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Will is late coming to bed. That in itself isn’t entirely unusual, Will often stays up later than Hannibal, especially during the summer when the nights are longer and the air is warm. He’ll sit out on the porch, have a finger or two of whiskey, with his feet kicked up. Sometimes he’ll page through a book, enjoying the once familiar isolation of the open night, the memory of Wolf Trap. He knows Will still enjoys having time alone on occasion, and Hannibal is always happy to oblige, content to give him whatever he needs and not displeased that the time Will seeks out to be alone is growing to be less and less, and the time spent close to Hannibal’s side ever increasing.
So no, Will coming into their room a couple of hours after Hannibal announced he was heading to bed isn’t out of the ordinary. The sound of Will’s bare feet padding somewhat unevenly across their floor and stopping by the bed, accompanied by his quiet, shaky breath and the smell of anxiety pouring off of him like a freshly lit cigarette, is unusual however, and Hannibal rolls over on his other side to face Will. The room is dimly lit by a single beam of light coming through the door that Will’s left partly open, the hall light still on, casting a harsh back shadow to Will, who’s standing rigid at his end of the bed, shoulders tense and drawn up, a mild tremor just detectable.
His face is mostly shadowed, but Hannibal can see the way he’s drawn his bottom lip between his teeth, and the way his brows are drawn together in that way that Hannibal recognizes only from Will’s extreme discomfort.
“Will?” Hannibal asks, propping himself up onto his elbow so he can attempt to look at him better, cringing at the way his shoulder twinges under him.
Will responds surprisingly quickly, but there’s an underlying tremor, a spark of franticness that’s tagged onto the end of every word that he can’t hide. Hannibal doesn’t think he’s trying to. Hannibal knows Will too well for him to hide things like this, and either Will knows such and has decided it’s not worth attempting to mask his agitated state, or he simply can’t.
“I uh- I’m sorry that I, sorry I woke you up,” Will rushes out, and he pulls his arms up around himself then, as if cold. He looks tiny, standing there in the room, looking distressed.
“You didn’t, I had only just finished reading,” Hannibal assures him, tone calm. It’s true, for what it’s worth. He had only turned off the bedside lamp and pulled the blankets up over himself less than a half an hour ago, not nearly enough time for him to unwind and fall into the beginnings of sleep. Hannibal rarely sleeps before Will is beside him in bed, anyways. “You seem upset.”
Will lets out a tense huff, not quite a laugh, and it’s a familiar sound, but not one that Hannibal particularly associated with pleasant memories, more Will unraveling before his desk in Baltimore, pacing and stressing about things that now seem distant and trivial.
“I just, I got wrapped up in my head,” Will says, his voice is hushed and he shakes his head slightly as he speaks, dismissive.
Hannibal hums, pulls himself up in bed so he can sit back against the headboard, less strain on his arm that’s starting to turn to static under him. “Your head can be a complicated place,” Hannibal says, sympathetic and understanding. “It’s easy to get lost in there.”
Will lets out a shaky exhale, a pinched rush of air through his mouth as he rocks back on his heels, a repetitive motion. He’s still wearing his jeans, but he’s just in a t-shirt now, the plaid he’d had overtop earlier is no longer accompanying the ensemble. Will untangles his arms from around his midsection where he’d drawn them up around himself, running an unsteady hand through his hair.
Will doesn’t present anymore information on whatever is clearly nagging at his psyche, and Hannibal tries not to pry in an attempt to keep the peace.
“Why don’t you come to bed?” Hannibal offers instead, presenting a new option if Will doesn’t want to talk yet.
Hannibal has become quite well versed at comforting Will outside of just words, finding the smaller man to have become keen to most of Hannibal’s offered physical affection. Even after nearly a year and a half of one another’s constant company, the simplicity of not waking up alone in the morning still seems to be nearly unfathomable to Will, and Hannibal has taken no small pleasure in indulging Will in allowing him the touch he’s spent so long denying himself out of self preservation.
Will is always soft and groggy in the morning, easy for Hannibal to pull close against his chest and card his fingers through the unruly mane of curls around his face as he wakes. Will turns hot and pink at Hannibal’s hand rubbing along his back and a simple kiss to his temple while Hannibal watches him, enjoying the view. It’s one of Hannibal’s favourite activities to wrap Will up in their bed and let the smaller man press himself close, face hot with embarrassment. He knows it’s one of Will’s favourites, too, despite his griping and the way he always turns red in the face.
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Will rasps, nodding as he combs through his tangle of curls again. “I’ll just- I need to change.”
“Later,” Hannibal says, unbothered. He’ll help Will into something more comfortable later, when anxiety isn’t physically manifesting itself in Will’s shape.
Will turns slightly, and even with his face in shadow, Hannibal can see Will eyeing him carefully for a moment. Thoughtful.
“Would you like the light on?” Hannibal asks, pulling the covers back and gently patting the open section of mattress beside him, close enough that Will’s body will fit right up against Hannibal’s. He gestures to the lamp on Will’s nightstand, within reach if he just stretches a bit.
“No,” Will says quickly, moving almost hesitantly onto the bed, climbing onto the mattress like an animal surveying a room for threats. He won’t find any here, so Hannibal lets him look, lets him take his time as he fumbles into bed. “Keep it off, please.”
“Of course.”
