Title: Sever the Bone
Disclaimer: Not mine
Word Count: 1677
Summary: Will is drugged and his leg is removed by an unknown assailant. Luckily, Hannibal is by his side to offer support (and a well-cooked meal—leg meat, actually, very tasty). Written for the prompt of Hannibal feeding Will bits of himself without Will knowing who (or what) he’s eating.
Warnings: Mutilation, cannibalism, hints of D/s
Notes: Written for the kinkmeme
Hannibal feeds Will.
Sporadically, at first, but now it’s a daily occurrence. Breakfast is a joint affair, usually at Wills’ house (somehow Hannibal keeps the dogs away, something about his air impresses upon them the need for subservience). Lunch is packed for Will in immaculately clean containers. Dinner at Hannibal’s, with low lighting and quiet music and such a subtle intimacy in the air that Will sometimes thinks he is being seduced.
Will has no say in the menu but he does not complain—Hannibal’s palate is far more refined.
He is fed with the regularity of a beloved pet, and after a few weeks Will no longer asks what he’s eating (paranoia so evident that Hannibal actually laughs at him); Will takes the food with trusting eyes and an open mouth. He is well trained.
One night, at Hannibal’s insistence, they go to a restaurant. It is loud, crowded, and obscenely expensive. Will eyes the prices on the menu with obvious shock, but Hannibal waves off his distress. “My treat,” he says with his lazy smile, and Will does not protest (he has known Hannibal long enough, now, to recognize when he will not be swayed).
The meal is good but Hannibal’s cooking is better. Will tells him so.
“You are too kind,” Hannibal murmurs, and suddenly Hannibal is too close, far too close, and though Will is flushed with wine he can see it—the curve of Hannibal’s body, angled toward him—the set of his features. He wants to eat me, Will thinks with bubbling hysteria. He stands quickly, mumbling something about needing to go to the bathroom.
Will chances a glance at Hannibal’s eyes and, to his surprise, the man does not seem put off by Will’s hesitation; if anything, Hannibal looks determined. It is puzzling, to be sure, but in his agitation Will does not dwell on it, instead maneuvering his way through the crowded restaurant under its dim lighting into the lavatory, tucked away in a far corner.
It is mercifully empty. Will stands with his back to the door, staring at his feet and wracking his brain with the thousands of possibilities for how this night could possibly end (in Hannibal’s bed, perhaps? says a little voice, while the rest of him screams that he is mistaking social cues again and it’s all going to blow up in his face). Will is so focused on his panic that he does not notice the soft swish as the door opens, or the sound of footsteps behind him.
The needle pierces the juncture of his neck with brutal efficiency, and Will’s world is blackened before he hits the ground.
A thousand years later Will awakens.
He is in a hospital bed, draped under a pile of blankets in what seems to be a private room. The window beside him shows the inky blackness of a cloudless night. To his right, reading a book, is Dr. Lecter. The man stirs at Will’s gaze, abandoning his book in favor of grasping Will’s hand in a quick squeeze. “Will,” Hannibal says with a small twitch of his mouth.
“What happened?” Will croaks, surprised at the rough edge in his voice. He rubs his throat absently.
Hannibal watches Will’s hand at his neck. “Quite a lot, actually. I’ll expect you’ll be rather famous after all this.”
Toying, evasive answers. Predictable. “I’m glad this is amusing for you.”
Hannibal’s face falls into a contrite look so quickly Will swears he practiced it. “Not at all, Will. I’m just trying to ease you into it, is all. It’s going to come as quite a shock.” A thoughtful expression flits across Hannibal’s face. “But you strike me as more of the sink or swim kind of man; it was foolish of me to go slow with this. Fine, then.”
Hannibal leans forward, dark gaze locked on Will’s face with the focus of an arrowhead. “Take off the blankets, Will,” he instructs, and Will does as Hannibal says (as he always does, and will always do), and when Will sees himself without the cover of wool he very nearly screams.
His right leg is gone. Its absence is like a living thing, defined by how very much it is not protruding from beneath his hospital gown, and it is absurd, really, that looking at nothing causes Will to feel so sick. He tries to pull up the gown to see the degree of his mutilation, but his hands are too unsteady. Wordlessly, Hannibal pushes Will’s hands side, rolling up the hospital gown himself. Will watches Hannibal’s large white hands hover over where his leg should be and he feels a flicker of fondness that is immediately drowned out by budding hysteria.
