I have zero doubts that you won't make me regret this, “ Will said, holding
the orange cord up for Hannibal's perusal.  "And it’s pretty empty out here,
but just don't get in any fights, okay?  If someone bothers you before I see
them, you come straight back to me.  I'll deal with them." 
Hannibal rubbed his fingertips across the thin band of nylon, as faint as a
butterfly testing a surface before landing.  “How far can I go?”
“I don’t know just how far 50 feet’ll take you, but we’ll find out.”  Will
gestured to the scrubby field in the middle of the walking track, empty save
for a handler and parasapient at the far end.  “Walk, lay down and get some
sun.  It’s your time, Hannibal; do whatever you want.  If you need to reach
somewhere you can’t, I’ll get up and follow you.”  He’d probably end up walking
with him anyway, if Will had his way, but he didn’t want to monopolize
Hannibal’s time outdoors.  He got precious little of it; he didn’t have to
spend all of it walking and talking with Will. 
As a further lapse in caution, he used a carabineer to clip the loop at the end
of the check cord to his belt, leaving Hannibal still tethered but essentially
hands free.  He was free to explore, and Will was free to sit down in the grass
alongside Barney, taking in the welcome weight of the summer sun. 
Will sighed as he sat down, shifted to avoid the rock jabbing into his ass that
only became apparent when he tried to lean back.  Though he checked for bees
before placing his palms in the grass behind him, he didn’t catch the flat
sticker plant his right hand found.  Wincing, he shook it out, rubbed it on his
pants until he couldn’t feel the lingering sting, and placed it again.  The
cool of the grass against his skin was soothing, though it felt dry and stiff. 
They needed a rain. 
Peeling his eyes off Hannibal, midway across the field and looking up at the
clouds, he turned to Barney.  She was sunning still, eyes closed and peaceful. 
He’d have been willing to bet if Hannibal had called out to them she’d have
been on her feet quick as a whip. 
“So if you weren’t at work,” her eyes cracked open, and Will pressed on.  “What
would you be doing with a day like today?”
“I’d say I’d spend a good bit of it working on my garden, but that’s mostly
wishful thinking.  I’ve got too much homework to do.”  Barney smiled in answer
to the surprise Will couldn’t quite wall off from his face, and he could feel
no offense it.  In at least her mid 30’s, like him, she certainly didn’t look
like the typical student.  “I started a bit late.  Went through the Army first,
four years.  Still wasn’t sure what to do after that, but after working here
awhile I figured it out.  I’m working on a vet tech license, a little bit at a
time.” 
“You’ll be perfect.”  His answer was quick, but not automatic.  True, and fully
intentioned.  “You’re good with them; you’re wonderful with Hannibal.  We need
as many people working with parasapients as we can get who…”  His tongue tied,
words jumbling and jostling for prominence.  Who care?  Who treat them with
respect? 
Unable to keep from it, he glanced at Hannibal.  He was fairly distant, now,
bent over and picking something from the grass. 
“Who don’t agree with Dr. Chilton?” Barney finished for him, a wry twist to her
mouth.  “I hate that man so much I’d’ve quit if I didn’t care about everyone
I’m looking after enough to stay.  And, the pay’s not bad.  If I’ve got to work
while I get my degree, might as well keep doing it here.” 
Will laughed, leaned back a little further onto his hands and felt the grass
dig in.  “Tell me how you really feel, Barney.” 
“Hey, I didn’t when you got here cause I didn’t know you yet but through your
books.  That told me good things itself, but I know you better now.  After
Hannibal telling me you damn near told Chilton to go to hell, I knew where you
stood.”  There was such proud approval there, as if he’d somehow become a child
deserving of praise, or a knight cheered for surviving a joust.  He wasn’t sure
which comparison was more apt, but he was more sure all the time he’d be glad
to have Keziah Barney as a friend. 
“You didn’t hold back too much when I got here, though, and I’m glad you
didn’t.  I’d have found out some of it soon enough but…it was good to know he
had someone who worries about him.”  Will swallowed, his hands flexing, nails
digging into earth and blades too dry to give easily.  “I worry about him,
too.” 
“Someone has to.  I don’t think he worries much about himself, except when he
can’t help it.  Just worries about everybody else he thinks needs someone to
intervene.” 
“Yeah, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.”  He’d started a file on
his computer kept in the same folder as his fledgling book draft, a list of
everything he’d learned about Hannibal, speculation on the pieces still too
blurry to grasp.  This much, though, he could do from memory.  There probably
wasn’t any of it he couldn’t pull from memory, at this point.  Will sat
forward, crossing his legs, his arms resting against his knees.  “I had
wondered at first if he had a mate when he was young that he lost, but I don’t
know that that’s it anymore.  It wouldn’t cover everything; the records say he
started lashing out at anyone with aggressive tendencies when he was still at
the shelter as a pup.  Some behaviors are innate, but as much trauma as he’s
had and as automatic as that response is, I don’t believe he was born with
it.”  Barney had sat forward to mirror him, her eyes soft with concern, and
empty of surprise.  She’d gotten at least this far, too.  “Someone he saw as
weaker, as needing his protection, suffered abuse he tried to prevent.  He may
not even remember it, but I’m not so sure he doesn’t.  Has he ever mentioned
anything like that to you?  Someone he grew up with, maybe, or even his
mother?” 
Barney shook her head, slow, like she was scanning over her information again
even as she denied it to be sure that was no remembered tidbit she’d left out. 
“No.  No, nothing like that.  Sometimes when he has nightmares, I’d swear he’s
looking for someone, and he talks sometimes in Lithuanian; it has to be.  It’s
not French.  Mostly, though, he just…screams.”  A shudder passed down her arms,
like the fall of shade.  “Swear to God it’s the worst sound I’ve ever heard. 
Like someone’s skinning him alive.”  
Part of Will never wanted to hear it; the rest of him knew that to understand
it, to take it in, he’d have to.  In drinking the sounds into his own throat,
letting them soak from the air through his own skin,  he’d find something—it
might not be a truth he wanted to know, but it’d be one Hannibal needed to
share, whether he’d have said it in so many words himself or not.  Whatever had
happened to him, it was too big a burden to place on someone so young, so big
that years later the remnants of who he had been that had formed who he became
still staggered under the weight. 
Across the field, Hannibal had straightened, and was looking at the sky.  At
this distance, he looked tall and strong, his scars hidden by the space between
and the glare of the sun.  Against his thumb, Will could feel the phantom
cording of scar tissue, thick and rough and old.  He cleared his throat.  “Have
you ever heard him purr?” 
Barney’s eyes went to him, too, like reflex action.  There was pain in the
press of her thumbnail into her palm, distracting her from something in her
head Will couldn’t hear, or couldn’t see.  With a little more information he
was sure he could imagine, and less sure he wanted to. 
“Not really,” she said, shaking her head.  “Not all the way.  For the longest
time I didn’t think he could; I thought maybe when he was a pup they—you know
how they clip some of them, especially the big ones.” 
Will nodded, tight and grim.  He did know; he’d seen it at a farm in
Louisiana.  It was considered a minor operation, clips made in the excess
laryngeal muscle that allowed alphas to form a deep, rich purr.  The folds were
much smaller in omegas, the sound softer but pretty, like the breath of wind
through chimes.  Alphas were richer, deeper, a little wild.  Most found the
sound homey and comforting, others unnerving.  Those of prior human generations
occasionally had the misplaced belief that it made omegas skittish to hear it,
and it was best done away with.  He’d seen no surgical scars on Hannibal,
though, but it was possible the other scars could have hidden them, distracted
him from their presence. 
It was possible, too, that he hadn’t wanted to consider that answer.  Not for
Hannibal. 
“I thought that might be all there was to it and I didn’t want to ask him, but
he got hurt pretty bad fighting in the spring Buyer’s Showcase one year and Dr.
Price had to give him morphine.  He was all out of it, and he was laying with
his eyes half closed on the table and I was telling him it was okay and then—“ 
Barney faltered, her eyes too bright when Will caught them.  She blinked
against it, her exhale winded though she hadn’t moved.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t
really like to think about; he smiles so easy for me now it’s hard to think how
unhappy he is.”
Will wanted to take her hand, and wasn’t sure he should.  It was easier, with
parasapients.  Touch was always welcome.  People were harder.  “I don’t think
he is entirely unhappy, not all the time.  He cares about you, and he enjoys
your company.  That’s true; I can see it.  I think…from what I can tell, his
mind runs on several channels at the same time, and he can’t afford
distraction.  He might be happy with you in one moment, but at the same time he
knows he isn’t safe here, he has to be ready if the situation changes.  Most
parasapients, they come to accept captivity to a degree that…blinds them to its
dangers, or seems to.   Hannibal doesn’t.” 
“The drugs made him relax, whether he wanted to or not.”
Blunt, and honest.  The defeat in her words said it all, and Will didn’t feel
the need to say any more.  All that she’d described played behind his eyes,
looped and loud.  He could see the table, smell blood and peroxide.  Hear
Hannibal, drowsily purring, the sound filling the room. 
He had his answer, now, and while it could have been worse, it hung in his
chest like jagged wire all the same.  So far as science understood it, the purr
response was deeply innate, so unconsciously controlled it startled many young
parasapients the first time it happened.  Hannibal’s distrust and discontent
had roots that were deep, so old they spiraled down to reach his core.  As a
pup, Will had to believe it had come easier to him, but much had happened since
then, and there was no way, now, to prove or disprove how he might have turned
out in a different life.  There was only Hannibal, as he was, a whole that Will
wouldn’t have dared call broken.  The real shock was that anything of him had
survived the crucible of his past at all. 
Will looked up to check Hannibal again, intending to gather his thoughts and
move forward, but what he saw startled his head clear.  He couldn’t make out
any details from this distance, but there was undeniably a bird perched on
Hannibal’s outstretched hand, pecking with delicate little jabs at whatever
he’d held in his palm.  Will blinked, and the image remained.  “Is he—“  Their
first walk came back to him, a little wild strawberry bouncing on Hannibal’s
palm, his distraction so great the last of his erection had withered.  “He’s
taught the birds to eat from his hand.” 
Barney laughed, her amusement at his awed confusion perfectly clear.  “Not any
others that I’ve seen yet, but yeah he taught that one.  Took him a good bit of
time, too.  He sat stone still in the middle of the field for weeks with a line
of those little wild strawberries on the ground in front of him so they could
figure out he was safe.  That little one figured out pretty quick it was easier
to get strawberries from him than it was to pick them on their own.  Smart
little thing.” 
Will’s chest felt stretched tight, his heart beating rough against the solid
press of it.  “I saw him try it before.  I didn’t know what he was doing,
then.  I thought he’d picked the strawberry out of curiosity.” 
“He’s got a lot of that, so maybe that started it.  I can’t say.  I just know
I’d suggested he might try working with the plants out here a little—it’s all
weeds but there’s a couple alphas I’ve been teaching a little gardening to and
they’d be trying to spread the wild strawberries, get some more color out
there.  He lost interest in the gardening pretty quick, but I think he loved
the challenge of luring that bird.” 
It would have been a challenge, that much was true.  Drawing in a wild animal
required patience, and utter control—and maybe that was it, too.  Hannibal was
always in fierce pursuit of control, over everything he could manage.  To exert
such a high degree of it over his own form that he could hold himself still
enough to appease one of the most naturally flighty creatures would be quite a
triumph over his own body, from his muscles down to his rate of respiration. 
“You could just go ask him why he did it,” Barney added, breaking the silence
Will hadn’t meant to let stretch. 
There were reasons he didn’t really have human friends, other than Jack, and
Bella.  He wasn’t sure most people would have called them friends, either—in
another’s life, they’d probably have been low tier enough to be relegated the
rank of acquaintance.  He wasn’t very good at consistent, normal conversation. 
His mind ran away with him too much. 
Barney, at least, didn’t look troubled.  She was smiling. 
Will pushed himself up, dusted his hands on his shirt as he stood.  Indents
from the grass lingered in his palms, zig zigged little troughs pressed into
his skin.  “Did you ask why?”
Barney shrugged, and he could read her no in her eyes, the tilt of her neck. 
“Same reason kids always want to stop and feed horses, even though the horse
can pull up the grass just as well by themselves.  Because we can.  There’s
something nice about being able to do for someone else.” 
Was it compassion, to feed a horse, or was it simple fondness?  Was it
amusement?  A little power and pride in knowing you could teach them to come to
you, knowing they’d take it?  Did it all go back to the instinct to tame, to
possess, and if it did…was it a human drive, to tame the wild, or could
parasapients have it, too?  It was a little startling to realize he’d never
considered that they might, but there was much he’d only recently broadened his
mind to.  In so many ways, compared to human behaviors parasapient behavior was
wild and animal in comparison—though what was ‘animal’ an what wasn’t was
goverened only by the human expectations he’d been raised with.  Parasapients,
in general, were more openly affectionate, more honest and open, too, with
their wrath.  Did that make them unevolved?  Was the urge to mask and lie such
a mark of intellect?
His head was full of far too many questions.  As he approached Hannibal, he
forced them into silence, a low buzz reduced to radio static. 
The bird was poised to leave, the final strawberry held between their beak. 
Though Will was careful in his approach and still a few feet out, they clearly
weren’t taking any chances.  Rather than eat there, they kicked off from
Hannibal’s wrist and flapped hard out and up, rising over the over field and
along it.  They came to rest, finally, on the breeding shed, a distant little
figure dipping their head to deposit their prize between their toes. 
“That’s an interesting friend you have there,” Will said, unsurprised when
Hannibal didn’t startle at his presence.  He’d been quiet, but surely Hannibal
had smelled him coming. 
“I’m not sure whether they would consider me a friend or an obstacle to be
overcome in pursuit of what they want, but yes, they’re interesting.” 
“They’d have to be.  You wouldn’t invest so much time in someone that didn’t
interest you.” 
“Quite.”  Hannibal’s mouth turned up, a smile that broadened when Will came
closer.  “Dr. Chilton saw it differently.  He happened by while I was
practicing, before the bird had become bold enough to take from my hand.  He
was very determined in chasing them away, and in informing his visitors hunting
wasn’t allowed on the grounds.”
