Work Text:
When I fight you, losing is to win
All your lies and all your half-told truths
Yeah I love you baby, what's the use?
I wanna fight
Don't wanna dance with you
Out in the dark, I come alive with you
I called out for you
I saw red
When I looked into your eyes
“Glass Jaw” - chokecherry
The first time she sees Hannibal after everything, it's a fight to keep shock off of her face. She knows it’s a losing battle when she sees Hannibal smirk - bastard that she is - but she’s so distracted she can’t bring herself to care.
Even in the same room, the years spool out on and on between them. It’s eons. It’s no time at all. It’s everything she’s been waiting for and unbearable all at once.
She openly scrutinizes Hannibal through the plexiglass barrier between them: a deadly virus under glass. Will lets her eyes roam everywhere except Hannibal’s face; she traces the long, lean line of her body, the proud set of her shoulders. It’s the first time Will has ever seen her in shoes without a substantial heel; she wishes it made her small, made her presence less imposing. Just Will’s luck - it doesn’t. Hannibal’s posture is damnably fixed, untouchable to even the quiet indignity of hospital-grade velcro shoes.
The inside of Hannibal’s cell is lavish - tall ceilings, bookcases, and sketch materials dominate the room. It’s more similar to Hannibal’s Baltimore office than it is to the other cells at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; its opulence is in stark contrast to the very cell Will herself spent months in.
Anger sends bile to burn at the back of her throat. She forces herself to take a breath in.
Hold it.
Breathe out.
Only after she can avoid it no longer does she let her gaze come to Hannibal’s face. Surprise takes her so forcefully that there’s no time for a carefully neutral expression. “Hello Dr. Lecter,” she finally manages, voice low and tight.
“Hello, Will,” comes the immediate reply. Casual, almost. “Did you get my note?”
Will’s vaguely aware of the following conversation. She knows the words spill out of her in fits and starts like they were thrown from a sloshing cup. Her distraction is momentary, but the private reverie throws everything out of proportion.
The last time she saw Hannibal - in the flesh, not the tabloid photos that plastered checkout aisles and late-night news broadcasts - was at her sentencing. She’d felt obligated to go, had sat tightly coiled in the back of the courtroom as the sentence was handed down, as the court tried to reach justice with the effectiveness of drawing blood from a stone.
Their eyes had met across the benches. Will remembers how it had felt like all the air had gone out of the room at once. Remembers Hannibal’s small, private smile and defiant eyes. She remembered how she’d felt as the court sentenced Hannibal to the highest number of consecutive life sentences recorded in Maryland history: guilty.
She feels much the same now as she finds the imprint of years on Hannibal’s face. The singular skylight pours light down on her like the accusatory eye of God, highlighting the faint scar on her cheekbone and the sharpened angle of her jaw. She’s thinner than Will’s ever seen her, though she knows Alana would never deign to use starvation as punishment considering -
Well. Considering.
The lines in her face are delicate - more noticeable without artfully applied makeup and a painted mouth. The textured surface of old oil paintings comes to mind - she knows Hannibal once told her the name for it (something in another language she’s sure) but Will can’t remember the word for the life of her.
She’s too distracted by Hannibal’s hair.
It’s - it’s short.
Gone is her meticulous updo - that Will had expected. Hannibal’s hair is now in a close crop that brushes the tops of her ears and falls in a smooth, abbreviated wave over her forehead. The familiar ash blonde has wintered into a cool, dull grey. This, more than anything else, shows Alana’s hand in it all. She has no need to starve Hannibal of food or luxury - not when Hannibal’s physical being itself is under her control - the cut of her hair and clothes, the pace and variety of visitors, the very dimensions of her life.
It’s a subtle show of force - a reminder that cannibalism is not the only act of dominance. It’s exquisite.
An electric thrill runs through her. Will tells herself its contempt.
Will mentally shakes herself, forcing her mind to focus on the present. “I want you to help me, Dr. Lecter.” she says. To the point.
“Yes, I thought so.”