“The doctors said the cut was clean, if that is any consolation. It was severed neatly from the pelvic bone in such a manner as to prevent infection and immediately cauterized, so your concern is merely cosmetic at this point.”
Will is staring at the stump that was his leg when he finally answers. “Who did this?”
“A serial mutilator. Apparently he has been abducting and disfiguring young men throughout the northeast. Jack informs me you fit the profile.”
“Who found me?”
Will looks up at that, startled. The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitches in what Will knows is a smile. “I’m afraid I was not nearly as heroic as you are thinking. He dumped you a block from the restaurant a few hours after your disappearance; I called for an ambulance and, well, here we are.”
“Thank you,” Will says, and despite his pain, despite knowing how difficult it will be to live like this, he means it. “Thank you,” he says again, and when Hannibal leans forward and kisses him, Will submits.
A week after Will wakes up with a missing limb, he is discharged from the hospital with a clean bill of (physical) health and a snug prosthetic. He learns to walk again. Within a month, he is back to teaching.
The mutilator is not caught, but the investigation continues. Jack promises Will justice, but he waves it off; he’s happy now, ludicrously, and dwelling on the incident isn’t helpful. Besides, Will has better things to focus on. Hannibal, for one.
The dinners have resumed, and with them a newfound intimacy.
“This isn’t...I mean, it’s not out of pity, is it?” Will asks him one night. He is straddling the edge of Hannibal’s bed, bent under the weight of the man who leans over him with a hand in his hair and a tongue down his throat. His shirt is strewn on the floor, draped over his discarded prosthetic.
“This is hardly the time,” Hannibal growls into his ear, “but I will indulge you. No, Will, I do not fuck you out of any sense of obligation.” He nips at Will’s neck for emphasis, drawing out a moan.
“I don’t know how you stand looking at it,” Will whines, and Hannibal does not need any clarification.
“I like it, Will,” he says, pushing Will back into the bed. Will’s good leg slides up and hooks around his waist. “It is uniquely you.” And then Hannibal’s teeth are doing despicable things to Will’s anatomy and his mind jackknifes into incoherency, and there is no more talk of pity in the bedroom.
Hannibal fucks Will with a possessive intensity that leaves him howling like a dog. They do this so often that Will fears he may develop an even worse limp, until one night Hannibal decides they will have a very special dinner instead.
“But we always have dinner,” Will tells him. Hannibal gives him one of his mocking half-smiles. “This is a special dinner, Will. We’re celebrating a full month worth of progress.”
“I don’t really want an anniversary dinner for my leg,” Will snorts, and this time Hannibal’s smile is full.
“There are other anniversaries, Will.” Hannibal kisses Will once, softly, before tottering over to the kitchen.
“Oh,” Will says, and he feels very silly. Even Hannibal, the man with a thousand gruesome medical textbooks, would not be so macabre as to celebrate Will’s mutilation. He sets the table while Hannibal cooks, content to enjoy this small scene of domestic bliss, and gives no more thought to ghoulish things.
The meal, as expected, is superb.
A cut of meat, thick and red, is the nucleus of the dish, with little tufts of sautéed broccoli orbiting about. “I thought we would have something simple,” Hannibal says, and Will almost laughs because with Hannibal nothing is simple, even meat, and Will is sure the process of cooking this particular meal takes a master’s hand.
“What is it,” Will asks, because it is expected. Hannibal smiles at his politeness.
“A shank,” he says. “Braised, first, before left in a slow-cooker to simmer. It is very tender.” Hannibal cuts a piece off of his plate, dabbing it in the small pool of its own residual juices. He leans forward and Will opens his mouth obediently. The fork slides into Will’s mouth soundlessly; Will brings his jaw shut, incisors catching the soft meat before Hannibal pulls the empty utensil out with a satisfied smirk. He watches Will chew, watches the rise and fall of his throat.
Will swallows. Hannibal’s breath hitches.
“It’s delicious,” Will says. “What is it?”
“You tell me,” Hannibal answers.
“I hate guessing games,” Will says with a playful smile. “But if I had to, I’d say pork.”
Hannibal just stares at him, amusement dancing on the corner of his lips, and in this moment Will is absolutely besotted. He moves forward to kiss Hannibal, but a hand to his chest stops him. “After dinner,” Hannibal says with a promise in his eye. Hannibal cuts up the meat, a slice at a time, and feeds it to Will in careful, precise morsels. Will eats all of it without raising his hands.
When he is done Hannibal looks at Will with his black, fathomless eyes and his shark’s grin and when Will swallows, he can taste blood.