Carnivore, Won't You Come Digest Me?

Chapter 17

On the run as they are, they cannot of course make their marriage official, and yet as time passes, the golden ring on Hannibal's finger becomes second nature to him. Not restrictive, as he imagined the practice might be. He finds himself toying with it idly in quiet moments, twisting it around on his finger, testing the give of his knuckle as he pulls it on and off. It's a perfect fit, really, and Hannibal could easily imagine that it was always his.

That Will was always his.

He returns to their home, the air sitting heavy on the back of his neck and his shoulders with the last dregs of summer heat. He sheds his jacket and hangs it by the door, breathes in the scent of coffee and ink. Will has taken to spending his days writing, completing that novel as he always wanted to. He lets Hannibal read his chapters when he's finished, offering critique and praise in equal measure. Will is quite the storyteller, Hannibal must admit, though he might be biased, considering the subject matter.

Namely, the Chesapeake Ripper, and the man who loves him.

He loosens his tie from its tight knot and breathes in deeply, heading to Will's study, but finds it empty. Curious. He straightens, and instead goes to the living room, and his smile softens when he finds Will on the couch, a cup of coffee abandoned on the table in front of him, his eyes closed, cheeks flushed with the heat. He's wearing lounge pants and a thin t-shirt, as has become his habit since he abandoned his sweater vests and slacks from his psychiatrist mantle.

He comes to a halt behind the couch, admiring the slope of Will's lax shoulders, the exposed arch of his neck. The little cut from the knife behind his ear, healed over so that only someone who knows it was there would be able to see it. It matches the faint line of Tobias' string cut, a little edge of white on the border of his beard.

He leans over, puts a hand in Will's sweat-damp hair, and kisses his temple. Will stirs, releasing a soft, pleased noise. His eyes flutter open and he rubs at them, ridding them of the crusts of sleep, and rolls onto his back, mouth offered for a chaste kiss that Hannibal eagerly grants him.

One of Will's hands comes up, touches Hannibal's cheek. His fingertips burn, the fire of a killer still burning Hell-hot inside of him. He opens his eyes when Hannibal pulls away, and smiles.

"You're home early," he murmurs, raspy with sleep.

Hannibal nods. His eyes rake down Will's vulnerable form, the rise of his broad chest and the cling of his pants around his thighs. He brushes Will's hair from his face, gentle, and Will sits up with a sigh, stretching his arms out in front of him and gasping when his shoulder pops.

"The last museum tour was canceled," Hannibal explains, shedding his tie fully and letting it drape across the back of the couch. Will's eyes flash to the action, glacier-bright, and he bites his lower lip. His cheeks darken, as they always do when Hannibal begins to shed clothes, no matter how many layers still remain.

He stands, circles the couch, and falls into Hannibal's arms. His mouth tastes like coffee and leftover sweet meat from a rude customer at the museum that Hannibal hunted last week.

Hannibal growls, grabbing Will's flanks tightly, and pulls him close. "Come with me," he says. Will's eyes are dark, pupils wide, overtaking his iris, and he nods, and lets Hannibal lead him by the neck to their bedroom.

Hannibal closes the door and Will comes to a halt at the foot of their bed. He stands posed, ready, like a show horse about to be evaluated. This has become a tradition for them, and the air thickens with anticipation as Will meets his eyes.

Hannibal smiles, and approaches him, admiring the tremble in Will's hands and the sharp intake of his breath. "Tell me another story," he says, leaning in to kiss Will's shoulder, and his hands slide gentle and coaxing on his hips, turning him around.