Hannibal is so close to the glass that she could reach out and touch it. Will stays anchored in place.
“Are we no longer on a first name basis?” Hannibal asks. Her voice is calm. Light. She holds her hands clasped behind her. The pose would look stiff on anyone else. On Hannibal, it’s natural. Self-assured.
“I’m…” her voice trails off for the briefest instance. “More comfortable the less personal we are.”
The slightest ripple of dissatisfaction passes over Hannibal’s placid expression. Gone the moment Will notes it.
The conversation isn’t awkward - they know each other too intimately for that. Instead, each word is careful. Measured and weighed before being set into motion.
It’s both infuriating and exhilarating. Will hates how she comes alive under Hannibal’s careful attention.
Until, that is, Hannibal pushes too far. She always does.
“I smell dogs and pine and oil beneath that lotion. It’s something a child would select, isn’t it?” A pause, as minute as Hannibal’s hesitation before sticking her with a linoleum knife so many years ago. “Is there a child in your life, Will?”
Hannibal’s eyes glimmer in the blue light of evening now filling the space. Will’s drowning in it.
“I gave you a child - if you recall.” Hannibal has the audacity to sound strained - voice rough and soft.
Rage coils in Will, threatening to spring free. Her thoughts are uneven now, cut harshly and vicious. Her jaw works fruitlessly as she calms herself.
“I came about Chicago and Buffalo.” Will hates how her voice shakes. She presses on. “You’ve read about it.”
“I’ve read the papers - I can’t clip them. They won’t let me have scissors, of course.” The corners of Hannibal’s mouth twitch up almost imperceptibly. “You want to know how he’s choosing them.”
She’s relieved that Hannibal has accepted the change of topic. “Thought you would have some ideas.” Tries to sound flippant.
“You just came here to look at me.” Hannibal’s eyes pierce her. “Came to get the…old scent again. Why don’t you just smell yourself?”
The air escapes Will’s lungs without her assent. She turns - anger and disappointment washing over her. “I…I expected more of you, doctor. How routine,” Will all but snarls. “It’s old-hat.”
Hannibal steps forward as Will takes a step back.
Got her.
“Where as you are a new woman?” she asks. Hannibal must resent the momentary weakness - Will knows she does - because she lashes out again. “Are you a good mother, Will?”
Will is silent. She lets the weight of it hang heavy in the air to deny Hannibal what she wants - a reaction. Hannibal will either respect the line she’s drawn or she won’t. Anything beyond that is out of Will’s control.
It’s a testament to how bored she must be - how dull her life is, now - that Hannibal accepts the denial. “Let me have the file. An hour, and we can discuss it like old times.”
“Thank you,” Will says. It’s simple: inadequate in the face of everything she wants to say.
She walks slowly to the package slot placed at the edge of the cell; Hannibal follows her in lock-step. When Will opens the small door, its metal hinges shriek. It’s not enough to cut the tension between them.
Hannibal’s eyes drop briefly to her hands as she slides the file through and quickly flick back up to her face. “Family values may have declined over the last century, but we still help our families when we can. You’re family, Will.”
Will bites her tongue; it’s the only thing that stops her from verbally lashing out or from banging her knuckles bloody against the plexiglass in attempt to wring the life out of Hannibal one second at a time.
Will turns and leaves, telling herself it’s not a retreat. Anger is a hot stone in the pit of her stomach.
Hannibal’s gaze follows her out of the room.
Later, when the sky’s gone dark and the BSHCI is nothing but a blur on the horizon, she tells herself it’s anger that she’s feeling. The liquid sensation, low and burning in her gut must be anger. Impotent rage; righteous fury.
(It’s only when she’s drawn the motel blinds tight and the cool, impersonal darkness surrounds her that she can admit to herself it’s not rage. At least - not solely. She presses her feverish skin to the scratchy cotton of the cheap sheets and it’s not enough to soothe her.
