Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Paris apartment was shabby. A two bedroom in a dingy walk up in one of the least fashionable arrondissements on the outskirts of the city. It was private at least, and that seemed to be enough for Hannibal, because his face didn’t show a hint of disapproval as he took the place in. The walls were white, the sunken couch, beige, the other few items of furniture nondescript, as if someone had come through and scrubbed the place of any hint of character it may once have had. Scrubbed character, not grime, as the place clearly hadn’t been properly cleaned since its last tenant. Just a cursory glance around revealed food stains on the kitchen counters, rust coating the borders of the metal kitchen sink, the faint scent of mildew, which must have been overwhelming for Hannibal, and as soon as they switched on the harsh overhead, Will spotted dust motes dancing in the air. It was not somewhere Will would ever have imagined Hannibal coming by choice, but nothing about today was anything like Will would have predicted. 

For starters, there was a distance between them that was utterly alien. As long as they’d known each other, Hannibal had always been pulling closer to Will, regardless of Will’s comfort with the concept. Reaching his curious fingers into the private spaces of Will’s mind, leaving indelible traces of himself on everything he touched, like the smudged fingerprints of an overfamiliar houseguest. But now that Will had finally chosen to reach back, Hannibal had withdrawn. He was wearing a mask. Not the mask of serenity or geniality that he wore for the world, but something more like the steely indifference and disdain he radiated when he wasn’t bothering to hide his otherness. It made Will feel strange in his company, and Hannibal himself was stranger still.

Will had expected Hannibal to escape in style; that he wouldn’t be able to help one last flamboyant display of his own invincibility and cleverness. In his mind’s eye, Will saw Hannibal, dressed to the nines, strolling through the airport; the two of them sharing a champagne toast on a first class flight to some decadent European destination. But this was nothing like that. Hannibal was dressed, incredibly, in dark wash jeans, a gray t-shirt, and an actual Orioles baseball cap that he’d unearthed from God knows where. Paris theoretically fit the bill for European excess, but they flew coach, jockeying for elbow space with a stranger snoring softly between them. Of course, Will knew Hannibal had the capacity for restraint, he couldn’t have killed undiscovered for so long without it. But even his caution had flair. It always felt as though the Ripper were teasing you, toeing the line of what he could get away with to sharpen the sting when he inevitably eluded capture yet again. And then there was Hannibal, a smirk on his lips and eyes twinkling with humor as he fed his kills to unsuspecting dinner guests with a heavy handed pun. Playing with his food and his guests in equal measure. Hannibal wasn’t playing now. 

He was joyless and overly cautious as they navigated through the airport. For some reason, it made fleeing the country as a fugitive from justice feel even more surreal. Will was just reliving the unreality of watching Hannibal pull the film off his inflight meal and dig in with impressive vigor, as though he regularly stomached terrible plane food, when Hannibal finally broke the silence that had lingered since they boarded the plane. 

“We’ll be here a week at most. It’s far too traceable, but Paris is a city I know well and I have resources here that will help us settle somewhere more permanently. Central or South America would be ideal.”

And the surprises just kept coming, apparently, “you want to leave Europe?”

Hannibal was picking through the kitchen cupboards taking stock as he responded, “I once had a notion of showing you and Abigail Florence. But she was well aware of that plan and will assist authorities however she can when she wakes, I’d imagine. In any case, you aren’t the only one who would expect me to head to Italy. Jack, Alana,” he paused for a moment, hand still on the open cabinet door, “risking our freedom to settle in Europe would be foolhardy. It’s not somewhere we could reasonably hide for any length of time,” with that he shut the cabinet and turned back to Will. 

His expression was more impenetrable than Will could ever remember it being. It was an unsettling and, frankly, painful sight. 

“You should rest. It’s been a trying day,” Hannibal said, looking away again. 

The dismissal rankled, but Will was weary enough to allow it. He picked up his hastily packed duffle bag and made his way to one of the rooms at random, unease settling in his stomach like a stone. Collapsing into the lumpy bed did nothing to relieve his tension, but he was tired enough that fitful sleep eventually took him. 