Will could just imagine it, Chilton’s self-righteous sleaze oozing from his
pores, all graciousness to the visiting buyers he assured wouldn’t have to
watch the nasty, wild alpha snap the neck of a songbird.  Any fool watching him
could have seen the truth, but Will couldn’t resist needling at Chilton’s
absurdity just a little, humor blunting his words for Hannibal’s sake as soft
as felt.
“That’d be a hell of a long game.  Or were you planning to stretch the hunt out
until you had a few more takers?” 
“If I were hunting, Dr. Chilton would likely be the first to know,” Hannibal
answered, a glint of teeth in his smile, his words, cold and fine, limned in
steel.     
Will had never been afraid of him, and he wasn’t now, but the rapidity and
certainty in his response brought a chill to his spine.  There was no doubt
there, no hesitation.  Will had struggled to imagine Hannibal snapping the
bird’s neck, but he could see him snapping Chilton’s.  Easily. 
Will quelled the urge to look over his shoulder; there was no one but Barney,
and she wasn’t listening.  If she had been, he wasn’t sure he would have
worried.  “That’s big game.” 
Hannibal’s head tilted, the black of his eyes colder than Will had ever seen
them.  “Game implies I find him palatable, and I would not.  There are other
reasons to hunt.”
Numerous ones, and Chilton had given Hannibal several.  The prospect of
Chilton’s deal with Verger pressed on the back of Will’s mind, like nails
hammered through wood.  If Hannibal ever moved on Chilton, and failed—
Nausea spiked in Will’s stomach, and he reached for Hannibal’s arm, only just
catching the soft inside of his elbow.  “Hannibal—“
“No; I’m not that foolish.  But, if the opportunity ever presented
itself…there’s no harm in being prepared.”  Will wasn’t sure how to answer
that, felt relief and an odd tickle of shame when Hannibal didn’t give him time
to, but nodded toward the bird instead.  They stood as still as a weathervane,
black at this distance against the blue of the sky.  “It was never a hunt, but
you know that.”
“I do.”  Belatedly, Will realized he hadn’t let go of Hannibal’s arm.  He
stepped forward, expanded the contact rather than releasing, his thumb tracing
the soft crease where his veins lie beneath.  “You wanted to see if you could. 
If they would…”  Here, next to him, the pieces fell in place easier than they
had a distance, like it was all simpler to work with the raw material under his
fingers.  “If you were too much a predator, or if they could trust you, if you
wanted them to.  If you could…be safe, when you choose to be.” 
“In part.”  Hannibal exhaled, his eyes fixed on the horizon.  Because he was
looking, Will caught the flare of light returning to his eyes, the darkness
Chilton could bring out of him sublimated by fierce desire that couldn’t be
held.  By the time Will could bring himself to follow his gaze and find the
bird, they were long distant, flapping away toward the countryside. 
“And there you have the other part,” Hannibal murmured, so thick that Will’s
throat seized.  “I like to watch them fly away.”
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you so, so much to everyone who's reading. You guys make my
     day, :D
     This will be back the week of the 30th....also as fair warning I'm
     going to be out of town quite a bit during the month of August. I'm
     doing my best to be enough ahead that this won't affect you at all
     and posting can continue on its typical schedule, but it's
     posssssible there may be a posting week or two with just one chapter.
     I hope not, but I wanted to warn you just in case as things are gonna
     be pretty busy lol
     ...there's also some pain incoming very soon, but shh. You can
     survive it XD
     Final fun fact-
     The bird scene in this chapter was inspired by the scene in the book
     Hannibal Rising where rather than eating them he frees a cage full
     ortolons and tells them to fly far away and stay all season to keep
     from being eaten. Nearly broke my damn heart, and it seemed so
     perfectly fitting for this verse I had to include a variation. <3
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Notes
     ...for those of you who might have been getting impatient for a
     little more action, I present A Large Step In Some Direction. XD
See the end of the chapter for more notes
While Will had Hannibal’s medical file, he’d taken the opportunity to make a
list of names.  He’d kept it by the side of his bed, written on hotel
stationary with a long dried ring from the time months ago he’d used the
notepad as a coaster.  He’d been most eager to take down the names of vet
students he’d heard Hannibal mention, but he’d scribbled down any others he
could get, too.  Anyone who’d known Hannibal when he was younger could be
useful to him—anyone who might have cared for him, anyone who might have
learned something. 
The last few weeks he’d let it sit, content for a while to continue working his
way through Hannibal’s history in the records he had available, but now that
he’d known Hannibal almost two months he’d just about reached the end of his
slow study.  Undoubtedly he’d be coming back to those pages to revisit what he
had the more he learned, but it was time to branch out, to see what more he
could uncover, to make contact if he could. 
He’d brought his list of names to the kitchen table, and started digging into
it before bed over an hour ago.  After he’d spent 30 minutes reading about
Revana Mercier, he’d gotten up and made himself coffee.  He didn’t have to work
tomorrow; he could lose himself in his list for as long as he liked.  If all of
his results were as interesting as this first one, he’d likely be at it hours
until his eyes failed him. 
After she’d left school, Revana had gone on to be an emergency room vet in
Strasbourg, specializing in parasapients and avians.  Four years ago, she’d
married a man she seemed to have met a few years before at a conference in
Germany, Dr. Abelard Zimmermann, a specialist in veterinary neurology.  The two
of them had moved two years ago to Tulsa, Oklahoma so he could take a position
as head of the neurology department at the Greater Tulsa Veterinary Medical
Hospital. 
Dr. Zimmermann seemed to be doing an excellent job and an impressive amount of
research, and Dr. Mercier seemed to be an admirably excellent doctor with a
myriad of easy to find praise from clients extolling her work on their pets,
but it was the couple’s extracurricular activities Will found most
interesting.  They were both outspoken on animal rights in general and
parasapient rights in particular, vehemently opposing the move to repeal state
legislation that had ruled parasapients must be clothed or brought indoors
below certain temperatures.  Revana had in fact written a lengthy piece on the
matter that hadn’t just made the local paper, it’d been run by Freddie Lounds,
too.  Will could even remember reading it, and in skimming it he found the same
appreciation for the author’s work he remembered feeling then—it was
passionate, clearly, but she’d loaded it with facts her detractors couldn’t
deny. 
Well cared for parapsapients lived longer lives, provided more joy as pets and
worked longer and harder as working farm animals.  A parasapient intended to
look after the horses couldn’t do so hardly as well if he lost feeling from
frostbite.  The ability to bear temperatures humans showed intolerance to did
not mean they could thrive under them, or even fully bear them for long.  The
lifespan of working parasapients had increased over the last hundred years,
directly due to improvements in care. 
All those were sound arguments, but he feel the undercurrent of inherent
wrongness that buoyed them up from underneath.  A list of reasons to explain a
necessity that should have required only reason.  There was anger in her
writing, but she hid it fairly well.  Will could feel it, and within it the
resonance of a kindred spirit.
The further he dug, the more interesting she became.  Her Facebook account was
largely locked beyond the recording of major life events, but there were here
and there tidbits of her work or her convictions, snapshots of her life
unmasked.  In what seemed to be a convergence of all three, there were five
unlocked albums of pictures—one for each of the last five years, each made in
the summer, each tagged with the same location, though it wasn’t a word he
recognized. 
Suaka. 
The name was everywhere, on the albums themselves, in the comments, in hashtag
form in the captions of the pictures.  The pictures themselves were largely
bright and sunny, images of her and her husband and people who were obviously
friends of theirs, almost all of the images taken on beaches or in thick
foliage and with a variety of parasapients.   Many of them looked healthy and
happy, and the longer he looked the more Will realized he could find some of
the same faces from year to year—pups growing older, elderly parasapients at
ease and laughing with Revana’s hands in theirs when the year before their
smile had held palpable tension. 
Here and there, always marked with a warning before and after, she’d included
photos of injuries she’d treated, commentary on old scars she’d discovered in
examinations.  Rarer still were pictures of her and husband on the beach or on
a dock alone, a parrot perched on her shoulder and poised to pluck a flower
she’d woven into the natural puff of her hair, or sunscreen in the soft pink of
her palm, her face a little blurred with laughter as she prepared to cover the
brilliant red of her pale husband’s sunburnt back. 
The cold nudge of Winston’s nose against Will’s elbow jolted him out of the
pictures, a sharp enough transition that he started and banged his knee on the
underside of the kitchen table.  He swore, and softened when Winston licked
him.  It was no wonder he’d come to get him; he’d been combing pictures two
hours at least—three, if he was remembering the time right that he’d started. 
It was 2:45 AM. 
The picture still open on his laptop showed Revana with a tiny parasapient pup
in her hands, using her thumb to check the beginning of emerging teeth.  The
caption was short, and full of warmth.
So honored to help welcome little Ruth to life in #Suaka. 
On the porch, with the dogs ranging out into the dark and the sound of katydids
and cicadas cocooning him in the memory of easier nights, Will pulled out his
phone and googled the word that had filled Revana’s albums. 
suaka
noun, Indonesian.  Home, asylum, sanctuary.  A place of refuge. 
It didn’t answer all of his questions by any means, but it fit with what he’d
seen, and what he’d felt looking at the pictures.  Somewhere in Indonesia,
there was a sanctuary Revana volunteered her services for every year, a place
not just for the abused but that constituted an emerging community, if his
interpretations were correct.  He needed more than he could get doing muted
research; he needed to talk to her. 
He needed, too, not to put too much thought into the raw delight that would
bubble in Hannibal’s eyes at the prospect of swimming in crystal clear water,
living in a place he need never be cold again.  There was no sense putting the
cart before the horse; he’d intended to set Hannibal up to have the best life
possible at the facility after Will left precisely because the prospect of him
ever leaving it for better circumstances was abysmally dim.  He’d never want to
get Hannibal’s hopes up with the thought of a better life that likely wasn’t
possible, but he didn’t want to get his own hopes up for Hannibal, either.  The
place looked interesting, and certainly worthy of research, but any…practical
application wasn’t likely to extend to Hannibal.  The logistics would be nearly
impossible.
And yet, it would linger in his mind, he knew.  He could deny its plausibility,
but there’d be no getting rid of it. 
Will called the dogs back to him, counting tails as he ushered them all back
into the safety of the house.  Buster was the last to come, his feet filthy, a
matted, muddy stuffed toy Will’d thought he lost weeks ago hanging by an ear
from between his teeth.  Will made him drop it at the door, and quieted the too
quick buzz of his thoughts with wiping feet, checking ears and necks and
armpits for ticks.  It was easy work, methodical and normal, and by the time
he’d finished though it hadn’t taken long he felt ready to continue his
research.  His head held less static, now, but that didn’t mean he felt ready
for sleep. 
He also wasn’t sure he was in the right frame of mind to pen an e-mail to
Revana, though, so put her on hold for the time being and moved forward, down
to the next name on his list.  Bellamy Fontaine, the boy who’d brought Hannibal
geometry and physics, who’d worked problems with him and discussed theory while
he performed his test procedures on him.  It had gone on, Hannibal had said,
until the professors chided him for it, but Bellamy’s work had been lasting—in
the geometry book Will had gotten for him, Hannibal had been able to do the
first three chapters without struggle, only the bright look of memory in his
eyes, the light of pleasure at old gears beginning to turn. 
After graduation, Bellamy had gone home to Béziers and begun work at his
father’s small veterinary clinic, servicing mostly farm parasapients and other
livestock.  He had married three years later, and committed suicide two years
after that.  His young daughter was 14 days old at the time.  According to the
obituary, he had requested as final wishes that those who wished to remember
him could make donations for his daughter’s future, or to Parasapient Voices, a
French parasapient rights organization he’d been heavily involved in during his
college years. 
The picture alongside his obituary presented a smiling young man with red hair
and freckles, leaning on a walking stick and standing on a precipice, a
sparkling river laid out below him, winding off into the distance.  There was
no hint of pain in this picture, nothing palpable, but Will felt like he was
choking on all that went unseen.  There could be no one factor responsible for
this young man’s death—there never was, but it would have felt too bold a lie
not to draw connections.  The boy had had a good heart, and he’d fought to do
good with it, but he’d seen the underbelly of the world he’d grown up in, and
found it unyielding against the press of his gentle hands. 
What could of those of conscience do, in the face of horror on such an
unimaginable scope?  How could a mind change and absorb the truth of the world
as it was, grasp the futility of any single effort to change it, without
melting utterly beneath the strain? 
Will slammed his laptop and followed the spur of sudden nausea, bent double
over the kitchen sink to throw up into it because he was sure he couldn’t reach
the bathroom.  In a way, it was easier like this anyway.  He turned on the
water to rinse the basin clean, let it run cold and stuck his head under it
until the curls plastered against his scalp and water was in his eyes and the
chill was seeping into his skin, soothing the hot roil of his stomach, the
jittery heat of his nerves. 
He turned his head to fill his mouth with cool water, rinsed and spit four
times until there was no taste in his mouth but the faint hint of chlorine in
the tap water.  Around him on the floor nails clicked, too many feet to be a
single onlooker.  Somewhere in his mass of skittering shadows, Anansi whined. 
“It’s okay, boy.  Daddy’s okay.”  It wasn’t, and he wasn’t, but there was no
one there to contradict him.  Still, the lie didn’t carry; he could feel their
anxiety, as they could sense his pain.  There was no lying to those who put
more stock in emotion than words, and dogs could do little else.  They were
unflinchingly honest. 
With a last splash of water across his face, Will shut the tap off and dried
his face and hands on the dish towel.  He took his phone but left his computer
and the list on the table, unwilling even to handle them long enough to put
them away.  He felt, suddenly, tired down to his bones.  He hit the lights,
crawled in bed without even a nightcap, and called to the dogs.  On a typical
night, he held to the rule of one dog in the bed per person, and there hadn’t
been more than one person in his bed in a long, long time.  He took turns to
leave no one out, but it wasn’t exactly restful to be in the middle of six
heaps of fur, all struggling for space, all wanting it right next to him. 