Will shoves bare feet into her shoes and walks to the nearest corner store in nothing but a t-shirt and worn pajama bottoms. The clerk - a middle aged man clearly strung out on something himself - is wise enough to acquiesce without comment when Will asks for whatever they have with the highest ABV.
She walks back to her room briskly, glass bottles of liquor clinking softly where they strain against the black grocery bag. It’s a near thing but she waits until she’s inside to work off the cap - one after the other - and swallows without tasting. The night swirls slow around her and her thoughts become liquid.
Will falls into bed again, and it’s quick work to bring herself off against her fingers and the heel of her hand until her boxers are sticky and her body heavy with sweat.
Only then, room spinning and mouth dry, can she name the unwanted twin of anger that’s arisen from her memory to follow her home.)
-
Time continues, completely unaware of Will’s personal apocalypse.
The search for the Dragon is fruitless until it’s not. The full moon approaches, Chilton burns; Will observes it all as if from a great height - not detached enough, though, to stop the secret pleasure she feels at certain outcomes.
And then Hannibal tries to have her family killed.
Will isn’t surprised - it would be naive, after all, considering Hannibal’s track record. Yet another barrier shredded under the tidal pull of Hannibal’s psychological avarice. She wants all of Will - and she’s not ready to let Will forget it.
Against her better judgement, Will understands the intent. Three years is enough.
They’re both tired of waiting.
And still - she loves Molly. Or thinks she does - in the ways that matter. It’s not enough; Will let Hannibal too close again, and Molly and Walter almost paid the price for it.
Will guards the small family she’s created with covetous wrath, but it’s too little, too late. A wedge is driven between them - into the fissures Will’s been ignoring from the start.
Molly is smart enough to pull back from danger. Will isn’t.
Will, Jack, and Alana formulate a plan. Well - Will does, and she’s somehow able to convince the two of them to follow along with it. Driven by rage, by the end of her marriage on the horizon, by Hannibal’s damnable voice in her head, Will makes a suggestion.
She’ll be the bait.
Neither Alana nor Jack like it. That’s fine - Will doesn’t need them to. What she needs is space back inside her own mind.
What she needs is Hannibal: dead, alive - Will’s not sure the difference matters. She knows what Bedelia thinks, knows what Jack and Alana believe. Can’t bring herself to care.
Will plays the cards she’s dealt. She’s vaguely aware that once - what feels like a hundred years ago - she would have felt guilty about it all.
The truth is trapped in her chest. Will imagines the lies she tells tearing her throat on the way out; she wonders why no one else seems to notice the blood in her teeth.
The most honest thing she says is “please”. It comes out so easily; half her innards come out with it, glistening on the floor between them, and Will feels light.
She knows to Alana it looks like she’s let Hannibal win in this small way - has given her what she wants - but Will watches the swell of Hannibal’s pupil, the miniscule shift of her body against her bonds.
One word from Will is enough to sway Hannibal; this is power.
There is no privacy with Hannibal. They are conjoined. Time moves around and over her. Will is back in her stream, but the water is rising. When the current runs over her head, she drifts in it. Will wants to pull Hannibal down with her.
Before any of them are ready, the wait is over. Will’s plan has been set into motion.
Alana - in her budding, cautious malevolence - extends Will an opportunity.
“We’ll go ahead and load you two into the van. The escort and motorcade will be here in about fifteen minutes,” she says, fixing Hannibal with a cool stare that thaws only marginally when she turns to Will. “Good luck,” Alana says, voice carefully neutral.
It’s not a show of faith, Will knows, but rather a calculated risk Alana is taking. Before it all - before Alana was molded by brutality - Will would take it as a misguided attempt to offer the opportunity for closure. Now, it’s more likely that Alana is hoping she’ll forgo the plan altogether and wring the life out of Hannibal with her bare hands.
“How considerate of Alana,” Hannibal says, voice low and wry, after they’re both settled into the back of the vehicle. “To offer us this moment of privacy.”
Her voice is barely above a murmur and muffled further by the no-bite mask Alana insisted on. It pierces the silence.