********

That morning…

Will’s car was parked a few doors down from Hannibal’s as he watched the wealthy enclave of Baltimore start its day. There was a duffle bag filled with clothes, cash, and his gun sitting on the passenger seat. Will had been up all night trying to erase the image of Hannibal’s face when they’d parted ways after dinner. Hannibal had been… transparently emotional, by his standards, and on anyone else, Will would have called what he saw in Hannibal’s usually impassive face heartbreak. 

It wasn’t possible for Hannibal to know about Will’s plan with Jack, he kept telling himself that as the hours ticked by on his alarm clock. But so many things about Hannibal were impossible. And nothing else could explain the edge of pleading in his voice as he offered to leave with Will that night; the proposal spontaneous and merciful — nothing like Hannibal. And it was the only explanation for the almost funereal tone of the dinner after Will refused; the grief in Hannibal’s eyes as he watched Will as if trying to commit him to memory. Like Will was a ghost at his table, permanently beyond reach, and Hannibal was already mourning his loss.

But if Hannibal knew, then instead of demanding his pound of flesh as penance, as Will would have expected, he had dressed in one of his finest suits, prepared a feast and tacitly begged Will not to break them. And that realization had Will up at 4 a.m., packing his worn out duffle with whatever clothes he could find, setting out two days worth of food for his dogs, and writing a note for Alana with instructions for rehousing them, hoping against hope she wouldn’t hold Will’s actions against them. He bought two plane tickets for the next available first class, nonstop flight to Rome out of BWI for an astronomical price, and jumped in his car. He hadn’t been thinking when he did it. He just did it. And as he drove the hour to Baltimore, he still wasn’t certain how the relentless tug of war playing out inside of him would resolve itself or if it even could. He’d been parked there, a stone’s throw from Hannibal’s doorstep for almost an hour, staring at Hannibal’s driveway from his darkened car, considering, but no closer to an answer. 

Then the front door opened and Hannibal emerged, still in his pajamas and robe, a glass mug of no doubt perfectly brewed coffee in hand. His hair was askew, and sleepiness clung to him, making him seem almost soft as he bent to grab his morning paper, waving at a neighbor as he made his way back inside. And just like that, Will decided. 

He grabbed his bag and got out of the car, making his way to Hannibal’s door at a pace that wouldn’t attract attention. As soon as the front door shut behind him, he stalked through the foyer, heading straight for Hannibal’s kitchen, only to hear a tinkling laugh that made his blood run cold. He’d heard it so often in his daydreams and nightmares, he wasn’t sure at first that it was real. There was an unnatural hush in the house then, and when he looked down, Will realized that his heavy bag had slipped from his hand, alerting Hannibal and his guest to his presence. Will held his breath as he turned the corner to find Hannibal standing with his back to the stovetop, eyes locked on Will in the kitchen doorway, a skillet of thick cut bacon popping and sizzling behind him. And at the island in front of Hannibal was Abigail Hobbs, chef’s knife in hand, neat piles of red and green bell peppers on a cutting board before her, diced so evenly Hannibal couldn’t have done better himself. Her big blue eyes were wide and glossy with unshed tears, and she looked almost as shocked to see Will as Will felt. No one spoke for an uncomfortably long stretch, but unsurprisingly, Hannibal recovered first. 

“Will. I’m afraid you’re quite early for dinner. Would you care for some coffee?” Hannibal was already moving towards the coffee setup as he spoke and Will felt something inside him snap. 

“What the hell is this?” He said, his voice unrecognizable, “what is… what…?” There was a strange humming in Will’s ears and his vision was starting to darken around the edges. And he was shaking violently, he realized distantly, so much so that he was certain his legs were about to collapse from under him. But almost as soon as Will noticed it, Hannibal was at his side, guiding Will to one of the counter stools. He was also rubbing Will’s back in a motion that Will couldn’t help but find soothing. 

Slowly, with his eyes shut tight and Hannibal’s touch grounding him, Will’s heart rate and breathing calmed and he managed to glance back up at Abigail, eyes running over her, noting all the little ways she differed now from the image of her he held in his mind. “You’re alive.” He rasped out eventually, unnecessarily, just to hear it said out loud, as if that would make it feel real.  

Abigail’s tears were falling freely now. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, “I didn’t know what to do so I just did what he told me.”

Will was nodding before he’d even registered her words, some instinctive need to comfort her that he’d never quite managed to shake. “Shh shhh, I understand,” he said, arm outstretched between them in a soothing gesture borrowed from some construct of the kind of caring parent that Will never had himself. 