This didn’t feel typical, and he didn’t particularly want space.  He felt
instead in danger of floating out of himself, in need of being tacked down by
claws and cold noses and the knowledge that if he moved too much Moonbeam would
get huffy and want down. 
Against his own expectations, he fell asleep around 5:30 AM.  He might have
slept well into the afternoon, if his phone hadn’t woken him.  He’d turned the
ring on when he got home from work the day before, and it blasted loud in the
silence, Jim Morrison’s voice bouncing off the surface of Will’s alarm clock to
spill out into the room. 
Will flailed to reach it, only momentarily squishing a paw with his elbow
before he managed. 
“Yeah; Will Graham.”  His mind was still catching up, his voice rough with
sleep.  The alarm clock read 7:37 AM.  He’d barely been asleep two hours. 
“Will, you have to get here.”  Much like Hannibal, Barney had been reluctant at
first to call him Will.  She was learning, but it wasn’t the warmth of growing
friendship that brought his name out of her now.  This was panic, real and
sharp, and Will came awake like a bolt had been rammed up his spine.  “Please;
you have to get here now.” 
“Where is he?”  Will was already moving, nudging dogs and kicking blankets,
finding Moonbeam by feel and lifting her up and down. 
“I don’t know; one of the sheds, it’d have to be one of the bigger ones.  These
buyers came and they said they wanted to see him perform with a dummy, make
sure he showed willingness to breed.  I told Chilton it’d have to wait till
tomorrow when you were here and they said they’d wait but he said they didn’t
have to, that if Hannibal was doing well enough to get his privileges back he
must be safe enough to show off—“
“Fucking bastard.”  He hadn’t meant to interrupt but he couldn’t help it; the
venom had built on his tongue with too much force to contain. 
“I didn’t want to help them but I knew if I didn’t get him to put his
straightjacket on someone was gonna get hurt, and—“
“No, you did the right thing.”  Will pinned his phone against his shoulder as
he jerked the first pair of jeans he’d been able to reach up his hips, kept it
there as he fumbled with his belt.  “Find out where he is and meet me at the
door if you can.  I’m on my way.” 
                                     -----
On the drive to the compound, Will realized one of two things had to be
true—either Chilton was insane via a crippling degree of stupidity, or he knew
full well there was a substantial chance this would end in someone’s death.  As
supporting evidence for the first, he had sold Abel Gideon to a buyer who’d
made it clear he intended to keep him not in a contained facility but as a
private citizen keeping a pet, to use him as a guard for his wife and
children.  Chilton had plenty of evidence to know better than to do it, but the
offer was large and the buyer was prominent.  Chilton sold him, though later it
had come to light that the notes in Gideon’s file stressed that he was prone to
unpredictable bouts of violence, from which he seemed to derive a great deal of
pleasure. 
The case was settled out of court, the money given to the buyer’s sister-in-
law, as she was the closest surviving relative after Gideon had slaughtered
them all at the dinner table. 
Viewing Chilton from a distance, back when it happened, it had seemed he’d made
a decision without reading up on his own charges, but now…
He knew full well what Hannibal was capable of, and he’d seemed to place value
in Will’s efforts to work with him.  It was hard to see what he hoped to
achieve by this, until Will considered that Chilton’s utter disconnection might
go even farther than it seemed.  If he’d known what he was risking with Gideon,
it stood to reason that even human life mattered little to him—far less than
the money he’d lost from the dip in Hannibal’s stud fees.  It wasn’t
impossible, then, to imagine that another death might not be such a black mark
for Chilton, now that Mason Verger had shown his interest.  Another death to
Hannibal’s name would likely only increase his offer.  If, on the other hand,
the venture succeeded Chilton could praise Hannibal’s new trainer, and have a
witness to spread the word that he would again be available for live cover use,
if not immediately then soon. 
In all respects, Chilton could potentially stand to gain by virtue of caring so
little he could permit any loss. 
Though he was desperate to avoid being pulled over and slowed down, that grim
truth spurred Will to put more pressure into the gas. 
Once there, he was hardly able to move fast enough.  At the best of times the
compound was a maze he was only just learning with any reliability, but Barney
was a godsend.  She’d put herself at risk, first calling him and now in meeting
him, taking him right up to a door he wouldn’t let her enter.  Whatever had
happened, or would happen inside, she didn’t need to see it, or be present for
it, not yet. 
The second truth he’d acknowledged on his car ride was equally grim, and
equally important.  Will would intercede because he could do no less, but if
Hannibal wasn’t himself, there was a significant chance he could kill him. 
That was a risk he was more than willing to take, but it wasn’t one he wanted
to subject Barney to—or one Hannibal would have wanted to subject her to, he
knew. 
How Hannibal might feel about killing him, now, wasn’t something Will had had
the time to address. 
Outside the door, Will took seconds to center himself, his breathing steadying
as he rolled up his sleeves.  He couldn’t fully divorce himself from the anger
he felt, but he could wall it off, and seeing Hannibal would help him hold the
rest.  He needed to be able to give Hannibal stability and safety, not rage. 
“For as long as you can, wait here until I come out.”
“Will—“
“If it’s been more than a half hour, open the door and check but don’t do it
without Price or Zeller.  One of them should be on the way.”  He’d called,
while he shoved his feet into shoes and grabbed his keys.  He’d given them
little specifics, and shorter instructions.  He didn’t know what if anything
they’d be needed for, didn’t know if it’d be human paramedics he needed the
most. 
Barney teetered on the verge of following him in; he could see it in her eyes. 
Before he could let her think further, he took his own key, and swiped it
across the door.  “I mean it; stay here.  I’ll bring him out.”  The door
clicked, and Will jerked it open, and stepped inside. 
He had half suspected carnage.  The lack of it was almost as jarring as its
presence would have been, so much so that it took him a moment to fully absorb
the scene before him.  He stood in the outer frame room that made up this shed,
gazing past the shoulders of men he didn’t know through an enormous picture
window, a mountable omega stand-in dummy clearly intended to be the center of
the stage.  In front of it, a caged omega humped the air with mindless need,
slick-coated thighs trembling, their mouth opening and closing on cries that
were eerily muted to the point of near silence behind the largely soundproofed
walls.  At the opposite end a handler had backed so far between her guards that
she had her hand on the shoulder of one of them, her mouth open as if she’d
been for some time prepared to speak, and ill-equipped with words. 
In the middle, there was Hannibal.  He was in a straightjacket, which gave the
odd appearance that he was clothed above the waist, and bare only below it. 
His cock was limp, drawn in close along with his testicles though both swung
against his thigh as he struggled, so detached from all notice of the omega in
the box the box might as well have been empty.  The straightjacket was holding,
for now, though Will could see rips at the back, places where he’d struggled so
violently he’d almost made progress in freeing his arms. 
For something he’d worn a number of times without incident, it didn’t take any
thought at all to know the answer to his panic had to lie elsewhere, and Will
didn’t have to search to find it.  A single glimpse of him was enough, the
thick black of a leather collar slotted in-between the frayed and dingy white
of the straight jacket and the grey clasp of the muzzle he wore.  They’d used
it to clip a tether from the ceiling to him, intended to be a method of
allowing a trusted alpha the freedom to behave as naturally as possible during
live cover or collection via a dummy with a sleeve inserted, as this was
clearly meant to be. 
There was no possible way for Hannibal to ever behave naturally under these
conditions, not with his history.  Had the truth of his past been different,
Will still would have been willing to bet his pride would have rendered him
nearly as unresponsive.  Any…performance would have been muted, perfunctory. 
To think he could manage even that while out of his mind with panic and fear
was utterly ludicrous. 
The buyers spoke as he stepped forward, though Will couldn’t have repeated a
word they’d said.  His focus was singular, ever narrowing as he swiped his card
again, and stepped into a room filled with the omega’s cries, overlaid with the
harshness of Hannibal’s breath.  He growled in segments, fits and starts, the
sound forced out around a throat clearly already nearing exhaustion, too
monopolized by the effort it took him to breath.  His chest was heaving with
it, the rise and fall of his shoulders unnaturally pronounced. 
“Dr. Chilton said—“ the handler started, her voice brittle with trepidation,
breaking easily under the blunt force of Will’s interruption. 
“Get out.”  Through the corner of his eye, he could see that hers were wide. 
“I don’t give a damn what he said; all of you get out.” 
“Sir,” the guard to his left said, stepping forward.  Based on the movement of
his arm, Will would have bet he’d just placed his hand on a baton, or a taser. 
Or a gun.  “He’s not able to hurt anyone just yet.  If we let him tire himself
out—“
Will wheeled, his palm slapping hard against the door.  “Get out!”  The regret
didn’t come in the same breath as the yelling, not even when the handler
stumbled back as if he, too, were something to fear.  It spread with a tingle
as the door beeped and opened, three of them leaving, a rush of air cooling
Will’s skin as it closed.  Outside, with Barney, he hadn’t taken long enough to
calm himself.  He hadn’t had the time.  His single, overriding thought had been
to get to Hannibal—once he found him he’d known he’d need to keep his cool to
help him, but that had seemed such a distant thought when he’d come in half
expecting bodies. 
Now, here, with his own rage pounding against his ribs and Hannibal’s panic
raking at him like clawing hands rising from the depths of hell, his
equilibrium had slipped.  Before he turned around, he had to find it.  Will’s
hands pressed to the door, his head hanging low between his arms.  Behind him,
Hannibal sounded like a wild thing, riled and fear-blind.  Dangerous.   And
yet, he smelled like Hannibal, and….of something else, too lightly reached by
his human nose to properly identify, but in his thoughts it seemed a match to
the itch of horror in his throat, beneath his nails, battling in his stomach. 
The bitterness of raw terror, distilled, made sharp by Hannibal’s instinctive
urge to fight. 
To defend himself.   Or, more accurately, to defend the pup he had been, little
and largely defenseless, bound by a chain searing off his skin in a house on
fire. 
The image of it came to him more clearly then than it ever had when he’d read
the file, Hannibal’s eyes wide and dark and afraid, glinting strangely in the
flickering light.  He’d made it out, and taken the fire with him, the embers
forever banked, gleaming down inside his core. 
His anger couldn’t hold, not with the face of the pup Hannibal had been so
present in his mind.  He exhaled, and let the last of his current measure of
fury go with it, deliberately testing his own limbs as he flexed his hands. 
The tension had left them, too; they could be as soft as he needed them to be,
or as solid.  Under the circumstances, he was likely to need both. 
When he turned around, he went to Hannibal without hesitation.  Caught up in
jerking to the right in an attempt to get a shoulder free, he wasn’t prepared
for Will to get a solid grip on the fabric of the straight jacket.  Hannibal
snarled, a ragged, rumbling sound, and Will hauled him in close enough that
when Hannibal did try to throw his weight against him, all Will had to do to
weather it was move with him. 
The shushing noises Will made under his breath were constant and automatic,
near wordless but for the occasional murmur of Hannibal’s name.  He was too
busy keeping balance, in dodging a jab of Hannibal’s knee that felt worryingly
uncoordinated, and in unfastening one-handed. 
He wanted to remove the collar first, but the buckle was jammed too tight
between the muzzle and the fabric, too hard to maneuver without letting go and
trying to work it loose two handed.  If he did that, he’d have to catch him
again, and though it might not be too difficult to do, it’d prolong the ordeal
for both of them.  Muzzle first, then.  Risk and all.
There was none of the slow motion associated with sudden events, at least not
at first.  The buckle came free underneath his hands, and Hannibal shook his
head sharp and quick, like a dog killing a rat.  The muzzle flew free, and his
head turned to sink his teeth sharp and hard into Will’s left forearm. 
There, time slowed.  It was strange, the surety that he had that he had heard
the skin broken underneath the tumult of their scuffle and Hannibal’s snarls
and the omegas cries.  It wasn’t possible, but it felt real, as authentic as
the half second when the cut of Hannibal’s teeth into his skin was so sharp and
quick it didn’t yet hurt. 
There was no anger him, and no surprise.  On some level, every level, perhaps,
when he’d removed the muzzle, he’d known.  He’d come in here to settle Hannibal
or die trying, to prove to both of them that he could.  He hadn’t said it in so
many words, but the truth had hung suspended in his chest all the same.  It
didn’t feel under threat, not even now. 
The pain hit with enough force to draw his own mouth into something that might
have looked a mirror snarl if Hannibal’s mouth hadn’t still been full, but Will
gritted his teeth against it, and kept his wits.  He’d been taught years ago
that when bitten it was never wise to yank away, to always instead push towards
the teeth.  Pulling ripped flesh; pushing often saved something, even if the
benefits noticed were only slight.  A little skin, a little muscle, a little
pain. 
It helped him, too, that he could now reach the buckle of the collar, his
fingers fumbling fiercely with it until he tugged the strap free.  To pop it
free of the tine he had to first pull it tight, and no amount of coaxing could
have quieted Hannibal for that.  His teeth released, a sharp and wild sound
escaping him as he almost turned toward the buckle, changed direction almost
immediately to seek more vulnerable skin. 
Will was more prepared, this time, and almost finished with the collar.  He
reacted as best he could, his palm shoving up hard under Hannibal’s chin,
slipping on his own blood and knocking Hannibal’s teeth together more roughly
than he meant to.  He heard the clack of it, felt the pressure as he gave one
final tug on the collar to bring it free.  It swung out with the momentum,
arcing wide to ping against the omega’s glass box with a distant sound.
Released of his tether, Hannibal tried to press his advantage.  He lunged, not
just with his teeth but with the force of his body weight behind him.  It
crossed Will’s mind to try and sidestep, to trip him, but they were too close,
too entangled.  Whether that was true only of their limbs or on a far deeper
level Will couldn’t have said, but he took the only choice he felt he had, dug
his hands in for a solid grip on the straight jacket, and fell back. 
With little time to turn them, he took the brunt of the impact, but now they
were on the ground, and Hannibal had no use of his arms.  Will’s vision swam,
his ears ringing from the force of the impact of tile on the back of his head,
but it wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t roll over, couldn’t shake the dark spots
free and get his hand in Hannibal’s hair to constrain the snap of his teeth. 