Their eyes meet through the bars of the cage Hannibal’s seated in. Will’s eyes trace the contorted shape of her body under the straightjacket, the way the thick canvas pulls at every curve and chafes even without movement. She knows from experience how uncomfortable Hannibal’s bondage is. She doesn’t feel any pity.
“She’s giving me the opportunity to…” Will pauses. Kill seems inadequate. “Put you down,” she settles.
Even though half her face is covered, Will can see how Hannibal’s expression flickers ever so slightly. “Will you?” the other woman asks. Her curiosity is edged with the same feeling Will shares - anticipation.
Honesty is easy, now, when the world is condensed down to just the two of them. “I would be lying,” Will whispers, “if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”
She’s seen Hannibal vulnerable in her Baltimore kitchen, in Italy, in that quiet blue evening at her home in Wolf Trap after Will rejected her. It’s a rare and wonderful sensation, seeing Hannibal like this. For her. Because of her.
It makes Will’s head spin.
Her hands don’t shake as she opens the latch on the cage - a small mercy. When the door swings open, they stare in silence. There’s no barrier between them for the first time in years.
Hannibal tenses, preparing for a fight.
Will acts before she’s made the conscious decision to. Reaching into the cell, she hooks her fingers in the collar of Hannibal’s straightjacket and pulls. She’s overestimated the force needed - Hannibal really is much less sturdy than the last time they’d been together - so the older woman tumbles out of the cage, knocking into Will’s legs gracelessly as Will settles back into her seat.
The position makes Will’s stomach flip. Hannibal has landed on her knees between Will’s splayed legs, essentially straddling her left foot. The ungainly twist of the straightjacket makes Hannibal have to lean forward as counterbalance - meaning her chest and shoulders are pressed firmly into Will’s knees.
Suddenly, Will is very, very aware of the thrum of her pulse in her own neck. Every sensation is amplified; she feels Hannibal’s warm breath brush the inside of her thigh. She could help - could situate Hannibal into a more dignified pose. Finding that she doesn’t want to isn’t much of a surprise.
“What now, Will?” Hannibal asks. It’s remarkably to the point, for Hannibal. Her eyes are dark, shadowed from where she has to bend her neck to look up at Will.
She almost looks content - accepting of her fate, like this, at Will’s feet. Almost.
Hannibal is a creature of limitless appetite, though.
Will finds herself similarly ravenous.
The first brush of her fingers through Hannibal’s short hair is gentle - not hesitant but rather intentional, treating Hannibal’s trust with care. They are both exposed to each other. “Not your choice, I know.” Will murmurs. “But it suits you.”
Hannibal’s eyes flutter closed, open again to latch on to Will’s own as though she’s afraid Will will disappear. “I’m happy to please.”
Not trusting herself to speak, Will continues to play with Hannibal’s hair. It’s novel, seeing her like this - ironically unrestrained, like the debasement has freed her from the obligation of perfect propriety. Will follows the contours of Hannibal’s skull with a delicate touch, imagining the coronal suture there, mere millimeters under her fingertips.
Hannibal’s hair is fine and silver, softer than it has any right to be after years of state-issued conditioner.
Will keeps her touch delicate as she trails down, carefully presses her thumb into the dip behind Hannibal’s temple into her pterion - the weakest part of the skull. She imagines opening Hannibal’s skull like she’d tried to do to Will in Florence. Will increases the pressure of her touch ever so slightly - just so they both know the threat is there.
Hannibal’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away; rather, she leans in to Will’s touch.
The need to see Hannibal’s face overtakes Will; she makes quick work of the no-bite mask, dropping it to the floor.
“You’re making interesting decisions, Will.” Hannibal rasps, voice roughening as Will brushes the backs of her fingers over the divots where the mask dug into her face.
Will laughs and almost means it. “Yes, well,” her exploratory touch continues; she digs her nail into the new scar on Hannibal’s cheek, imagines skin splitting under her touch. “We both know they’re not my worst.”
No response follows. None is needed.