Hannibal had stepped away from Will and was standing near Abigail once more, watching the scene unfold dispassionately. The fury Will felt when his eyes fell on Hannibal then was unlike anything he’d felt before, even when he’d been locked away, even after Beverly. He felt an urge so strong it was practically a compulsion to tear into Hannibal, watch him bleed. Make him hurt, if such a thing were possible. The feeling was so sudden and overwhelming that Will shivered from the strength of it. But Hannibal simply watched him, unfazed, expression stonier than Will could ever remember seeing it. So different from the last time they spoke of Abigail.

“I still think about her sometimes. More than sometimes. It’s like there’s a part of my mind that will always belong to her. The physical manifestation of my guilt and failure.” 

Hannibal was watching him closely. If he was surprised that Will had brought Abigail up, he didn’t show it, “we’re all haunted by the ghosts of loved ones taken from us too soon.”

Will felt a hot lick of fury at that phrasing, fury he hadn’t felt in Hannibal’s company since they started this new dance. To speak so dismissively when Hannibal was the one who did the taking. 

“Why did she have to die?” Will whispered.

Hannibal took a long sip, “there was no place in this world for Abigail, Will. Even she understood this. Her transgressions had been exposed and the world was poised to meet the revelation with all the cruelty and condemnation it couldn’t visit upon her father. Would you have her endure the world’s vitriol, end up in prison or worse? 

Will took a long, considering swallow from his own glass. “Did she suffer?”

”She did not. You were not the only one who cared for Abigail, Will. I would not see her exposed to any more pain than the cruel hand of fate already dealt her.” Oddly enough, Will believed him. And just like that, some calloused, hardened part of Will that he turned to when the lines of what he was doing with Hannibal grew blurry, sloughed away, leaving something raw and tender in its place. Forgiveness, something that had seemed too painful to even consider before, was suddenly not only possible, but inevitable. He could forgive Hannibal this. Maybe he already had. Thinking of Abigail no longer filled him with rage. Just an ache that might never leave him, and the memory of that rage he held onto for so long, like a phantom pain. And with no small amount of trepidation, Will started to wonder if there were anything he couldn’t forgive Hannibal. He lifted his glass, aware that he was shaking faintly, and took a steadying sip. He told himself that there was a limit to what he’d let pass. That eventually Hannibal would force Will to bend his morality so far that it would break them. But when he tried to conjure some act that would put Hannibal beyond forgiveness, he came up blank. The thought left Will feeling cold. 

“How could you keep this from me?” Will asked, whispering to keep from shouting, meeting Hannibal’s flinty gaze head on.

Hannibal held Will’s eyes for a silent moment, “I wanted to surprise you,” he said eventually, then his eyes grew impossibly colder, and the danger in his tone was unmistakable as he said, “and it seems you wanted to surprise me. What brings you here this morning, Will?” 

And Will deflated at the question, remembering all at once what he was there to do. He had made a choice, the only one he could’ve made really, and as much as he resented Hannibal for this, for letting Will needlessly mourn, and hate, and become consumed with guilt, it changed nothing. He still wouldn’t leave him. Couldn’t let him leave. Will glanced down at his hands for a moment and took a shaky breath before training his gaze back on Hannibal defiantly. 

“I booked us a flight to Rome that leaves in four hours.” And Hannibal’s cool detachment instantly gave way to utter shock. It was immensely satisfying to watch and was confirmation enough that Hannibal knew about Will’s deception. He scanned Will rapidly as if searching for the lie or trick, but when he found none, his face softened almost imperceptibly. Hannibal was never openly emotional without an agenda, but Will had spent enough time with him these past months to catch the wisps of genuine feeling that occasionally broke across his otherwise inscrutable face and Will didn’t think he was imagining the almost pained relief that he saw there now. 

It took Hannibal an unusually long beat to recover, but when he did, he was all business. “We’ll need an hour to get everything in order here,” he said, as he crossed to the stove to remove the bacon from the heat and turn off the burner, “and we’ll need a ticket for Abigail, of course.” 

“We won’t,” Will said, tone implacable as Hannibal turned to look at him. Hannibal was regarding Will thoughtfully and for a tense moment Will worried Hannibal might fight him on it. But after a few seconds, Hannibal tilted his head in assent.   