It was like that, both of them gasping, Hannibal heaving to throw him off, that
Will worked harder to find the right words, to put voice to a plea that was all
the better for coming unplanned. 
“Hannibal, Hannibal, hey, it’s me, it’s me.”  In the rush of the words spilling
off his tongue between them, hot and panted and raw, no clarification felt
necessary.  “I’ve got you.  You’re safe, Hannibal; just listen to me and come
back; I know you can.  Whatever you see, it’s not real, Hannibal; you know
that.  It’s just you and me.  I know you can, Hannibal—“
There was violent pressure underneath him, against the hair that Will held
pinned to the ground, and then, almost as suddenly, there wasn’t.  It happened
so fast he almost missed it, but he was watching, and the recognition was right
there in Hannibal’s eyes, first like a sleeper waking, then like a child, then
a flash of the joy he always showed when Will came to his door.  No more than a
sliver of it, far too quickly suppressed. 
His breath hitched, a furrow between his eyes for a moment when he licked his
lips and tasted blood that made Will’s chest ache.  “Will?” 
Will exhaled and let go, rolled to the side to shift off of him and onto the
floor, his fingers tight in Hannibal’s straight jacket to tug him along with
him.  His face fit against Will’s throat as easily as Will had thought it
might, his hand on the back of Hannibal’s head cradling where a moment before
he’d held him bruisingly tight.  “Yeah.  Yeah.  Stay with me, okay?” 
Will felt the shudder than ran through him, from his scalp to his knees,
everywhere they touched.  Hannibal pressed his face closer, and Will felt his
mouth wet with blood.  Will closed his eyes, and breathed. 
Chapter End Notes
     This week is massively busy, so for fair warning, it's still possible
     this may be the only chapter this week....I don't want that to be the
     case, though, so fingers crossed things go the way I want and you'll
     have a second one as planned <3 I love you guys!!
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
There was an odd peacefulness to the near silence they found themselves
in—enough to make it feel like silence.  For the first moments after they came
to a rest, the buzz that settled over Will’s mind as he pulled Hannibal close
seemed to drown the omega out.  Against Will's throat Hannibal's breath felt
hot, his chin growing sticky as the blood chilled.  It should have felt
dangerous to have those teeth so close to the pulse of such fragile veins, but
the change in Hannibal was so complete that for Will there could be no question
of fear.  In a sense, this had proved Hannibal's safety towards him in stark
fashion—the moment he'd come to himself, the moment he'd both recognized Will
and gained conscious control over his limbs, he'd gone as limp and pliant as a
scruffed kitten.  The immediate danger had passed. 
Hannibal was, however, in a great deal of danger of dwelling on this too
fiercely—not to mention, the scattering of fallout that was likely to follow
what had happened here, and which Hannibal would have as little control over as
he’d had over his responses with the collar on.  Will would have his work cut
out for him, minimizing the damage as best he could, shoring up for future
trouble.  He needed, in fact, to get up and begin that work now, but it was one
thing to realize it, and another to move.  Held against him, Hannibal was
relaxing.  It felt good to keep him there, a welcome reminder for both of them
of Hannibal’s safety, even if only for the moment. 
Still, it couldn’t last, not like this.  Will’s head was throbbing where he’d
hit it, he was fairly sure he was still bleeding, Hannibal was still wrapped in
a straitjacket, and there were buyers on the other side of that window he
desperately needed to speak to before they got back to Chilton, if he was to
have any hope of salvaging this situation.  Besides, he’d told Barney to be on
the lookout for him within a half hour, and he’d called for a vet.  There could
be no hibernating on the floor until this went away. 
Will’s sigh stirred the fine strands of Hannibal’s hair.  Rather than let go,
the hand cupped behind Hannibal’s head disobeyed him, and slipped down to
squeeze at Hannibal’s nape.  Hannibal only nuzzled closer in response, utterly
silent but for the quiet draw of his breath.  His cheek pressed right where
Will’s scent glands would have been, if their bodies were the same.  Watching
similar behavior between two parasapients, he’d have had no questions how to
interpret such deliberate affection twined with inherent submission from one
alpha to another, particularly after a fight that had turned physical.  He
would have had the words, and carried no doubt with them, but he wasn’t an
alpha, and in no position to consider what it might have meant if he was. 
He could feel that categorical denial like a flimsy film over his own thoughts,
so weak he could have punctured it with the barest force, so fragile he felt
compelled to protect it.  He could hear his professor’s voice in the back of
his mind, echoing off concrete walls. 
When you work with an omega, you have to be their source of safety.  Sometimes,
if you’re close enough, they’ll see you as fitting the role of alpha in many
ways.  That’s okay, but it doesn’t always happen.  You have more leeway, with
an omega.  If you want to work with alphas, it has to happen, every time.  If
you want them to listen to you with minimal force, you have to be the strongest
alpha, so beyond question you could put together a family group without them at
the head and they wouldn’t bat an eye.  If you can’t do that, then you don’t
have control.  If you don’t have control, they’ll challenge you every chance
they get. 
Like it was with dogs, the need to be head of the pack, comforter and provider
and arbiter of disputes.  He’d never had a problem feeling like an alpha to his
pack or to the parasapients he’d looked after in the past; with his chameleon
mind it had come to him naturally enough.  Before, though, it had never felt
like this.  The coating of normalcy over the situation he was in felt so
tenuous, so thin, yet breeching it was unthinkable.  Perhaps in teaching
himself the truth about this species, in letting that breath of honesty in, it
was only natural that the barrier between humans and parasapients become in his
mind more a veil than a wall, still present but thinner than he’d ever
imagined. 
Perhaps…
Will tucked in a little further toward Hannibal and kissed the top of his head,
let the contact linger long enough to feel the warmth of his scalp, to breathe
in his scent.  An gesture of comfort, one he’d offered Anthony more than once. 
Bearable, explicable.  Beneath his palms in his mind, the veil held. 
Will squeezed gently at Hannibal’s neck before he began to extricate himself,
his first movements glacially slow.  “Come on, Hannibal.  Let me get this
off.”  His hand gripped again at the straitjacket, and he could feel Hannibal
nod, moving with him, the two of them shifting carefully until Will was
kneeling, unfastening with both hands. 
The straitjacket was soaked with sweat, heavy with it.  Even the sudden folding
of the cloth as Will removed it and tossed it to the side sounded thick. 
Hannibal hadn’t made a sound since he said Will’s name, but Will could see the
flash of pain as Hannibal’s shoulders readjusted in the way his mouth dropped a
touch open, the sudden turn of his head. 
To ease the hurt, Will pressed his hand against the ball of Hannibal’s
shoulder, drawing him in close again to press his other palm behind him,
against the blade.  “Easy,” he murmured, his pressure increasing, the heel of
his hand rubbing slow circles to soothe the muscles there in case they seized
up.  “I already called and talked to Price and Zeller on the way here; they’ll
be ready to—“
“No.”  The denial was scratchy, as if his throat in the aftermath of such
guttural snarls felt ill used.  “It’s normal; nothing’s broken.”  His left hand
reached for Will’s arm, a soft noise of wounded frustration escaping on its
tail when his hand refused to cooperate, his fingers too numb from the
unnatural position his arms had been held in to grasp the way he’d tried to—not
that his goal was in any way unclear.  The tips of his fingers came away from
his attempt red, fresh from the bite on Will’s arm. 
It no longer bled quite so freely, but it was undeniably seeping, two half-
moons of shocking red on Will’s pale skin.  It ached, a deep throb that
wouldn’t be leaving any time soon, but looking down at it didn’t turn Will’s
stomach half as much as the drawn expression on Hannibal’s face, too wounded
and tight. 
“Hannibal—“
“They have to see to you first; I’m sure they can.  Our arms aren’t that
different.  It felt—“  Hannibal swallowed heavily, his hand clumsily flexing. 
“Deep.  I know it’s deep; Will—“
Though he’d looked away from the wound and from Will, he went both still and
silent when Will caught his chin.  The tacky coat of blood there couldn’t
possibly be helping Will’s cause, but he kept his hand in place and waited for
Hannibal’s eyes to meet his. 
It wasn’t quick.  Unlike so many of the silences they’d shared, including the
moment they’d had so recently on the floor, there was no ease to this.  It was
too thick with Hannibal’s uncertainty, his distaste for what he’d done while
outside his own control so overbearing Will felt nauseous with the strength of
it.  Hannibal’s pride was enormous, and it was clear that this had shaken him,
deeply.  This wasn’t a matter of losing control and killing a keeper he’d had a
slight fondness for, this was…
How Hannibal would classify him, what word he’d put to Will and what he meant
was beyond the scope of what Will felt prepared to consider, but he could feel
the shape of it beyond conscious thought, beyond words.   It was raw, and
deep.  Fragile by experience and nature, but increasingly rooted.  It felt no
stretch to presume that if Hannibal had seen another parasapient do what he had
just done, he’d have lit into them with unmitigated fury. 
Will’s free hand stroked Hannibal’s hair away from his eyes, slow and gentle. 
“Hannibal, look at me.” 
He blinked twice, first, before looking up.  When he did, there was too little
sorrow.  He had steeled himself, drawn together as much as he could of the face
he put on for those who surrounded him, a mask Will had seen cracks in from
beginning.  He’d seen less and less of it in the last months.  He certainly
didn’t want to see it now. 
“Do I look angry, to you?” Will asked, deliberately soft, a forced narrowing of
his perspective.  He had to begin to manage the consequences of what Chilton
had done today, yes, but not at the expense of allowing Hannibal to burden
himself with responsibility he didn’t bear. 
Hannibal inhaled sharply, and Will squeezed lightly at his chin.  “That’s a yes
or no question, by the way.”
All things considered, it was a relief to see the hurt that he’d glimpsed
before Will had held him on the floor come back to Hannibal’s eyes.  It was
privilege to be allowed to see it.  “No,” he murmured, his tongue absently
afterward tracing the edges of his teeth.  Tasting blood. 
“No.  That’s right; I’m not.  You didn’t do anything wrong; I could have been
anyone.  If someone tries to hurt you, you have every right to defend yourself.
” He hadn’t meant to say it, honestly, but it was true, and now that it was out
he wasn’t sorry he had.  “I’m furious, but it’s not with you, okay?  You have
to understand that; I didn’t blame you for a second.” 
Hannibal’s eyes looked dangerously wet, though not a thing about his breathing
had changed.  Still, he’d been through a hell of an ordeal, and the hangover
from his own actions wasn’t likely to be kind to him.  Will had every intention
of helping him through as much of that as he could, but not here. 
Will let go and stood, and Hannibal’s eyes followed him.  “We can talk about it
after I get you back to your room.”
Hannibal nodded, still flexing his hands, working life back into them inch by
inch.  “After they see to your arm.” 
Warmth wrapped around every slat of Will’s ribs, hot and deep, as if the core
of him had been enveloped.  An internal embrace.  His hands ruffled Hannibal’s
hair as he moved behind him, getting in position to help him stand.  “After
that, but I’ve got to talk to these buyers first—don’t try to pull with your
arms, just push with your legs.”  Not that Hannibal wouldn’t know how to stand
with a straitjacket on, much less how to do it when recently out of one.  The
words where automatic, springing directly from Will’s desire to look after him
in this state, rather than from any real expectation of need.  Aimless rambling
from a worried tongue. 
Hannibal didn’t seem to mind.  He let Will help him up and lean him against the
breeding dummy, stood quietly while Will fetched a blanket to wrap around his
shoulders then went back to wet paper towels at the sink.  A quick glance
outside the window had told him the buyers were still waiting, still watching. 
There were two men and a woman; one of the men had had his eyes on his phone
but the other two were still watching, seemingly intrigued. 
Intrigued was better than angry and gone, on the way to complain to Chilton. 
Will wiped Hannibal’s mouth and chin clean with the utmost care, so thorough
and gentle that it startled him at first when Hannibal caught his hand to take
the stack of towels from him as he withdrew. 
“I didn’t miss a spot; you can—“
The smile that had just begun to curl his mouth faltered as Hannibal brought
the compress to rest lightly over Will’s wound, having already refolded it to
render the underside relatively clean.  “You’re still bleeding,” he said, soft
and seemingly matter of fact.  Will could feel the cracks below the surface,
like veins in marble.  Hannibal’s other hand cradled the outside of his arm so
he could apply gentle pressure, even across the surface. 
Carefully, Will covered Hannibal’s hand with his, letting his fingers slip
between when Hannibal widened his so gradually it could have been a
coincidence, and wasn’t.  Will felt as if own heart was caged and beating there
rather than in his chest, trapped in the space between his palm and the fine
bones of the back of Hannibal’s hand.  The beat was hard, too fast for so soft
a moment.   “Thank you, Hannibal.” 
“It’s the least I can do.” 
There was a part of Will that told him he didn’t have time for this, but it had
no hope of winning out.  There had been welcome stability in those words, and
Hannibal was standing a little taller, too, his breath even.  Will could
imagine no version of himself that could have been callous enough to pull
away. 
                                    ----- 
These were not normal buyers; Will knew that in a heartbeat.  This facility was
intended to sell to government agencies that either didn’t have breeding
programs of their own or who wanted to supplement—the Navy, the Air Force, the
National Guard.  When Will had first come down to tour the facility and talk to
Chilton about the job long before he’d accepted it, he’d met a group from the
Tennessee Bureau of Investigation there to look over and purchase four unspoken
for pups for eventual use as aid in finding cadavers.  They sold to government
contractors as well—and, Chilton had told him, occasionally to the governments
of American allies looking for new blood for their programs. 
These were not delegates of the Colombian government.  They were too informal,
not necessarily in dress but in their mannerisms, and there was something Will
couldn’t put his finger on that set him on edge, though he wasn’t sure he could
trust it.  No one had shown him a badge, or any other identification.  No one
was in uniform. Still, nothing about this day had gone as planned; even with
his particular mind he wasn’t sure he should be trusting judgments made on two
hours of sleep and after calling Hannibal down out of a full panic. 
Even so, there was a measure of restraint in him when he held out his hand to
shake the hand of a man who’d introduced himself as Santiago Castille.  The man
behind him was the one who had been absorbed in his phone before, and he seemed
no more interested in the proceedings now than he had been then.  Will was
given no name.  He looked like an expat, and held himself with both casual
disinterest and physical awareness, one hand gripping his wrist behind his
back. 