Will passes a thumb over the thin curve of Hannibal’s mouth, parting the seam of her lips with gentle pressure. She tests the point of Hannibal’s canine against the pad of her thumb.
She watches the muscles of Hannibal’s jaw jump. Feels her breathing pick up.
Will digs one thumb into the hinge of her jaw; Hannibal takes the hint, opening her mouth to reveal crooked, white teeth. Will hooks her thumb on Hannibal’s bottom row of teeth: carefully tugs Hannibal’s mouth wider. Her fingers rest under Hannibal’s jaw on the thin skin of her neck. Hannibal’s pulse races under her touch.
Will feels more than sees saliva pooling in Hannibal’s mouth. Raises an eyebrow to indicate that it’s Hannibal’s move, now.
The very air between them is electric. When Hannibal’s mouth closes around Will, Will’s gasp is like lightning, the enclosed space of the van a faraday cage around them.
Hannibal studies her as she hollows her cheeks; Will can feel the weight of her attention. The following bite is measured: expected. The soothing, slick press of Hannibal’s tongue that follows is less so.
Will leans forward: presses further into Hannibal’s mouth, digs her thumb into the center of her tongue. It’s not quite far enough to gag, but she imagines it. Will wonders if Hannibal had felt anything like this as she’d shoved a tube down Will’s throat all those years ago.
When Will pulls back, Hannibal releases her thumb with a soft, wet pop. A gossamer thread of saliva follows the retreating digit, fine as spider’s silk.
Will brings her hand up to her own mouth. Her thumb tastes like salt as she mirrors Hannibal’s gesture. The strange intimacy of the act undoes them both. Will can’t stop her soft moan of satisfaction; she feels as much as hears a similar rumble from Hannibal beneath her.
Hannibal’s mouth is parted; her lips are glossy and her face flushed. Her hips shift carefully against Will’s shoe.
Will smiles. Affection and cruelty rush up within her. “Three years is a long time,” she says, aiming for a casual tone. The roughness of her voice betrays her meaning.
“Yes,” Hannibal manages. Her voice is tight as if the confession was costly. Considering how prideful Hannibal is, Will’s certain it was.
She rewards Hannibal by rocking her trapped leg, grinding the polished leather of her shoe up into her. Hannibal’s eyes fly closed, a small pinch forming between her brow.
Will smiles. Stills the movement.
Hannibal muffles a whine by pressing her face into Will’s clothed thigh. It’s almost sweet, the way Will can tell Hannibal is having to consciously fight the urge to grind down.
Will scrapes short nails down the back of Hannibal’s neck, pushes her fingers under the collar of the straightjacket to feel how Hannibal’s back has started to prickle with sweat. Another half-muffled moan escapes the older woman. Will digs her fingers into the hair at the back of Hannibal’s head and pulls, forcing her to meet Will’s eye. The resulting arch of Hannibal’s back forces her hips down again. This time, there’s no way for Hannibal to muffle her response as it escapes her slipping self-control.
Her whine is soft and low - Hannibal’s own way of saying please.
Heat blankets Will. Thoughts of Molly should be dogging her. Guilt should be overwhelming her. It isn’t. Will’s better nature is buried in a Baltimore kitchen.
Shame is a sensation for the innocent.
Will reaches out to thread her fingers through Hannibal’s hair. When she pulls Hannibal towards her roughly, Will is rewarded with a low moan.
A shift in position brings their bodies closer together; Hannibal rests her head against the inside of Will’s thigh. When Will tugs her hair again, Hannibal’s face turns inward. Her open mouth makes Will shiver.
The following sharp press of teeth is not dulled by the material of her slacks. Will’s gasping moan is immediate.
Their time is running out.
The minutes draw in around them, so Will acts without caution.
It’s quick, one-handed work to undo her trousers, belt falling open with a soft clink. Hannibal’s gaze explores each exposed scrap of flesh with rapt attention. The hem of Will’s sweater rides up, baring the jagged ridge of her scar - her smile; Hannibal leans impossibly closer, the desire to run her mouth along the afterimage of their history written clearly in the bloom of her pupils.