Will makes a sound in his throat, a semblance of a response as he lays down with a soft thump, body curling loosely against Hannibal’s outstretched legs until Will’s back is pressed up against them, his head laying just by Hannibal’s lap. He looks so small, his body curled up in a way that makes his slim body seem impossibly thinner, his toes curling and uncurling against the sheets bunched at their feet.
Will isn’t facing Hannibal, but that’s fine. Hannibal reaches a hand out to stroke through Will’s soft curls with his fingers, careful not to pull. To his delight, Will presses back into the touch instantly, head tilting back and up into the feeling of Hannibal’s hand against his scalp, like a cat seeking out someone to stroke behind its ears. Hannibal gazes down over Will’s body, reading his still tense body language even laying down. He watches him exhale though, slower and more even than before, eyes fluttering shut.
“There you go,” Hannibal coaxes, continuing with the repetitive, gentle stroke of his fingers through Will’s hair, giving him something to focus on.
“I should’ve just come inside,” Will says after a moment of silence passes between them. His voice is a bit gruff, quiet with how close they are to each other, but Hannibal hears the way it cracks. Hannibal can feel the heat radiating from Will’s body where it’s pressed flush up against the side of him. “I got myself worked up, thinking about- just everything, and-“
“It’s quite alright,” Hannibal says, pulling his hand back, which causes Will to try and move his head back in search of the touch, letting out a soft, disgruntled sound. It makes something possessive and lovely flourish in Hannibal’s chest. He returns his hand to Will’s shoulder this time instead, running his fingers along the taut muscles and enjoying the way the teasing traces of his fingers make the hair on Will’s neck stand on end.
Will nods, a little half bob of his head against the mattress. He turns slightly, rolling half onto his back so he can look at Hannibal through the dark. Hannibal can see the way his eyes are shining, wet with unshed tears. His breathing is strained, like he’s trying to swallow down the urge to fall apart.
Hannibal offers a small smile, letting his hand cup Will’s jaw gently. Will presses into it again, stubble rubbing against the palm of Hannibal’s hand as Will lets out a long, strained, sigh, tension easing from his body slowly.
“There you are,” Hannibal coaxes, stroking his thumb along Will’s jaw as Will takes another breath, deeper and less strained than before. “Everything’s alright.”
“I know,” Will says softly, squeezing his eyes shut as he focuses on his breathing and Hannibal’s hand against his skin. Hannibal thumbs away the tear that gathers in his lashes before slipping down his cheek. “I know.”
They stay like that until Will’s breath is nice and calm, and the tension from his body isn’t quite so severe. The rest, Hannibal can work out gradually.
“How’re you feeling?” Hannibal asks, keeping his voice quiet in an attempt to keep a grasp on the calm of the room. Will’s face is practically resting in his palm now, cheek pressed into his hand in a way Hannibal finds oddly endearing.
Will hums in response, blinking his eyes open sluggishly to look back at Hannibal. The tiredness is much more evident in Will’s expression now, mapped out across his face. “Better,” Will says after a moment. “Sorry.”
Hannibal shakes his head and leans down to press a kiss to Will’s hair, not taking his hand from Will. Closer now, Hannibal can smell bourbon on Will’s breath, catches his mouth in a quick kiss to taste it.
“Have you been drinking?”
Will makes a confused sound, trying to find Hannibal’s lips again even though Hannibal’s already pulling back. Hannibal offers a gentle stroke of his hand against Will’s face instead, which he readily accepts. “What?” He asks, moving closer to Hannibal, as if now that Hannibal has offered a taste he needs it all.
He’s not sure if it makes him sad or if it pleases the possessive part of him that very few have ever had the chance to love and touch Will Graham this way. Maybe a little of both.
Hannibal quirks a brow, and Will must see it because he shakes his head, moving his arm out from where it’s been pressed awkwardly under himself to lay it across Hannibal’s stomach as he rearranges himself. “No,” he says, and then, “Or, yes, but I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re worried about.” And there’s definitely a hint of something teasing in his voice that was missing from Will before, dampened out by his anxiety.
Hannibal nods, at least appeased knowing Will’s distress (though it’s already dissipating) isn’t caused by or aided by drunkenness.
“What do you need from me, hm?” Hannibal asks, pulling Will closer, who moves to lay up by Hannibal so he can rest his head against Hannibal’s breast, listening to his heart.
Will sighs again, long and thoughtful. His fingers trace along the seams of Hannibal’s pajamas. “I don’t know.” Will says it like an admittance, like it takes everything to admit that he has no idea what he needs or what anyone can give him.
Hannibal wraps his arms around Will as much as he can with the position they’re in and Will settles into it immediately, trying to find ways to move impossibly closer. Hannibal can smell the anxiety and distress fizzling out as Will relaxes into Hannibal’s touch, replaced with exhaustion.
Will may not know what he’s clearly hunting for, or possibly he can’t find it in him to ask; still used to seeking out touch like it's forbidden, like it’s something he can’t or shouldn’t have. Hannibal just smiles tiredly, relaxing down into the bed a bit more as he presses a kiss to Will’s head.
That’s fine, Hannibal will keep this secret for now, and he’ll hold Will flush against his own body, and press kisses against his skin, and let him wake up still curled in Hannibal’s arms until Will learns what he needs from Hannibal and that he can have it whenever he needs.
“That’s okay, I have you. I know what you need,” Hannibal says quietly against the top of Will’s head, accent thick, and Will curls up a little smaller, hiding the side of his face against Hannibal’s chest.
“Thank you.”