Will would have bet money he was the security, and the woman—Ana Maria Gomez,
with a grip stronger than Santiago’s had been—was a trainer, or in control of
the funds.  She carried no briefcase, no notebook, no laptop, but her left hand
rarely left its position resting on the phone in her pocket.  To the last, they
seemed utterly unruffled by the display they’d witnessed, and that perhaps more
than anything else was what had Will’s nerves tingling that something was off,
here. 
What had just happened wasn’t normal anywhere, unless you were used to
facilities off the grid.  Criminal organizations had bred, raised, and trained
their own protection for centuries.  Occasionally, they bred their own
entertainment, too.  Parasapient fighting was illegal, but so was heroin, and
illegal arms.  Those dealing in one, or both, tended to have no qualms about
dabbling in the third.  Will had taken a trip with an FBI unit, once, to help
clear out the remains of a kennel that had belonged to a dangerous doomsday
cult in Arkansas.  The sights that greeted him there had fueled his nightmares
for weeks. 
Inside the breeding room, the omega’s cries took on a different pitch as her
handler freed her, able now to provide her with a vaginal pacifier since her
work as a teaser omega for Hannibal was finished.  It had wrenched at Will
deeply to send him off with Barney, but for the moment there’d been no better
alternative—this talk was one he needed to do himself, and Hannibal had settled
enough that she could take him, easily. 
Will had used a roll of vet wrap from the breeding room to bind Hannibal’s
bandage to his arm, more sentiment than practicality, but there was something
soothing in the cool dampness of it against the heat of the wound.  The memory
of the press of Hannibal’s hand reminded him where he wanted to be, and would
be again when this was done. 
“As I said, Mr. Castille,” Will explained, his vague gestured toward the glass
ending with his arms folded uncomfortably against his chest.  The bite mark
throbbed.  “Nothing you saw gives a clear picture of the kind of stud Hannibal
is, or what he’s capable of.  Under the right circumstances, I can show you
that he’s got willingness to breed, and that he’s far from uncontrollable. 
He’s highly intelligent, and from what I’ve seen it’d be astounding for him to
be defeated in the arena.  I’ve only worked with him a little over two months—“
“And yet he listens to you, with a deference I could hardly believe.” 
Santiago’s Spanish lilt was smooth as silk, a taste of culture and ease in his
bearing that matched the glint of precious stones in his watch and seemed
jarring against his pressed but informal lurid lavender shirt, sleeves rolled
haphazardly, buttons open further at the top than Will would have worn.  The
omega wailed, and Santiago nodded toward the door.  “Would you step outside
with me a moment, Señor Graham?”   
Will followed, just far enough to lean against the cinderblock wall of the
shed.  It was still early morning, the sun just beginning to rise high enough
to burn off the dew.  Will declined the offer of a hand rolled cigarette, and
waited in patience while Santiago took two drags, slow rakes of his eyes
studying as much of the compound as he could see from here, taking it in. 
“You said,” Santiago paused, made space for a third drag, and held it.  The
smell of tobacco reminded Will of the docks, of his father’s customers and how
the mints they fished out of their overalls to hand him often tasted like the
smokes they kept in the same pockets.  “That I saw nothing to recommend
Hannibal today, but you’re quite wrong.  What I saw you do…”  He chuckled, the
reverberations full of genuine surprise.  “I read one of your books, once.  I
never asked my trainers to do the same because I considered your methods….too
soft for the sort of creatures we raise.  Now, I am rethinking everything.” 
Will had hoped to be able to mediate the damage, salvage the situation.  He
hadn’t dared to hope he might have honestly helped it, to a certain degree. 
His exhaustion was creeping up on him, inching higher up the back of his neck
and making his eyes itch like mad, but he tamped it down, and promised himself
a coffee on the way back to Hannibal’s room. 
“Alphas don’t require a heavy hand.  In fact, in my experience it’s just the
opposite.  Every now and then you might have to get a little physical—“
“As you did, masterfully.”
There was nothing masterful about winning a hand to hand fight against someone
in a straitjacket, so Will let that compliment go, and pushed on.  “—if you’re
having to get physical regularly, they don’t respect to; they don’t accept
you.  If they don’t, you’ll never be working with them, you’ll just be trying
to punish and outsmart them.” 
“The basis of traditional training, as I understood it.”
“Several decades ago, maybe.  Too many people still haven’t gotten the hint.” 
Santiago inclined his head in concession, and Will took advantage of the quiet,
and the implied approval, pushing off from the wall to pace in front of him.  
“You like what I did, so give me a chance to show you what Hannibal can do when
he isn’t handled incompetently.  Trust me; you won’t find a better stud to
improve your line.” 
Santiago tilted his head, the salt and pepper patch of grey at his temple
looking brighter as it caught the sun.  Will was reminded of the silvering in
Hannibal’s hair, the sheer softness of it.  Where Santiago’s looked almost dyed
to give an air of age and wisdom, Hannibal still looked a panther in his prime,
just barely beginning to show signs of aging well.  Like good whiskey, poured
into a seasoned barrel. 
“I like you, Señor Graham.  I like your Hannibal, too.  I’d very much like to
see what he could do unrestrained.” 
Will’s soft huff didn’t quite sound like laughter, but it came close enough. 
He extended his arm, illustration though the wound was covered.  “I’d think
this would have given you some fuel for your imagination.” 
Santiago shook his head, cigarette hand waving liking he was shooing flies. 
“No.  A horse will kick, if you walk behind him and he doesn’t know you.  I
don’t want to see him kick; I want to see him fight.” 
It was a fair question, though it made Will all the more certain there was
nothing official about these buyers.  Representatives came to area previews put
on for their benefit, and sometimes they requested to watch training matches,
but this was far more direct.  He didn’t want to know that Hannibal could
handle himself; he wanted to know that Hannibal had a distinct capacity for
violence—one that could be controlled.
Will positioned himself fully in front of Santiago, blocking much of rising
sun.  “It might could be arranged.  You want to see him fight; there’s things I
want, too.  The first—“  his voice rose, carrying him over the look of piqued
interested in Santiago’s eyes.  He wasn’t ready to be interrupted.  “—is that
it’ll be a match with no blood drawn.  They only go until someone is obviously
pinned, and they both show restraint.” 
“Easily granted.  I’ll use my own boy; he’s well trained.” 
“I want a day to rest him.” 
“Of course.”
“I’m not counting today.” 
“He’s something of a pet for you, isn’t he, Señor Graham?”  It could have been
an accusation, but there was humor in his mouth, and Will knew he could push a
little further, take a little more.  For the sake of that, he could let that
statement slide, no matter how it rankled. 
“I’d appreciate it if you’d make a point to tell Chilton what impressed you.
 Not his stunt, but Hannibal himself.  My work, if you have to list any other
factor at all but I’m fine if you leave me out. “ 
“I’ll tell him.  I’m ready to place an order today, but I may increase it. 
I’ll tell him that…”  he held out his hand, ready to shake on a deal that
tasted only vaguely rotten in Will’s mouth.  “I’ll make an order for 30 straws,
but if Hannibal wins, I’ll make it 50.  Do we have a deal?” 
He wasn’t thrilled about it, but he’d come out of this situation expecting to
have to fight tooth and nail to back down a furious client.  That he hadn’t had
to was nearly a miracle—that this man was ready to place such a decently large
order for frozen semen already was an utterly unlooked for boon.  Doing this to
keep it wouldn’t sit easy on him, but he could do it.  Hannibal could do it. 
And after, Will could do his best he could in what time he had to find out more
about who Chilton was dealing with on the side, and how in the hell he might
find a way to prove it. 
Will took Santiago’s hand and shook it, firm enough to make the muscles in his
fingers twinge.  “Yeah.  We’ve got a deal.” 
Chapter End Notes
     This chapter is a little shorter than originally intended, mostly
     because I decided the scene that follows it just couldn't be cut up
     since it worked better as a whole. I'm sorry this one's a little
     shorter, though <3
     I can't say enough how much I truly appreciate you guys sticking with
     this. It's such slow going on the romance- ironically, probably
     slower than I would read except in the rarest of circumstances, lmao
     I promise, though, that they are baby stepping toward proper
     hannigram...you can see it a littttle here and you'll really be able
     to see a baby step next chapter that's even a little more well
     defined than this one.
     I'll be off at the beach for a week, but I'll be in and out,
     responding to comments and being so very grateful you all are
     enjoying this <3 I'll see you in a week!
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
     So first, I want to say I'm sorry that this is a day after the end of
     the 'week' when you guys usually get chapters at the beginning of it,
     and that it's the only chapter for this week.
     Because I know that I personally always appreciate context, too, I
     also want to give a little of it. After getting back from my trip, in
     addition to wanting to get something done for Bottom Hannibal Day, a
     member of my family who's already been in and out of the hospital for
     months has had some more severe problems. I don't need to take time
     away from working on this or anything like that, and I do believe
     this'll probably be the only week with one chapter, but just
     to...help explain that there's been a lot of time consuming things
     going on here, including me taking on her dog (wave to the senior
     puppy, everyone, XD)
     WITH THAT BEING SAID *cough*, on to the important part. This chapter
     is a point I've been excited to share with you guys for a long time,
     so. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do <3 Thank you so, so much for
     everything!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Will had barely come halfway through Hannibal's door before Price was after
him, crossing toward him with quick steps.  
"Thereyou are; I don't know what you've done to one of my best patients but
he's refused to let me look at him until I see your arm first."  Over his
shoulder, Dr. Price cast a look back at Hannibal, something in the rise of his
eyebrows that was either disapproval or disbelief.  Both, more likely.  "He
said you agreed." 
"And he's right," Will said, too distracted to immediately elaborate.  Past
Price, Will's eyes were first only for Hannibal.  He looked about as tired as
Will felt, but he was holding it well.  If Will hadn't known him like he'd come
to he would have missed it, but it was there in the corners of his eyes, the
set of his shoulders.  Undoubtedly, they still pained him, likely greatly. 
Will didn't anticipate he'd make a single sound of protest, but he'd be making
sure Hannibal's pain was accounted for all the same.  His ability to disregard
it didn't mean he didn't feel it.
Will held his arm out to show Price, his right hand carefully peeling at the
tape.  "I did promise, but I'm not sure how much you can do for it.  I mean, it
shouldn't be too different for you but other than a bandage-"
"Jesus Christ!"  Price's grip on his arm came just as sudden as the
exclamation, sharp and tight on his wrist.  In the corner of his eye, Will
could see Hannibal's head turn, looking away, and he wished like hell Price
could have done this somewhere else.
The compress had swung free, exposing the wound to view.  It wasn't bleeding,
now, but it looked angrier than Will remembered, red and puffy around the edges
with swelling.  Hannibal hadn’t been wrong; it was deep.  Still, there was no
muscle hanging free, no glimpse of bone.  It could have been much worse. 
“It’s not that bad,” Will said, his near wince hidden in the quick blink of his
eyes as Price snapped on a glove and began to feel at the edges.  “Really,
it’s—“
“If I had a parasapient with a bite like this, I’d want to keep them for
treatment and observation for at least 24 hours, so why don’t we take my
judgment on how bad it is?”  Without looking away, Price felt in the supply bag
behind him on the table and rummaged until he produced sterile wash which he
used immediately, flushing a little blood and bits of paper towel and skin
free. 
Hannibal still wasn’t looking, but he stood stock still.  His ears couldn’t
have been more obviously attuned to the conversation if he’d had more
physically demonstrative ones to prick and swivel in their direction.
Eager to be alone with him, Will shifted his weight.  “I don’t have 24 hours to
kill, so we’ll go with my judgment.  I’ve had worse, just…patch it up and get
me some antibiotics if you can.  It’ll heal.” 
Price’s thumb dug in a little bit as he manipulated Will’s arm, tilting the
bite to different angles to make sure he’d seen it fully.  His exasperation was
there in the pressure, and the speed.  “You do realize I’m not actually your
doctor?”
“I’m not allergic to penicillin.”  The touch of humor was sharp, but Will could
see faint ripples of its reach in Hannibal.  As if he could feel Will’s eyes
tracing the decreased tension in his shoulders, he looked up to meet them. 
With that contact made, and held, the tension dropped further.
“Hilarious.”  Price was deadpan, but not angry.  If anything, there was worry
in his hands.  “Who the hell were those guys?  Who asks for a breeding exam on
that short notice?  He could have been booked.”
“I was hoping you might have a better idea.  They claim they’re Colombian
government.  If you believe that, though, I’ve got some swampland in Florida to
sell you.” 
If he hadn’t been looking, Hannibal’s flash of confusion would have gone
unnoticed, hidden by Price’s snort of laughter before he turned to rummage in
his bags.  It was there, though, and a reminder both of how much Hannibal had
to learn, and the internal, personal work Will had still before him.  He’d
given Hannibal an unspoken greeting, but his conversation with Price had
proceeded as it would have if they were alone—or, talking over and around a
presence with no mind for the conversation. 
That wasn’t Hannibal, by any stretch, but he was used to restraint in the
company of multiple humans.  Even without the events of this morning, it would
have been up to Will to engage him, to encourage him. 
Will tilted his head, craning far enough around Price’s shoulder to make his
inclusion obvious.  “Have you never heard that before, Hannibal?”
He shook his head slowly, shifting forward until he stood close enough to watch
Price’s work on Will’s wound with rapt precision.  “As I understood it, Florida
is full of swampland.” 
“And retirement communities.  My parents live in one the size of a city; did
you know—“
Before his tangent could stretch too far, Will stopped Price with a brush of
his hand against his arm.  “It is full of swampland, but that’s only useful as
is, as habitat.  You can’t build on it; you can’t make money off of it, but
people did just that a long time ago by selling it to people gullible enough to
think they could make it work.” 
Hannibal’s soft noise of understanding was gratifying, the pensive look on his
face present that he always had as he filed away new information.  It was
embarrassing to him not to know, every time.  The more he learned, the more at
ease he felt.  “As gullible as Chilton must expect you to be, to believe this
group legitimate when they arrived with such little warning.” 
