Main Hannibal Fan Fiction page | new stories page | Will/Hannibal slash page | other pairings page | gen stories page

Title: Run
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham
Fandom: Hannibal
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the lovely Hannibal Lecter or Will Graham, unfortunately, just borrowing them for a while. Please do not sue.


"You don't really believe what you're saying, do you?" Dr. Lecter frowned, leaning across the desk to stare at Will. "That's far too pedestrian an explanation, Will. You need to dig deeper than that. His psyche is much more disturbing, and you know it."

Will shook his head, closing his eyes. "You're right." He took a deep breath, reaching inside himself, trying his best to shut everything else out and think. As much as he didn't want to get into this criminal's head, he knew that he had to.

If he didn't, there would be more deaths. They would pile up until they could catch this guy. And even though it wouldn't be his fault, indirectly, he would feel that it was.

He always felt that way. It was a pain inside him that never went away.

When he opened his eyes again, Doctor Lecter was still watching him; the other man was standing up now, leaning forward, his hands placed lightly on his desk. His gaze was searching, as though he was trying to see inside Will's head.

Inside his soul.

Those eyes could pierce through any veil he tried to pull over his emotions. Lecter could see everything he knew, everything he felt. There was no escaping from that gaze; even when they weren't together, those eyes followed him, seeing into the heart of him.

It was unnerving. But, at the same time, it was comforting to know that there was another person on the planet who knew him so well.

Closing his eyes again, he tried to concentrate on the murders they were trying to solve, on the psyche of the man who was committing them. It was as though his mind hovered on the edge of discovery, peering into a window that was shrouded in mist.

Those mists weren't parting yet. But they would. Eventually.

He always found the person he was looking for. He could always put himself into their particular mindset; he could always think like them. It was disconcerting, it wasn't always pleasant -- but somehow, it always worked, even though there were times when he wished it didn't.

This was one of those times.

He felt dirty just thinking about this bastard. He felt as though his skin was crawling, turning inside out, leaving him vulnerable and exposed.

Not just exposed to the strands of thought that were slowly starting to connect him to this killer, but vulnerable to the man who was in the room with him now. Vulnerable in a way that frightened him. vulnerable in a way that brought all of his desires to the surface.

He didn't want to admit to those desires. He didn't want anyone to know that they existed; he wanted to keep them hidden, to sublimate them, to convince himself that they were just an aberration that would go away with time. He didn't want to set them free.

But he knew they were there.

And so did the man who was here in this room with him now.

He could sense Lecter's presence next to him; he didn't have to open his eyes to know that the other man was right in front of him. He knew that when he opened his eyes, he would see Hannibal's face -- the face that he longed to reach out and touch with his fingertips.

Now Hannibal was moving away slightly, moving to stand behind him. Will could feel his muscles tighten, feel his breath hitch in his throat.

Why were they engaging in this ritual mating dance? Hannibal had to know what was in his mind; try as he might, he couldn't keep that desire out of his eyes. Others might not notice it, but Lecter saw everything. And he wouldn't mistake what it meant.

He opened his eyes, trying to push the desire back, wishing that it wasn't rising within him. He didn't want to feel this way about Lecter, didn't want to bring personal feelings into their working relationship. It wasn't right. It didn't feel right. But he couldn't help it.

He couldn't help how he felt. And he couldn't stop that rising tide.

Hannibal was standing behind him now, close, so close. His breath was warm on Will's skin; Will knew that if he took another step closer, those arms could wrap around him, draw him back against that hard, lean body. Just one more step, and everything would change.

That breath was so hot on his skin. He could feel the other man's closeness, but he wouldn't tell the doctor to step back. He wanted them to be even closer. He wanted the heat of bodies, of desire, of passion. He wanted it more than he could put into words.

Will wanted to drown in that heat, that closeness. But at the same time, he knew that if it continued to grow, he would come undone, melt away in the heat.

Hannibal was even closer now, his breath like molten lava trickling down Will's neck.

Too hot. Too close.

This wasn't how it should be. Somehow, the balance was off. This didn't feel like two people who desired each other starting to come together, to take small steps towards each other. No, this felt more like predator and prey. And he knew clearly which one he was.

He didn't even have to think about it. He would always be the weaker specimen when it came to whatever relationship he had with Hannibal. Try as he might, he would never get the upper hand -- and there was an oddly comforting edge to that knowledge.

But at the moment, he didn't feel comforted. He felt panicked.

This wasn't what he wanted. If he and Hannibal were to come together in a way that would satisfy all of his dreams and lay them to rest, then it couldn't be like this. They had to be on equal ground, partners. But that would never happen. Not with this man.

Hannibal would always be in control. He would always be the stronger of them, and Will knew it. If he were to surrender -- no, when he surrendered; that was inevitable -- he would be giving himself over to a power far stronger than he could ever imagine.

But he wasn't ready for that now. So, he did the only thing that he could do; he did what his panicked senses screamed at him to do, as the instinct kicked in.

He ran.