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous,” Abigail laughed nervously, “I’m coming with you,” she insisted, frown deepening as her eyes flicked between Will and Hannibal. “You can’t be serious. I don’t have anywhere else to go,” she said, tone incredulous.

And as always, her distress softened Will, and alongside the softness was a staggering guilt. Will had failed her just as profoundly as her father had. His love had brought another killer to her doorstep. Had encouraged another monster to try to shape her in his image. He couldn’t give her back the normal life he’d helped rob her of, but he could damn well stop making things worse. 

“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you’re so young, Abigail. You have your whole life ahead of you,” he wasn’t as practiced at encouraging platitudes as Alana and Hannibal, but he was trying his best. Still, as Will heard the words leave his lips, he winced at how cruel they seemed in context.

“No. I don’t,” she said, voice tipping towards hysterical, “I’ll have no one. I’ll be a pariah. I’m like you,” she said looking at Will and Hannibal both and the sight of her lumping herself in with them was sickening. 

“You’re not,” Will insisted with confidence he didn’t fully feel, “not yet. And you don’t ever need to be if you stay here.” 

“I helped my dad kill them,” she confessed in a whisper, eyes grave as she stared Will down, “and,” she swallowed, “I helped Hannibal frame you. I am a monster,” and no monster’s voice had ever cracked on the word like hers did. 

“You’re a victim,” Will said with conviction, “and as soon as they find out what Hannibal is, that’s all you’ll ever be.”

“Will, please, I don’t want to be alone,” her voice was reedy and desperate, and Will felt his resolve waver.

“Abigail,” Hannibal interjected softly.

And as she turned to Hannibal, Will watched her face grow sterner, less emotive, as if automatically adjusting for a new audience who she knew would be unmoved by her tears. It was unsettling to see her so in command of her reactions. And Will couldn’t help wondering how much of what he’d seen that morning was really Abigail, how much was Hannibal’s influence, and how much was his own projection of an Abigail Hobbs that only ever existed in his mind.

Hannibal stepped towards her and the tension drained from her entirely as he placed a firm, but gentle hand on her shoulder. There was a familiarity between them that could read as familial, but she looked up at Hannibal with the guileless, blind faith of a parishioner awaiting direction. “Will and I are leaving, and you will stay behind. You may tell them I kept you in a similar state to Miriam Lass. No one will question it. If you’re pressed, you can rely on Alana Bloom’s guilt and attachment to you to keep yourself above suspicion.”

Tears were streaming from Abigail’s eyes again, but it wasn’t the teary eyed vulnerability from earlier. These were artless, ugly tears, and her face was ruddy and wet with frustration. “You can’t leave me here, Hannibal. You promised.”

”I made you no promises, Abigail. And we are leaving. Without you.”

The devastation on her face at those words was so gut-wrenching Will almost turned away, but Hannibal looked chillingly indifferent to her pain. She was sobbing now, breath heaving. “What about Florence? You said you wanted to show me the Uffizi Gallery, the Duomo. You said I could study there. That the three of us would see the world together.”

Hannibal tilted his head in acknowledgment, “in another life, perhaps. But Will wants you to remain here.”

“Why should Will decide for all of us? We could have gone without him,” she practically hissed, teenage petulance finally shining through. 

Hannibal brushed a hand through her hair in a mockery of gentleness, “no. We never could have.”

And Will saw with clarity what could have been if Will hadn’t come that morning. A bloody, vengeful culling flashed briefly in his mind before he pushed the thought away with a shudder.  And he felt so damned grateful he’d chosen a different path. 

“I could call the police,” she threatened recklessly, her voice quavering, but her eyes held Hannibal’s with impressive bravery. And Will saw the exact moment Hannibal decided he’d kill her. His face barely shifted, but Will knew, and it was chilling to see how unaffected he was by the idea of killing the girl who’d been laughing in his kitchen moments before Will arrived; who he’d been raising, and molding, and treating as his daughter for the better part of a year. 

“Hannibal,” Will broke in and Hannibal glanced up, “we’ll sedate her just like Miriam. It’ll help sell the idea that she’s a victim.” Will held his breath as he watched Hannibal consider, and exhaled shakily when Hannibal eventually dipped his chin in agreement.  