“Exactly, but it’s more than that.  The way they spoke to me, the way the group
presented itself.  What they wanted.  Speaking of—“  Will’s breath hitched, the
sudden flash burn of rubbing alcohol being squirted directly onto his wound
shocking him silent.  Rather than curse, he bit the back of his tongue, and
pushed on.  “—I made a deal with their leader so he’d make it clear to Chilton
he’s interested, but not in anything Chilton’s done.  You’ll have to fight one
of his parasapients the day after tomorrow, a quick match, no blood.” 
Hannibal nodded, his back straightening.  “Understood.”
“I wouldn’t have made that choice without you, but I had—“
“It’s fine, Will—“
“Neither of you—“ Price interrupted, talking over them both and matching it
with a look between the two of them when they’d quieted.  “—are capable of
making that decision before a medical clearance after what happened today.” 
His care was appreciated, but Will would have lied to say it didn’t prickle
something inside him at the insinuation that he’d have sent Hannibal out
without being certain he’d be well enough to do it.  He swallowed, and squashed
it.  “He’s tired; he needs a hot bath and plenty of rest but I don’t think he’s
done any real damage.  Maybe a pulled shoulder at most but—“  Hannibal’s head
shook, and Will held up his free hand to hold him off, “—but he seems alright. 
You’ll see when you look at him.”
“I’m still looking at you.”  The fire burn of the alcohol was fading, the shine
under the light fading along with it as it dried and left raw skin behind. 
“One thing I can say, Hannibal—you don’t do things by halves.”
"I don't think you can stitch it," Will said, unwilling to step on Price's toes
but equally sure he wasn't wrong and eager to change the subject.  Bites rarely
stitched well, in his experience; they usually needed to heal from the inside
out.  He'd have a scar, undoubtedly, but so far as scars went this wouldn't be
one he lamented bearing.  It wasn’t to imagine that in the future he’d likely
be glad to have it, for the reminder it gave him, for the chance to take a
little of Hannibal with him wherever he went.  Though he’d told himself months
ago to keep it in mind when he came here, the thought of their separation grew
more painful, now, every time he imagined it.
Price shook his head, still examining the edges.  "No.  It needs to be
bandaged, and it needs to dry; why you covered it with sopping wet—“
"Then bandaging it should wait."  Will cut him off, both to throw up something
of a shield for Hannibal's pride, and to stop him before he started doing it. 
"You need to check Hannibal, and I want to take him for a bath before I speak
with Dr. Chilton.  It’ll get plenty wet then.” 
“That’s not necessary,” Hannibal murmured, dark eyes watching him from beneath
his lashes, his eyes half lidded.  The wanting was there, and in the squeeze of
his hands against the table where they’d come to rest on either side of him. 
Quiet wanting, for the quiet peace they’d begun to find with each other. 
“It’s not necessary, but that’s not going to stop me.” 
Rather than bristle at Will’s firmness, Hannibal’s fingers against the table
uncurled with relief. 
                                     -----
The bathing room was long and narrow, and tilted inward on either just enough
that walking into it always felt slightly disorienting.  A long drain ran down
the center, designed to catch the water dripping off the parasapients as they
stepped out of the tubs en masse during peak bathing hours.  For now, it was
empty, and silent, the schedule clear for three hours.  If it hadn’t been, Will
would have risked walking him to another building to find the quiet they both
needed.  He had to confront Chilton, and he planned to, on his own terms, but
this had to come first.  Hannibal had to come first. 
Whether he’d have said the same a month ago, he wasn’t sure.  It didn’t seem
worth considering. 
With the caffeine from the coffee he’d snagged and near chugged on the way to
Hannibal jangling in his veins, Will no longer felt in danger of drifting, but
the low and constant internal nudges that kept him moving felt odd, and almost
as exhausting.  Even without the mental and emotional toll to consider, he
hadn’t felt this worn thin since graduate school.  The door sounded unnaturally
loud as he closed it, the snap of the lock echoing as he flipped it into
place. 
Will led Hannibal past the first square tubs still damp from early morning use
to choose a dry one near the center, where he sat down on the edge to turn on
the water.  He wanted it hot, not unbearable to keep his wrist under but about
as hot as he would have been willing to immerse himself in.  With a resting
body temperature a little higher than humans, parasapients tended to prefer to
be kept warm.  Hannibal, he knew, preferred it more than most. 
The little square green, white, and black tiles that made up the entire room
swam before him as Will stared down into the gathering water, the ripples
blurring the colors until they seemed to swirl.  Outwardly, there was no
pattern to the design that he’d ever been able to find, with color choice and
placement seeming totally haphazard.  Cheaply done, placed at random for eyes
that weren’t expected to be able to look for art. 
Anthony could have found it, he was sure.  Hannibal…if he asked, Hannibal would
likely want to take it apart, deconstruct it and reform it, place the pieces in
concert with a vision of his own.  The difference in finding art, and creating
it. 
God, he was tired. 
The water was ankle high, and he reached out to Hannibal, breaking the silence
they’d held since leaving Price.  “Hannibal, come here.” 
His hand settled into Will’s, and he climbed into the tub, turning his back to
the faucet to give Will a good angle to stretch the leash out and tether him to
the hook on the wall.  He was seconds from doing it; the motion of manipulating
a leash so familiar it seemed natural…
But his harness was leather, and every immersion in water would damage its
softness, no matter how often Will oiled it.  Besides, if he had doubted
Hannibal would run from him before, he found the thought ludicrous now.  Not
after what they’d been through this morning; not with Hannibal sticking close
to him in dead silence like a shadow. 
Will unbuckled the harness, his breath seizing sharp and painful in his chest
when Hannibal turned to look at him with too much unbridled shock to hide.  On
an ordinary day, Hannibal would not have expected this.  After what he’d
inadvertently done, he wouldn’t have expected it at all.  Will could feel his
awe, his own stomach jolting with the sensation of rocketing up to dizzying
heights of bewilderment in the time it took Will to withdraw the harness and
lay it aside.  Despite what Will had said in the aftermath, Hannibal had
clearly expected something to change, anticipated a palpable difference.  At
the very least, he’d likely thought any chance he had for the freedom Will had
hinted he wanted to offer him on weekends at home would be forever beyond him.
The truth couldn’t be further, and seeing him realize the full range of
possibility still open to him transfixed Will so thoroughly that for a moment
the sound of even the water seemed to fade. 
Hannibal blinked, tipped his head to bare the column of his throat, and the
sound returned.  The rush of water, the counterpoint of Will’s heart, hammering
faster than it had any right to.  There was no fear, no resentment in
Hannibal’s gesture of submission, no sign it was made grudgingly or as a result
to feeling bested and helpless.  There was power in this, like the low hum of
building energy.  An eager offering, thrumming with life. 
Were he truly an alpha, there would have been no question as to his answer.  He
could see it, in his mind, feel the echo of it in skin and muscle that had
never gone through the motions in just this way but knew how they would
feel—how his arms would wrap around Hannibal from behind, how to rest his chin
across the exposed stretch of Hannibal’s neck, a gesture of acceptance and
protection, the refusal to allow the offering of vulnerability to leave the one
who offered truly vulnerable. 
A dance of behavior as old as time, still far more present in parasapients than
in humankind.  As elegant at moments as the dances of grebes and herons, as
necessary for group cohesiveness as the howling of wolves. 
For the sake of providing comfort and maintaining his position, his authority,
there was a great deal Will could offer, and he’d never felt unable to do it. 
He knew the steps, and he was prepared to look after those under his care. 
With Beverly, he might have followed through—might have even with Hannibal if
his head hadn’t felt so thoroughly displaced.  To be fair, though, he knew
already that the heaviness in his mind now couldn’t be blamed on the knock
against the floor, or lack of sleep, or any combination thereof. 
Hannibal was different; he’d been different almost since the beginning.  He was
different, or Will was, or Will was different with him.  Whichever was true,
each or all had brought him to where he was, with the response his mind
supplied playing out not as the motions of a caring alpha-substitute but as
wholly genuine, as…more than he could promise, ethically or realistically. 
The desire to do it anyway should have been startling, but he’d been grappling
with the nature of the differences, here, for weeks below the surface.  The
veil he’d felt a couple of hours ago felt perilously thinner.  He couldn’t
accept this offer properly, but he couldn’t reject it either, not even if he
should. 
In compromise, Will covered the exposed stretch of Hannibal’s neck with his
hand, still warm from testing the water.  It didn’t feel less intimate. 
Hannibal’s throat fluttered with swallowing beneath his fingertips, and he
pressed into Will’s hand with more force than would have come from drawing
breath.  If Will’s choice had disappointed him, there was no sign, not in his
body, and not in the air between them. 
The water licked at Hannibal’s calves, and Will drew his hand to the nape of
Hannibal’s neck, squeezing faintly.  “Go ahead and get in the water.  It’ll
fill soon.”  The shift should have broken the moment, and hadn’t—Will could
feel a tenuous strand between them, now, stretching without snapping as he let
go to slide open the compartment on the side of the tub wall where the bathing
materials were kept.  Had he, in not choosing, still made an irreversible
choice?  Or, was he only now acknowledging a tie that had begun to form weeks
ago—in the pool or the breeding shed or Hannibal’s room the moment Will had
offered him books.
He had written about, and talked widely about, the potential for bonds between
parasapients and humans, but this felt wholly outside of his experience.  He
could tell himself, now, to consider it again tomorrow, after he’d slept, after
the heaviness of today had sunk further into his bones.  He could, and did, and
knew he wouldn’t.  Tomorrow, he would cover this, and leave it to sit, to
examine when he had to, or when he had little else of Hannibal left to
examine. 
The far off future, after he’d said what he could, written what he could, and
done what he could, and given whatever he might have had up in the service of
his plans. 
“Will you come with me, to the demonstration?” 
Will’s head jerked up, distracted from the shampoo label he’d been skimming
without properly reading.  They bought shit, for this place.  He needed to
bring some from home.  “The fight I got you into?”
Hannibal tilted his head, considering.  “Did you offer, or did he ask?”
“He asked, so I know where you’re going with that, but I agreed, and I’m
looking out for you.  That’s on me.”  Will nodded toward the slope in the tile,
wanting Hannibal to relax as best he could.  The water, now, was well over his
waist.  “Lay back.  I know you’re sore; we want to immerse your back and
shoulders as long as possible.” 
Hannibal shifted, slipping low and stretching out his long legs.  A soft sigh
escaped him as his head touched the tile, his shoulders squirming and
readjusting with a decadence that made Will hurt.  It wasn’t hard to see that
at least half his enjoyment came from the lack of a harness and clip jabbing in
between his shoulders, a luxury he likely hadn’t felt in years, if he
remembered its absence at all. 
Will gathered shampoo, soap, and a cloth and sat down again on the broad tile
rim of the large square tub, leaned far enough that Hannibal could see him well
without craning his neck.  “The answer, by the way, is that there’s no way in
hell I’d get you into a fight and send you off to it alone.  I’ll be there, and
I’ll make sure the rules hold.  It shouldn’t be hard; you just have to pin
whoever he brings.” 
Hannibal hummed, non-committal.  The water had climbed higher, and he seemed to
be relaxing properly into it now, though there were lines at his face that
hadn’t faded fully since the incident, marks of lingering strain.  “If they
aren’t Colombians, who do you think these buyers are?”
“Oh, they’re probably Colombian, but I think they’re drug runners, or they run
a fighting ring.  Both, more than likely.  They’re willing to pay a premium,
and Chilton’s trying to make a little on the side.  If I can prove it,”  Will
shifted into position behind Hannibal, pressing on his shoulder to dunk him
further into the rising water.  “I can have him arrested, but don’t get your
hopes up.  I don’t think he’s all that bright, but I’m not sure he’s dumb
enough to leave a paper trail, and I’m no detective.” 
“And here I was, under the impression the FBI was an organization built for
detection.” 
His wry humor was such a relief Will felt it sink in like the unfurling of a
flower newly exposed to sun, transforming in the wake of the dark. 
Impulsively, Will flicked water at his cheek, laughter that was soft and
genuine drawn out of him when it only made Hannibal duck fully underwater,
soaking his hair. 
The levity was painfully short lived, gone already when he broke the surface,
sliding high enough to reach out for the shampoo bottle—which Will declined to
give him, picking it up and popping the top himself instead. 
“I can wash my hair,” Hannibal said, with a stiffness Will couldn’t place. 
Lingering guilt and discomfort, or long ignored pride. 
Will’s fingers trailed down to the water, leaving ripples.  Hannibal’s eyes
tracked them up, past his wrist to the bare skin of his arm—on this one,
unbroken.  “I know you can.  Will it bother you, if I do it?” 
“You don’t have—“
“Will you hate it?” 
The ripples from the shake of Hannibal’s head traveled out across the water,
meeting Will’s, blending with them rather than fighting.  “No.  Not at all.” 
Will’s fingers stroked through the wet strands of his hair, parting them and
burying his fingers far enough to massage lightly at his scalp.  He was
unsurprised but still pleased when Hannibal tilted into his hand, as automatic
as a button pressed.  “Then just let me be a little overbearing for a minute,
okay?” 
“You aren’t,” he replied, so soft a murmur that it wove between the sounds of
water and the squeeze of the bottle as Will began. “You never have been.” 
For Will, there was an element of near ritual to this, a baseline of caring. 
As a boy, when he and his father had brought a new dog home they’d bathed them
in the tub first.  Getting them clean and ready for their new home was almost
secondary to the chance it gave to check them over, an examination borne of
budding love.  A bath was hands on, the opportunity to feel out the jut of
ribs, lines of bone, to search with careful fingers for any scrape or any bump
their eyes could have missed. 
His father’s hands had fit over Will’s, showing him how to feel the edges of a
puncture wound too small to see, too hidden by fur, and Will had remembered,
then, being smaller still, with the calloused roughness of fisherman’s hands
turned gentle to sift through his little boy’s hair, checking for ticks after
an afternoon in the woods.  Simple, and easy, and such a mark of true fondness,
true concern.  He had done it for parasapients, for two girlfriends, and for a
guy he’d sort of dated in college. 
