Chapter Text
Will blinks and is in a shower.
He turns slowly, confused, the water warm but sharp, piercing him like needles. Not his own shower. Gleaming, white, with glass shower doors enclosing a large white tub. Dark bottles line a built-in shelf. The light in the room is dull, a warm mellow tone, and Will can see through the textured glass an adjoining room with bright blinding light.
A knock at the door terrifies him, sends his heart to his throat.
"Will?" The voice on the other side is such a comfort, Will is temporarily speechless. "William?" Hannibal prompts again. "Are you all right? You've been in the bathroom for half an hour." Half an hour in this foreign shower. But not completely alone, thank god. Hannibal was watching over him, apparently.
When Will tries to speak the man's name, it is at first just a pant, a false start. He waits a beat, pressing his hands to the glass door, stabilizing himself, before beginning again. "Hannibal," he says, and his voice sounds raw and confused. His throat hurts, as if from overuse. Screaming perhaps. "W-..." Another false start, this more from the agony of even having to ask the following question. "Where am I?"
There is the briefest of pauses, not one most people would catch, but Will is not most people and he is as close to Hannibal as a drowning man to a life preserver. The pause, just seconds in length, is ripe with meaning. "You are in my home, Will. You came to my house, I thought you were drunk. You drove, your car is here. You were somewhat incoherent. You..." Another pause, this one long and clear and ringing with silence in Will's ears. "What do you last remember?"
Willa's knees are weakening by the minute. He rests his forehead to the glass, enjoying the cool slick pressure. "I was at home. One of my dogs, Edison... He... EHe was sick, the vet had to put him down... I was at home. What time is it?"
"Around midnight."
He came home from the vet's around 3. Dear god. Will's knees buckle completely and he collapses, kneecaps hitting the side of the tub before he ends up crouching, then kneeling, the water practically drowning him, but he does not possess the strength to move.
There are hands on his back and Will realizes that Hannibal must have heard him fall and came to help. In the back of his mind is also the realization that he is naked and should be embarrassed, but the fear and anxiety eating at him leave no room. The man is wearing a dress shirt and tie, now soaked entirely, his normally prim hair disheveled and plastered to his face. He is trying to help Will to stand, hands under his armpits, and Will is shocked at the level of strength that is lifting him with no assistance from his own worthless legs.
Hauling Will out of the shower, Hannibal sets him down on the toilet lid and fetches a towel, vigorously drying Will with a deft, nearly clinical hand. Unperturbed Hannibal, feathers unruffled as usual, despite his now dripping attire.
"I'm sorry," Will says, raw throat protesting. "Your clothes."
Hannibal crouches down and begins drying Will's legs and feet. "Don't be silly," he murmurs, "I have said before that your health and well-being are a priority to me."
The gratitude Will feels is staggering and once again he is speechless. He wants to pour sorries from his mouth like a river of misery, but instead he focuses on the top of Hannibal's head, belatedly realizing what an unusual situation it is. A slight electric surge runs through his torso and strikes his groin, a lightening bolt, and he reaches out frantically for the towel to hide the twitching Benedict Arnold between his legs while pretending to dry himself off.
Hannibal relinquishes the towel with an arch of his eyebrow and Will prays the man did not notice.
Standing, Hannibal moves into the other side of the bathroom where the enormous counter and ornate built-in sink reside. As Will continues to dry himself, he watches Hannibal from the corner of his eye. The man glances in the mirror there and begins to loosen his tie, removing it to set on the counter. Deft square fingers turn to his shirt buttons, swiftly undoing them before pulling the shirt and undershirt off. As he begins on his belt buckle, Will turns away, cheeks blazing, burning, and he hears Hannibal pause, the abrupt silence awkward for some reason Will cannot name.
"Forgive me," Hannibal says. "I had forgotten that you have, well, forgotten the evening. So to speak." At this, Will's ears perk and the agonizing blush works it's way down his neck and chest. What does Hannibal mean by that? What happened? "Your clothes are laundered and on the bed. Please join me in the kitchen, I am afraid we have much to discuss." With that, Hannibal gathers his sodden clothes and turns smartly on his heel, closing the bathroom door without even a click.
As Will finishes drying, he takes stock of his body. Strength is returning, thankfully, enabling him to stand and weave drunkenly towards the mirror. Throat sore, excessive yelling perhaps. Doesn't feel like a cold. He feels exhausted, possibly a side effect of the trauma of the day.
A little nervous, he takes stock of other parts of his body as well. No scratches on his back, his ass feels normal, everything seems to be in order.
What on earth did he do? Or more specifically, did he and Hannibal do?
Will peeks out the bathroom door, towel wrapped firmly around his waist. There, centrally located, a large bed. The masculine blue sheets are rumpled, a mess, completely unlike the fastidious Hannibal he knows and trusts. Sure enough, Will's clothes rest, neatly folded, warm in his hands and smelling of dryer sheets. He quickly dresses, scrubbing his hair vigorously again with the towel.
Standing by the bed, slipping on his shoes, Will finds he's fighting a battle within himself. It would be easy enough to take notice, analyze, or even just simply look critically at the bed, the fact that this appears to not be a guest room but Hannibal's own bedroom, given the books resting on the nightstand along with a near-empty glass of water. He's in Hannibal's private sanctuary, in the man's shower, with uncharacteristically-messed bed linens and a memory of a surprising lack of concern for privacy in the bathroom.
Wandering over to the nightstand, he runs his fingers over the assortment of object, trying to force his mind not to make the connections it is already leaping enthusiastically towards. He finds nothing incriminating, in a manner of speaking, but when glances at the pillows and sheets, if he allows himself to truly take honest note of the smell that lays heavy and musky in the air, Will requires no more evidence. Dear god.