Abigail turned to Will then, and her face was a picture of such indignation and bitterness that Will wondered briefly if he was making the right choice. If she could ever go back to anything approximating a normal life. Or if one day he might wake to find her standing above him, knife already at his throat, regarding Will with the same detached contempt Hannibal had for his victims. But it was clear that there was no other path forward. She understood her expendability now and resented it too much for them to play the happy family. 

Before Will could say anything else, Hannibal had a syringe in hand and he slid it into Abigail’s throat without ceremony, knocking her unconscious almost instantly. He caught her as she slumped to the ground, guiding her to the floor and cushioning her head with a gentleness that belied his earlier willingness to kill her in cold blood. But Hannibal didn’t linger and as soon as she was down, he turned back to Will. “I can put her on an IV that will keep her sedated for several days,” he tossed Will a small key from his pocket, “I have to gather my things and adjust some arrangements. Carry her downstairs to the basement through the entrance in the pantry. There’s a hospital bed set up already.” 

Will nodded numbly, eying the key as Hannibal headed upstairs. Will knelt down beside Abigail’s prone body. She looked younger now, and fragile in a way that brought Will’s protectiveness roaring back. He let himself stare at her for a minute, tucking stray strands of hair behind her remaining ear. He could hear Hannibal moving upstairs and Will said a silent goodbye to all his hopes for Abigail Hobbs and what it would have meant for him if he could have been good for her. Then he started dragging her limp body towards the pantry. 

****************

Hannibal maintained his air of careful control as he climbed the stairs to his room, taking even, unhurried steps as he listened to the sounds of Will dragging Abigail’s body through to the basement. He hadn’t ever shown the basement to Will, and had been exceedingly grateful for that when he learned the truth about Freddie Lounds. Now he didn’t know how he felt about Will seeing it imminently. Couldn’t imagine how he’d react. For once in his life, he felt at a total loss as to how he should feel about any of this.

Once enclosed in the privacy of his room, he allowed himself an uncharacteristic, but much needed pause to regroup. He briefly imagined leaning back against his bedroom door, sliding to the ground. He didn’t doubt that the feelings coursing through him would warrant such dramatics in someone else. But the idea of such a display of vulnerability, even if entirely unwitnessed, was repellent. Instead, he made his way to his bed, smoothing out a wrinkle in the comforter as he sat, and let the implications of the past half hour settle. 

Hannibal had spent the better part of last night shut away, plucking out every soft feeling Will had ever roused in him, and forcing each one to wither and die on the branch. Emotion, like many things, had always been…unique for Hannibal. He experienced most in a subdued way, almost as if they were brushing him through the veil Bedelia so aptly described long ago. They were akin to a pest or background noise for Hannibal. Never did they assert themselves into the foreground of Hannibal’s mind without his permission. 

But his iron grip on himself vanished in the face of Will Graham. Where Will was concerned, even the pettiest and most maudlin of emotions prickled and stung at Hannibal and he was helpless to temper their effect. Loneliness, jealousy, obsession, he felt these things with an intensity that had previously been reserved for the savage delight he felt when bringing a pig to the slaughter. But Will engendered other, less familiar, and far more dangerous emotions as well: tenderness, affection, and a longing that gave color and clarity to the age-old description of love as an ache. And to his horror, these feelings started to influence his choices. They made him reckless and, on occasion, foolish. And as he slowly dismantled the life he’d built for decades at Will’s behest, for the chance of some kind of future with Will in it, he realized with ever growing alarm, that he would happily court his own destruction to bring Will close. To keep him there. 

And the discovery of Will’s betrayal brought with it a whole new range of feeling, entirely unprecedented in Hannibal’s experience, even the parts of his early childhood where he had less mastery of himself. He would have found the entire thing fascinating in the abstract, if it weren’t so excruciating to endure. When he opened his front door to Will for dinner yesterday evening, and paused to take him in, as he often did, in his gray peacoat and scarf, his hair strewn with snowflakes already melting into his curls in the warmth of the doorway, the duality of feeling was remarkable. To look at someone and want to tear them apart with such intensity you can practically taste the coppery flavor of their blood, feel their torn flesh in the gaps of your teeth, while at the same time, not be able to countenance the thought of them not remaining well and whole. In that moment, as Will looked up at him with his typically subdued smile and dark eyes, Hannibal felt something as close to hate as he’d felt in longer than he could recall, and still he loved Will to distraction. Loved him in a broken, pitiful, desperate way that disgusted him, but disgust and shame didn’t stop Hannibal from practically begging Will to choose him. And now that he had, Hannibal had no idea what to make of it. His objectivity was shot; his instincts couldn’t be trusted.  