The haze in his head was muddying perception, again, or the moment he was in
was more reverent than the act had ever been before. 
He cradled the crown of Hannibal’s head in his palm to dunk it, took care to
stroke the wet line of his bangs away from his eyes when he rose above the
water again.  The shampoo was cold, but he warmed a dollop of it in his palm
before sprinkling it with the heat of the water, and beginning to work it in,
the lather rich, his fingers firm and kneading. 
Hannibal’s Adam’s apple shifted, pronounced with the stretch of his throat, the
slick sheen of water on his skin.  “You forgive me far too easily.  I could
have broken bone.”  As incongruous as the conversation should have been, there
was relief in having it open again.  The draining of a wound, before it could
fester. 
“You didn’t.” 
“The luck of angles, and your quick thought.  I would have tried again.  I
could have—“
“You could have reached my throat, and ripped it out.  Like you did to Paul
Momund.  Lean forward, Hannibal.”  Will shifted his grip, tilting Hannibal’s
head to scrub at the fine hair near the nape.  “So here’s the question—does it
bother you that I’ve forgiven you because you didn’t expect it and you do
expect a catch, or because you feel responsible even though you weren’t?” 
Silence lapsed, and Will gave him the time to do the thinking that he could
feel churning within him, a low and grinding hum.  His hands stayed busy,
kneading at Hannibal’s nape, working higher, massaging with knuckles and
fingertips and the heel of his palm until Hannibal reached back to catch his
wrist. 
Will let him take it, limp and permissive as Hannibal stretched his arm out
over his shoulder and beyond until the back of his arm rested against
Hannibal’s chest, and the bite was on display, red and wet and swollen. 
Slowly, with infinite care, Hannibal’s thumb traced the arch of it, as soft as
the brush of gauze. 
“It bothers me that I hurt you, and that…this isn’t a mark I’d have chosen to
leave.  It’s unsettling how obvious it seems, now, that you may be not
everything I thought but more I hadn’t considered.  I feel…suspended.  Close to
trusting you more completely than is wise, and as ashamed that I don’t already
as I am of this.” 
“You have nothing to be ashamed of.  Not of something we’re both working for,”
Will tilted his arm, unsurprised when rather than increase the pressure of his
fingers, Hannibal moved with him.  “And not for this.  I knew the risk I was
taking, and it was worth it.  I’d do it again.   I’ve taken a lot worse to gain
a lot less.” 
As if to shield his new wound from past harm, Hannibal’s palm covered the bite,
wet and warm and endearing.  “You’ve been bitten before?” 
“A few times.  The worst was a long time ago.”  The itch to elaborate, to
illustrate built until Will tugged his arm free, gentle in his extraction.  His
hands were far quicker over the buttons of his shirt, flicking fingers eager to
outrun the chance to second guess.  There could be no harm, in this.  It stood
to reason that it might even help him to see it, an old wound of far worse
damage than he’d dealt. 
The urge to glance toward the door nearly overwhelmed Will, and though he
refused to give in to it, to color this in a shade he couldn’t bear to face, he
might should have.  It was no easier to catch the way Hannibal’s eyes tracked
over his chest as he opened his shirt and slipped it back to let it drop, no
easier to brand it with the ill-fitting stamp of curiosity. 
The old bite wound was on the same arm, covering the ball of his left shoulder
in a gnarled mess of scar tissue that Hannibal rose up in the water to see. 
The skin was sensitive there even after all these years, so much so that Will
almost hissed at the heat of Hannibal’s fingers, hot from the water, and blood
hotter than his own. 
The naked concern in Hannibal’s eyes swallowed him, drawing him to shift
closer, to anchor his hand in the soapy strands of Hannibal’s hair and let him
look his fill. 
“Who did this to you?”  Iron wove through the hush of Hannibal’s whisper,
lacing it with as much danger as there was affection, and Will had no doubts as
to his intentions.  If he’d ever met Thurgood, his throat certainly wouldn’t be
safe from those teeth. 
The revelation shouldn’t have made him smile.  Thurgood wouldn’t have deserved
it, and that kind of possession shouldn’t be overly encouraged and yet….  And
yet. 
Will’s fingers ruffled Hannibal’s hair, amused at the way it stood up stiff
with lather.  “No one you’ll ever meet.  He was a big alpha, and I was being
stupid.  His enclosure had a note on the front that said he bit without
warning, but I disregarded it—“
“As you do.”  There was no smile on Hannibal’s mouth, but the words were
nothing but fond, as warm as his hands. 
“As I do, but this time there was truth in it.  I usually do pretty well with
just my judgment, but I was young, and I still had a lot to learn.  He came
down hard on my shoulder, managed to gnaw at it pretty good before I could get
away.  I was in the hospital almost a week.” 
Hannibal’s thumb pressed in, and Will shifted forward, his breath catching at
the still-rough tug of scar and muscle.  It couldn’t, and didn’t, go
unnoticed.  Hannibal’s fingers spread wider, almost spiderlike, feeling out the
edges, places where thick tissue smoothed out to faint lines.  “It pains you
still.  Inside, or on the surface?” 
Will shrugged, single shouldered.  “The skin feels tight sometimes, and it
doesn’t feel all that great in too much sunlight.  All through the joint, if a
storm is coming.  He took out a little muscle, and I probably don’t exercise it
as much as I should.  It’s okay, though.  I’m right handed anyway.  Honestly, I
usually only notice it these days if I move it wrong.”
Hannibal studied the lines as thoroughly as any of the equations Will had
brought him, no nuance unexamined.  The rake of his eyes up and down again held
the intensity of memorization, his focus holding even as Will’s thumb found his
temple and rubbed, slow and soft, soap crackling beneath the whorls of his
print. 
“You see?  It’s much worse than yours.  I won’t even feel that when it heals,
and besides, I meant what I said.  You did what you should have, in a situation
you shouldn’t have been in.  The choice to go to you…wasn’t even a choice.” 
“No fear for your throat?”  His voice was hoarse, as stripped as it had sounded
on the floor. 
“None worth mentioning.”  It was enough; he should’ve stopped, but the feeling
of owing Hannibal honesty was too great to overcome.  “I was afraid of what
might happen to you, if you killed me.  How much harder you might take it now
than if you’d killed me in the beginning when I was only a little interesting. 
I get the feeling you’d classify me differently, now.” 
The sudden fierceness in Hannibal’s eyes was too bright to name, moreso when he
had the chance to see only a flash of it before Hannibal was moving forward,
his head tucking in.  His grip shifted to hold the blade of Will’s shoulder,
and still the first stroke of his tongue against the scar was electrifying in
its surprise, wet and warm and softer than Will would have believed.  Along the
sensitive ridges of the scar, his skin prickled, an unusual newness to this
touch with a texture and intimacy he hadn’t expected.  Those who’d shared his
bed had usually left a perfunctory kiss, there, but not…
Not like this; nothing like this.  It was common enough parasapient bonding,
demonstrative affection to soothe wounds old and new, physical and internal. 
He’d felt it before on his hands, once on the inside of his arm.  This, now,
should have felt as he had then, not as he had the first time he’d felt the
brush of Hannibal’s tongue, and shoved his hand into his pocket. 
This might have been normal, with someone else, at another moment, in another
life.  It might have been, but this wasn’t, and the pounding of something that
felt like danger in Will’s ears reached a high enough pitch that he tightened
his fingers in Hannibal’s hair, just enough to pull him back.  The scar was
wet. 
Will’s throat worked, wordless for an irritating second.  “Hannibal—“
“I know,”  His breath brushed Will’s skin, close enough to chill the damp
patch.  “You can take care of it yourself.  But you can let me do this for you,
for now.” 
It had thrilled him the first time Hannibal threw his words back at him, and
the jolt of pleasure now was no less vivid.  He was such a clever mimic, always
learning, always folding in words and concepts he’d learned to what he knew
already to form a larger whole.  There were moments that when taken whole felt
like reflections on high battlements, held up and reinforced to protect
Hannibal from the world he’d grown up in, but moments like this…
Will could feel no artifice in this.  It was pure, as undiluted as the glimmer
in Hannibal’s eyes.  Hope made weapon sharp,  though he seemed to have no
intention of using it to wound. 
Will felt wounded even so, but that wasn’t Hannibal’s fault. 
Hannibal was thorough, and Will drifted in limbo between the strange
intoxication of this intimacy and the mire of his guilt.  The in-between state
rendered his reactions sluggish, his body and mind at odds, but there would,
later, be no telling himself he didn’t feel the shift when Hannibal finished. 
The change in the angle of his head was clear, the more cursory nature of his
final lick, just catching the faded edge of his scar.  It was one thing, to
have allowed him that much, but he should have stopped him then. 
When Hannibal shifted his wrist, holding on as if he’d lifted something
fragile, Will should have stopped him. 
Instead, Hannibal lowered his head to the raw skin left by his own teeth, and
Will’s hand found the nape of his neck, tacit encouragement he felt compelled
to give, and already knew he would reach deep at home with a glass of whiskey
in his hand to explain. 
Chapter End Notes
     8/31/17 UPDATE-
     Hey guys!
     So, I wanted to give you an update on An Approach to Academic
     Temerity so you guys know when you’ll have new chapters- and don’t
     get worried, it’ll be soon :)
     However, it will be not this weekend, but next week, so that means
     our every other weekly schedule will essentially just be shifting
     weeks. As I’d mentioned before, I’ve got a lot going on right
     now...please don’t worry because it definitely isn’t going to stop me
     from working on this, but, that in combination with the fact that
     I’ve made some changes to this portion of the story since I
     originally mapped it out and that’s caused some unforeseen writing
     struggles, and the fact that Dragon*Con falls this weekend means it’s
     been a very overwhelming past couple of weeks.
     So, when faced with the prospect of giving you guys a single chapter
     for this week that I did not feel comfortable with, I’d much rather
     be able to give you at least one but hopefully two chapters next week
     that I do feel comfortable with.
     You guys have no idea how much I appreciate your patience, and your
     love for this story. It brings me more happiness than I could ever
     say <3 Thank you so much!
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Notes
     Hi, guys <3
     As many of you probably already know from seeing my notes on tumblr/
     other fics, last September the family member I had mentioned in
     previous notes passed away. I'm okay, but it was sad and jarring and
     threw me off for awhile and after that point there's just been...life
     has been A Lot, for various reasons. It helps 0% that the moment of
     taking a break on this hit riiight after I had made some decisions in
     the last few chapters that changed my timeline/plans for this fic
     substantially.
     The point of saying this now is that posting this chapter is
     terrifying. At this exact second I think I like it, but if I look it
     too long I'm afraid I'll start to hate it again lmao The story
     changes I made a few months ago I think were made for the right
     reasons but they left me with scenes I never intended to write and
     with as extensively as I planned this fic originally, having to veer
     it off into a slightly different course was much harder than I
     expected. Every single word has been difficult and writing is rarely
     difficult for me so when it is it makes me feel like something is
     horribly wrong.
     Maybe nothing is wrong with this, but I literally wouldn't be able to
     tell you for all the money in the world; this chapter has come too
     difficultly for me to see it with any kind of objectivity, but it had
     to happen because I love this story and it has to go forward. So.
     I really, really hope this is not terrible and you guys enjoy it, but
     because I am such a wreck over posting this I'm going to beg very
     nicely that if you don't like it, please don't ever tell me because I
     really don't think I could bear it and I also don't particularly care
     how stupid that may sound.
     I am 90% sure I'll be back to loving writing this and not wrestling
     with it very soon; just had to get over this hump. Those of you who
     have looked forward to this coming back, I'm so sorry it's taken so
     long and I owe you all a more sincere thanks than I could ever convey
     *hug*
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Will reminded himself that as he left Hannibal, he’d promised not to yell.  Not
outright, not in so many words, but Hannibal had caught his wrist as Will had
moved to stand up from the side of his bed, and it was right there in the look
he gave to soothe Hannibal’s concern—he would come back.  Today, and tomorrow,
and every day he could manage it.  
He couldn’t keep that promise if he went into Chilton’s office guns blazing. 
No matter how much he wanted to, he wanted to keep his job more.  If he got
fired, Hannibal would have chiefly only Barney against Chilton, and a sea of
hostility surrounding him that had yet to settle, despite Will’s best efforts. 
Most of the keepers were terrified of him, and equally sure their reasons were
accurate.  He faced darker specters than those, too, and there was no denying
Hannibal would suffer a blow to be separated from Will, now. 
How deep that blow would cut and how much worse it might get the longer he
stayed wasn’t a question up for consideration.  In the moment, he had to work
with what he had—the very real need to keep a fierce rein on his temper, or
cause them both to suffer the consequences. 
Still, still, he wasn’t about to muzzle his rage entirely.  He needed a job,
but Hannibal also needed a voice, and Chilton had overstepped.  If he was
careful, Will could balance his needs into swift retaliation.  The strike of a
chisel, not a sledgehammer. 
To begin, he did away with formality.  Chilton’s office manager, Ms. Williams,
was in the midst of reapplying her lipstick when Will walked in, her eyes on
her work, her ears on the tapes he was having her review. 
—now this bitch here, he’s a little underweight to carry a pregnancy to term,
but he’s good stock and I think I can manage with him this time.  If you let me
breed him half price and keep the pup, I’ll hand him over as soon as he
whelps.  Doesn’t eat well, but I’m sure you can do something ab—
The recording snapped off with a sharp pop, one Will recognized from his
childhood.  An old tape recorder, decrepit technology.  Safe from hacking, but
hard to secure.  The conversation she’d just cut off didn’t have the ring of an
official source either—and if it was, they weren’t brokering deals according to
regulations.  To keep the tapes, he would have a safe—
But Ms. Williams was rising, and now wasn’t the time. 
“Dr. Graham; if you’d like to make an appointment to see Dr. Chilton—“
Will continued, long, bold strides without hesitation.  “No, I wouldn’t.”
“Dr. Graham—“
“Mr. Graham, Ms. Williams.  You can go back to your review.” 