Will lifts her hips just enough to shove down her boxers, the edge of the metal bench digging into her ass. Hannibal’s mouth parts, her deep inhale as intimate as a touch to Will’s skin.
Hannibal’s mouth is a burning brand against her. She is marked anew.
The position is awkward, the splay of her legs limited by her clothes and Hannibal’s body against her. Will doesn’t care.
Each broad pass of Hannibal’s tongue over her sex makes Will arch into her touch. It’s a feedback loop of hunger, a tidal push-pull of hips and heat.
The tops of her thighs, slick with need since she’d first gotten Hannibal on her knees, press into the fever of Hannibal’s flushed cheeks.
Hannibal’s mouth against her loses perfect coordination with the gravity of three years’ denial. Both Will’s hands are fisted in Hannibal’s hair, though the urgent rock and slide of Hannibal against her needs no guidance.
Will fights to keep her eyes open, transfixed by the concentrated, closed squeeze of Hannibal’s own. Despite her previous teasing of Hannibal’s desperation, it’s short work to bring Will to orgasm; the first determined press of Hannibal’s tongue inside her has Will lifting her hips off the bench, rolling her hips in syncopated waves as the older woman fucks into her.
Will has just enough presence of mind left, in the aftershocks and the continued wet slide of Hannibal’s mouth on oversensitive skin, to hook her hand in the back of Hannibal’s straightjacket. The pull digs the garment’s fastening strap further up between Hannibal’s legs; she climaxes with a ragged cry and a viscous bite to the top of Will’s thigh that draws blood.
Both of them pant in the aftermath. The air in the small small space is heavy: the lush, fertile weight of the atmosphere after a drought-ending downpour.
There is not enough time to bask in the afterglow. Will redresses with shaking hands, Hannibal’s body slumped against her. Their edges blur. Will feels the word reshaping: nuclear fusion in flesh and technicolor.
Will’s release glints on Hannibal’s face in the low light. She leans forward, Hannibal looking up at her through hooded eyes. Will cleans her own wetness off of Hannibal, licking a slow stripe up the path of need that had dripped down her neck. Hannibal’s pulse thunders against her tongue; Will feel her throat work, but neither of them speak.
Will wipes herself off the top of Hannibal’s nose and chin with the inside of a sleeve. She leans back in to pass her tongue over the edge of Hannibal’s mouth, the taste of herself heaviest here.
She wonders how she tastes to Hannibal. She wonders how Hannibal herself would taste.
Now, a miniscule adjustment of pose or angle would let their mouths meet. Will can feel how Hannibal wants it, how her muscles tremble with the force of restraint.
She draws back, hooking an arm around Hannibal’s torso to guide her back into the cage opposite. It’s an awkward shuffle, but Hannibal slumps back into her original seat like her strings have been cut. At the apex of her thighs, Will can see how the rough weave of Hannibal’s jumpsuit has been saturated with release.
Possessiveness overtakes her; Will commits the image of Hanibal - used and open, pliant under her touch - to memory.
The armed escort is surely almost here now.
Will fumbles behind herself blindly for the no-bite mask. Her fingers close around the cool plastic. She has to stoop to be upright in the cell. Will hooks her hand behind Hannibal’s neck, bringing their foreheads together. Freefall overtakes her.
Hannibal’s eyes are wet, twin blooms of heat still high and pink on her cheeks. Will is reminded, all at once, of how Hannibal’s capture, her imprisonment, were all bids for her attention.
Will’s spent her life training strays. She knows damn well not to reward bad behavior.
She’s weak.
The kiss is slow. Both of them want it too badly to rush. Time slows and shatters. Rebuilds itself again.
It’s still over too quickly.
She puts the mask back on Hannibal. Thumbs the tear from the corner of her eye before it can fall.
Will pushes the cage’s door shut and retakes her seat. She and Hannibal stare at each other in silence.
The space between them is thick with what both of them are too proud to say.