The last thing Hannibal expected was to wake to a Will who’d had a change of heart. The relief was breathtaking, and on its heels came a new urgency: to keep, at all cost, this thing that he’d spent the previous night grieving; to cling to Will with claws and teeth. But that fundamental trust, their intimacy, remained perhaps permanently beyond reach. The idea of parting ways with Will now could not be borne, but neither could the notion of sharing confidences as he once did. Of exposing any more of himself to Will’s inconstancy. 

For the first time his future felt murky. Hannibal had no confidence in what he should do next and the uncertainty, the fear that he might do the wrong thing, was so foreign as to rock his sense of self. He forced himself to focus on what he could control and what had to be done. They had to leave, and while Hannibal’s life and home were prepared for that exact eventuality, the plans he had would need to be thrown out. Italy was obvious. And dangerous for many reasons. No, the situation called for subtlety and unpredictability. Will had brought the teacup back together or tried to. Hannibal wouldn’t let needless ostentation and his impulse to mock be their undoing. But even as he searched through his wardrobe for the only clothes he had that could be deemed genuinely casual, he wondered if going back were even possible.

********** 

Later that night…

Will woke just after midnight, immediately alert in a way that let him know he wouldn’t find sleep again any time soon. The room had gone from pleasantly cool to freezing in the hours he’d slept and he pulled on a sweater from his bag as he closed the windows, locking the frigid night air outside. He opened his door, and padded quietly down the hallway to the kitchen, hoping to find something readily edible in the fridge when he discovered that he wasn’t the only one awake. Hannibal sat in a chair by the window, a rocks glass in hand, having apparently exchanged his customary red wine for something stronger. Hannibal’s glass was filled to a respectable level, but Will could tell by how much was missing from the newly opened bottle that Hannibal had drank significantly more than he’d usually allow. 

Will took another rocks glass down from the cabinet and settled into the armchair across from Hannibal, tipping out a large portion of whiskey and taking a grateful sip, letting the smooth, peaty flavor fill his mouth, burn gently as he swallowed. Will was surprised by the quality; it was nicer than anything Will usually kept around his own house, even as a faithful whiskey drinker. Will could almost smile at the image of Hannibal going out to purchase it, curling his lip at the prospect of drowning his sorrows with anything other than top shelf liquor.  

Hannibal’s eyes were still on the skyline in the distance, and Will took advantage of his distraction to observe him. He’d thankfully changed from the almost unnervingly casual disguise he’d worn on the plane, but was still dressed down by Hannibal’s standards in a simple white dress shirt and slacks. His face was blank as it tended to be when he wasn’t putting any effort into expressing a particular emotion, but Will had gotten accustomed to seeing that face tinged with genuine warmth when they were alone together. It was more unsettling than he cared to admit to see the coldness there now. And Hannibal still hadn’t so much as looked at Will. 

Will was reaching for something to say to break the silence when it occurred to him that this would be his and Hannibal’s first honest conversation. The first time their words wouldn’t be filtered through some deception. They could finally see each other clearly. It was a daunting prospect and it stilled Will’s tongue for a few minutes more. But as the silence between them stretched on with no end in sight, Will started to wonder if it would drag on interminably if Will didn’t end it. As if Hannibal, who’d taken the lead in every conversation they’d ever shared as far as Will could remember, finally had nothing left to say to him, “how much do you know?”

Hannibal was in no apparent hurry to speak to Will or to glance away from the twinkling city in the distance. Eventually, he took a measured sip of whiskey, and spoke. His answer made Will wish for the silence back. “I cannot know what more there may be, but I believe I know enough to guess the shape of your betrayal.”

Hannibal’s phrasing hit Will in the chest like a physical blow, “How?” He asked as steadily as he could manage. 

”Ms. Lounds has always had a rather distinctive scent.”