The double doors to Chilton’s office were thick, solid cherry wood.  Will’s
knuckles rapped a solid sound against the right one as he opened it, the knock
far more a nod to the absence of ceremony rather than a belated attempt at it.
Dr. Chilton reclined in his chair, his feet propped up on the window seat
directly behind his desk.  There was a slight tinge of savage pleasure in the
way his book tilted on his lap when he yanked his feet down and turned too
rapidly, his bookmark spilling to the floor. 
"Mr. Graham!  If you'd like to make an appointment for this afternoon, I do
have free time today, and we should discuss—“
Will's even strides brought him right up to the desk, no hesitation to mark
Chilton’s speech.  His hand fell to the curving receiver of a landline phone
styled to carry the look of a relic from decades past.  gilded along the edges
around its rich navy, as overwrought as the man himself.  Will snatched it to
his ear long enough to hear the dial tone, then let it fall from halfway down
with a resounding clatter.  "Well that's a relief," he said, dripping sarcasm,
utterly disengaged from Chilton's greeting.  "I thought the phone lines must be
down.  You must have misplaced your cell phone too; is it at home?  You're
welcome to borrow mine, if you have any other trainers you need to update.” 
True to his silent word, he wasn’t yelling, but there was venom in his eyes
that he knew flew entirely unconcealed.  He hadn’t quite planned for that, but
the sting of rage in his blood had been too sharp—it might well have been more
disastrous to try and overcome it entirely. 
As it was, when their eyes met Chilton’s eyes were narrowed, but it seemed more
severe irritation than dangerous anger.  Lazy affront. 
Ms. Williams shoved the door open the rest of the way, the heavy door creaking
on its hinges.  “Dr. Chilton; I told him he needed an appointment, but he
said—“
"It's perfectly alright, Ms. Williams.  I can handle Mr. Graham."  The tinge of
disdain, there, glanced only off Will's surface, too unimportant to stick. 
He'd known they weren't going to like each other from the first time they met;
as long as his abilities kept Chilton's attention he didn't give a goddamn
about keeping his good opinion.  "If anyone calls tell them I'll return it
before I leave."
"Yes, doctor." 
The door closed, and left them both in a mire of mined silence.  Only tangible
effort kept Will's fingers from curling into fists, and he wasn't a fighting
man.  He never had been—or at least, not in any traditional sense.  He had, as
a boy, tackled a classmate and punched their mouth bloody over an insult to his
dog, but that was years removed.  His rage had always come out of him like
that—sudden and sharp, rooted in his heart. 
Chilton kicked back from his desk, and rose from his chair a deliberate attempt
at grace.  “Have a seat, Will.” 
Will’s knees didn’t even begin to bend.  “You made it crystal clear when I was
hired that Hannibal would be my responsibility; I’m now his sole trainer.  If
someone wants to set up a session, that should go through me.” 
“You’re in control of his training, to be sure, but at the end of the day—do
you like brandy?”  Chilton gathered his decanter without waiting for an answer,
pouring twice.  “At the end of the day, I’m director of this facility.  I can’t
keep customers waiting due to staff schedules—“
“You know I would have come in; if you would have called—“
“—and I can’t keep losing profit off one of my best assets, no matter how good
he is.  I have to know if Hannibal can be fully functional.  If he can’t
perform his duties…”  Chilton tilted his glass before he drank.  The look of
exaggerated knowing in his eyes was sickeningly smug.  “He’ll have to go.”
The urge to slap the glass from his hands rose, and ebbed.  In that small span
of time, Will let himself feel it, in the core of his mind—the smack of the
glass against his palm, the shock in Chilton’s eyes, the rattling crash as it
shattered against the bookshelf. 
Glass and brandy would ping off Will’s arm, both cold. 
Somehow, it had settled him just to imagine it.  His arms crossed over his
chest to keep his hands at bay, though it felt now more a statement and less a
reach for personal restraint.  Beneath the dressing Price had done for him, the
bite wound stretched and throbbed.  There was comfort in that, too, that he was
even less ready to examine than his own sudden propensity for violence. 
“If you’d wanted a demonstration of how functional he can be, you wouldn’t have
deliberately crippled him,” he said.  Will flexed his arm to feel the ache, to
remind himself that it was alright to show, here, the grit of backbone, but not
how deeply this had cut either of them.  He couldn’t expose more of Hannibal’s
pain than utterly necessary to a man who’d seek to use it against him, and he
couldn’t tip the full measure of his own without spilling Hannibal’s—they had
become, in this, too closely layered.  “You set him up to fail, and you did it
on purpose.”
The truth had been obvious to him on the drive, in the breeding shed.  It
hadn’t grown any murkier between then and now, but though he hadn’t expected a
denial, he didn’t expect Chilton’s nod, either.  Slow, and only once, but
undeniably present, chased with the turn of his lips and a sip of brandy.  Will
could feel something in his stomach turning on him, curling sharp and vicious. 
 
“Hannibal is an unpredictable beast, but ironically, in that very…wildness,
he’s entirely predictable to a fault; I’ve written papers on him.  I know
you’ve read them—at least, you did mention it in your interview,” Chilton said,
snagged with a wry twist.  As if he’d caught Will out, as if he were a student
handing in a research paper on a current topic on which he’d only read the
abstracts.  He read Chilton’s papers long ago—read them, and marked his journal
copies with slashes and dots of red.  Dots for his own personal disagreements
and doubts, slashes for assumptions or extractions based on conclusions proven
false.  Chilton’s laughter, now, was every bit as grating as his damned
papers.  “I’ve no need to test Hannibal.  You’re the variable, Will.  All I
needed to test was you.”
“And here I thought my interview finished up a few months ago,” Will said.  Try
as he might (and he could not in all honesty argue he’d tried very hard), the
retort carried far more bitterness than amusement. 
“We’re a working facility.  We can’t afford to keep anyone who can’t pull their
weight, human or parasapient—no matter how good they look on paper.  I don’t
need someone who can control Hannibal when he’s playing at sophistication.  I
need someone who can control the beast.”  Chilton’s glass tipped forward, his
smile widening.  “And you just proved you can.  A little worse for the wear,
perhaps, but you don’t seem interested in filing a claim for workman’s comp.” 
The bite had been an accident, a mistake.  Hannibal had regretted it—didregret
it.  By all rights, hearing Chilton mention it shouldn’t have made him feel so
damned insulted but he’d already moved to cover it with his palm.  Unthinking,
automatic.
Instinctive. 
Will shook his head, the pressure of his hand against the wound before he let
it drop steadying in its sharpness.  “It’s nothing; it’s fine.  It was my fault
anyway.” 
“Maybe, but he had you, and you called him down.  Obviously, that’s not an
approach that’s worked, and don’t think a few haven’t tried—I’ve seen video
footage of at least a few of his kills.  They aren’t pretty.  You’re
impressive, Mr. Graham.” 
As of yet, he held nothing on Chilton—or, as Zeller would have put it, nothing
actionable.  He had no ground to stand on, no plausible threats to make.  None,
at least, that he should.  His ears rang in the quiet, too full of the noise of
unwanted congratulations.  The slosh of liquor, the clink of Chilton’s glass. 
Will leaned in to take his own, smoothly, pausing with it suspended over the
middle of Chilton’s desk—almost an invitation, not close enough for a toast. 
“If you want to test me, Dr. Chilton, that’s your prerogative.  I’d appreciate
a little warning, but I’ll pass.   As a word of…friendly advice from one
colleague to another, though—“  Will tipped his glass closer, close enough to
just almost clink the rim against Chilton’s, held lax as he listened.  “I’d be
careful jerking around a predator who’s had a lot of free time to think about
how very much he already hates you.” 
It was not his threat to make; he knew better when he said it, and better still
on the walk to the car, fresh air in his mouth and the sun hot against his arms
where his sleeves had been rolled up.  It wasn’t his to make, and he shouldn’t
have said it, but no amount of repetition of those facts could make him sorry. 
For just a moment, Chilton had gone pale as the thinnest linen, and something
dark and wild in Will’s chest had fed on that fear like a coveted delicacy. 
Ravenous, eating for two. 
                                    ----- 
Even with the dogs to swirl around his feet, coming in the door at home had
felt strange in the way it usually only did after weeks away, the odd gut-deep
sensation of walking into a place that had stagnated while you were elsewhere,
changing.  He was gone hours, not weeks or even days, but the place that had
begun to feel nearly as homey and familiar as Wolf Trap had felt suddenly off
balance, like the furniture had shifted a quarter turn and he no longer knew
the pathways in-between. 
His arm, long bandaged and dry, felt the ghost of Hannibal’s tongue, wet and
warm and comforting. Elemental, as automatic as the spreading tingle that came
after the first gulp of cider on a winter day. 
It was too hot, now, to be thinking of winter, and he was too tired to be
thinking of Hannibal. 
His final visit for the day after he’d seen Chilton had been all too brief, and
barely a visit at all.  He’d seen him only from the other side of the glass,
and though he’d told himself it was brief for both their sakes he’d felt the
lie in that in the twinge that came when he’d drawn his hand away from the
glass. 
If he’d gone in, he’d have been tempted to settle into Hannibal’s bed with him
to comfort him, and he’d have fallen asleep there.  He was far too tired, far
too compromised, and far too comfortable with Hannibal pressed up against his
side as he did when they read to each other.  He’d have fallen asleep and
Barney would have woken him later, and there would be trouble from it beyond
the trouble Will could feel mounting in his own chest.
With a certain degree of accuracy, he’d been able to tell himself that
Hannibal’s differences, though marked, were innocent.  Whatever it was, Will no
longer felt…
Was innocent even the right term?  If Hannibal was every bit the man Will was,
would any…inappropriate feelings not then be entirely appropriate, or did the
inherent societal difference make that impossible?  He was in a position of
power over Hannibal, whether he wanted to be or not.  As his alpha he’d have
held a measure of power regardless, but this was different this was—
Will slammed the refrigerator door, rattling condiments and scaring half the
dogs so bad he heard the quick jolt and scrabble of their nails as they jumped
aside.  Closing his eyes, he sipped his orange juice slowly, direct from the
carton.  It was almost expired, and anyway, there was no one here to judge. 
Whatever judgment he’d eventually need to pass on himself for what he’d
encouraged today, he couldn’t make it now, either.  He had to sleep.  When he
woke up, he might do a better job of remembering why he’d come here.  Not for
one parasapient, but hundreds.  His books had reach; he had the potential to
affect some measure of change, however slight. 
He had made quiet promises, to himself, and to a version of Anthony that no
longer existed.  To Georgia, though only in a letter he’d crumpled up and
thrown away.  Could he risk sacrificing all of that for…what?  Something he
couldn’t define and certainly wouldn’t allow himself to act on?  It was asinine
to even wonder, when he couldn’t bring himself to even hold in his mind the
full shape of the question before him—at what point did bonding becoming
courting?  Were they still miles away from it, far enough that he could stop
Hannibal before they reached it, or were they straddling the line already? 
It sounded insane to even consider it, but then, he’d never accounted for
Hannibal, or for the man he’d become himself these last few years.  A gradual
change, like water percolating through rock. 
Carrying the juice with him, Will let the dogs out onto the porch and laid down
on its slats, the afternoon sun burning red behind his eyelids when he closed
them.  None of the pieces fit.  He’d rather leave them for now where they lay,
glaring in their inconsistency.  He could go inside and eat, and when he
finished take a look at the present he’d stopped on the way home to pick up for
Hannibal.  It wasn’t a pre-emptive award for a fight , but a present in the
purest sense, given out of affection for no reason beyond the giving itself.
A chance to catch the moment of glimmering wonder in Hannibal’s eyes that came
and went like the flash of scales on the surface or the water, the opportunity
to savor it the way an alpha would who’d set out to curry favor from a
prospective mate.
The sort of gift a man would give a lover. 
Or, the sort of gift given to someone he knew had lived far too long without
kindness for kindness’s sake.  He could debate the issue within himself all
evening long, but the fact of the matter was that as he’d stood in the store
with his fingers on the keys, he hadn’t thought of handing it over to reward
Hannibal for not ripping it out his throat.  His mind had, instead, lingered on
the memory of Hannibal’s hands cradling his wound, Hannibal’s tongue on his
scar. 
The click and shift of the harness falling free, the long expanse of Hannibal’s
neck that he’d offered up.  Whether it had been deference or question Will
wasn’t sure, but part of him wondered, now, if it might not have been both, and
more besides.  A challenge, like the curious nosing of a dog at a door he
wasn’t sure he could open.
If Hannibal offered himself up as a mate and not as a subject, would Will see
it?  Would he welcome his advances?  Would he return them?
Will arched his back, pressing the back of his skull hard enough against the
boards to distract himself as he shifted position.  Whether Hannibal was asking
those questions or he was putting them there, he’d raked his mind and
motivations hard enough over the coals for one day. 
In the yard, songbirds called the coming of summer.  Clouds drifted out of
tempo with whispering young leaves, the wind above and the wind below
mismatched.  Anansi’s nails on the porch struck a new beat, and Will held out a
hand to welcome him in close.  After redirecting him from snuffling at the bite
no less than ten times, he settled with an irritated grumble against Will’s
side, nose pressed cold and huffy into his neck. 
He never left the dogs unsupervised outside, never, but he was exhausted and
the breeze was soft, and Anansi’s heart beat comfortingly against his own. 
Will closed his eyes, and let himself drift.  Spring was a season for risks. 
Chapter End Notes
     ...the chapter is also a little short. Please forgive me for that,
     too, but the next one will almost certainly be longer. I know we were
     on a great schedule before, but I'm not gonna make any scheduling
     promises for the time being; I'm too afraid of letting you down. If
     that means you need to not read for a bit and wait until there's a
     bulk of a few chapters to read at a time, I totally understand.
     I can promise, though, that chapters will be posted as soon as
     they're ready, and I can also let you know that in between I will be
     finishing up Christmas oneshots, working on a likely <20k murder
     husbands big bang, and posting my first Yuri On Ice fic. (and also
     working, and job hunting, and trying to hold onto my sanity lmao)
     You guys are incredible and I unendingly grateful for every last one
     of you.
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