Will had to close his eyes at that. He knew he shouldn’t have seen her again. Knew at the time, somehow, that it was a mistake. But he’d so wanted to do one good thing for Abigail. Protect her memory at least, since he’d failed so spectacularly to protect her. Needlessly, apparently, Will thought as some of the bitterness from earlier resurfaced. And at a cost he couldn’t yet fathom.

Hannibal went on, voice disturbingly neutral even as his words drew first blood, “I knew the risks in allowing you close, Will. You had the ability to deceive me because I gave you that power.”

”I never meant —“ Will stopped abruptly, realizing, absurdly, that he was about to say that he never meant to deceive him. But as real as their intimacy might have been for Will at the time, Will had been lying. And, Will also understood, with an agonizing jolt of regret, he did far worse than lie. He exploited Hannibal’s attachment to him — this tenuous human connection that Will knew to be singular in Hannibal’s experience —  and he manufactured a fantasy around it to lull Hannibal into false security. It was no worse on paper than what Hannibal had done to him, but the deceit felt crueler somehow. To use the single tendril of human vulnerability that Hannibal allowed himself to manipulate him, rooting out any future growth in the process. The fact that Will himself got lost in the fantasy, discovered that he needed and wanted everything Hannibal was offering just as fiercely as Hannibal wanted Will, wouldn’t begin to make up for the treachery. And the implications of that realization made it hard for Will to breathe. 

Hannibal had turned back to Will at his sudden silence, and his eyes were cold and remote as he seemingly watched those thoughts tumble through Will’s mind. Eventually Hannibal continued, face impassive as he twisted the knife again, “I allowed you to see me. Know me. A rare gift,” his eyes flitted across Will’s face before turning away with a finality that had Will’s heart thudding in sickening panic, “but you didn’t want it,” he finished without a shred of uncertainty.

“Didn’t I?” Will replied, voice practically shaking in his desperation to be believed, “I’m here, aren’t I?” 

Hannibal glanced up at Will at that, but his expression was still maddeningly distant, “so you are,” he acknowledged with a slight nod, before looking away once more, “for now,” he continued, taking another sip.

“Not just for now, Hannibal. I burned every damn bridge by leaving with you.”

”Of course,” Hannibal nodded again, but obviously not in agreement with what Will had said, “you couldn’t go back now even if you wanted to. Perhaps you should have just waited for Jack to hatch his plan. Or was it your plan?”

“I don’t want to go back,” Will said through gritted teeth, frustration and fear bleeding into irritation, “I would never have been able to go through with it, Hannibal,” Will put as much sincerity into his voice as he could muster, even as he wondered at the truth of his words. “And I’m not here with you because I have nowhere else to go. I’m here because I wouldn’t have been able to stand any other outcome.” And that at least was the truest thing Will could say. 

Hannibal looked up, head cocked to the side as if in idle curiosity, “would you have killed Jack, then? Widowed poor Bella?”

Will had to look away at that. But he didn’t want any more lies between them. “No. I…wouldn’t have done that either.”

Hannibal nodded as if he’d already known that, as if it confirmed something, and unbidden the image of sand slipping through his fingers sprang to Will’s mind. He was starting to understand, with creeping dread, that he had no idea how to fix this. That this might not be fixable. 

“What would have happened if I hadn’t showed up this morning?” Will wasn’t sure why he was asking, the question was a dangerous one, but he felt an irrational need to keep Hannibal talking. To keep him there for as long as he could hold his attention. If he was talking, engaging, then he wasn’t turning away. He wasn’t leaving, and just the thought of that very real possibility made Will’s chest clench like it was trapped in a vice.

Hannibal was still looking determinedly out the window as he spoke, as if even glancing at Will pained him or worse, wasn’t worth the energy, “I planned to leave, after tying up some loose ends.” Hannibal’s tone didn’t change in the slightest, but the violent promise of those words sent a shiver down Will’s spine. 

“Then to Italy?”

Hannibal dipped his head, not quite a nod. He’d been right when he said that it was too obvious. That Jack and Alana would likely start there. It’s what Will would have done. Then Hannibal continued, his head tilted as if considering something, “but, traveling as a couple is always less likely to attract attention. I might have delayed my departure in order to acquire a new companion.”

A new companion. It had never occurred to Will that Hannibal would have gone on the lam with someone else. Given the circumstances, Will had no right to be resentful, but that fact did nothing to temper the reflexive swell of indignation and bitterness he felt at the thought of being so casually replaced at Hannibal’s side. Will was actually startled by how much it hurt to hear Hannibal describe what they shared in such fungible terms.

“Who was on the short list?” Will asked, voice dripping with spite. 

Hannibal looked back at Will, unimpressed, and responded smoothly, “Bedelia would have been the best option.” 

“Your psychiatrist?” And the infuriating thing was how easy it was to see Dr. Du Maurier fitting into Hannibal’s future. She was just as unflappable, self-possessed, and hideously pretentious, though the traits were nowhere near as charming on her as Hannibal managed to make them. But there was a darker likeness between them too that bothered Will even more. Bedelia, like Will, was capable of seeing Hannibal, in all his barbarity, and not flinching from the sight. For her, Will sensed, she was driven by a need to understand the incomprehensible, rather than Will’s own yearning for connection, but still Will suspected that Bedelia would be capable of great cruelty should the circumstances require it. They shared a ruthless practicality and unnatural coldness that Will himself lacked, and Will felt suddenly hot with a jealousy he wasn’t sure he had the right to, “exactly how unprofessional was that relationship, doctor?” Hannibal ignored the anger in Will’s voice. 

“Hardly at all. But she was sufficiently curious that she would have come, I think.” 

Will took an angry pull from his glass, “I’m not sure you could have sold her as Abigail’s mom. Not exactly the picture of motherly affection.” 

“Abigail would not have survived your betrayal, Will,” Hannibal said almost casually. Will had guessed as much, but it was still sobering to hear it confirmed in the tone one might use to remark on the weather.  

Hannibal pressed on as he took an artless swig from his glass, an unexpected bitterness in his tone, “It seems I’ve turned out to be quite the unreliable narrator of our circumstances, Will. I’m in the unfamiliar position of being unsure what parts of my reality to put faith in, which parts were a lie. As the author of this tale, you must tell me: how much of it was real?” He was looking right at Will now, but Will noticed that his eyes were glossy and slightly bloodshot. Hannibal must have been most of the way to drunk. And there was some powerful emotion shining there now, but Will couldn’t say what. For the first time since he found out what Hannibal was, he couldn’t read him at all. He wondered with fear clawing at his chest, if Hannibal would ever let his guard down with Will again. 

Every second of it, Will wanted to say. But he couldn’t say that when he knew, none of it, was just as true an answer. Will had been split in half for months. But he could still give Hannibal the truth that made him get in his car and drive to Baltimore that morning, “I’ve never felt more myself than with you, Hannibal.”

“And yet, you plotted to take my life.” 

Will flinched at the very thought, “no, no not that.” 

“My freedom then? You’d see me in a prison cell.” 

Will was shaking his head as Hannibal spoke, not wanting to face the truth of that, “No. No. I would have found a way to warn you.” 

“How kind,” Hannibal said, tone dry as dirt, and eyes filled with icy recrimination, “and what then, Will? Would you have left with me or stayed behind and licked your wounds with Jack?” 

Will couldn’t imagine letting Hannibal leave. But he was keenly aware that had this conversation happened only a few days earlier, Will wasn’t certain that any of his answers would have been the same. “I don’t know,” Will whispered and he watched helplessly as Hannibal’s expression closed off entirely. “But I did leave with you, Hannibal. I’m here. Now. I made my decision. That has to mean something.” And Will hated how close that sounded to begging. 

Hannibal said nothing, unmoved and unreadable as his gaze ran over Will’s face.

Will took a breath and asked the question he’d been mulling for some time, “would you have killed me if I’d gone through with it?” 

Hannibal blinked slowly then. It was more of a tell than he’d usually allow. He really was drunk, and he was still watching Will, as if deciding something. “No. I wouldn’t have.” He said eventually, “but I believe I would have hurt you rather exquisitely.” For some reason, the intensity in Hannibal’s eyes and those words ignited something in Will.

Will couldn’t speak for a long moment, unsure how to parse the strange tension that had suddenly bloomed between them or the unfamiliar desire surging through him. Eventually, he whispered, “is that something you still want to do?” His heart was racing now and Will couldn’t tell if it was from fear or anticipation. 

Hannibal remained silent for a long stretch as he held Will’s eyes. They were on the edge of something here, something new and as terrifying as it was exhilarating. And Will was suddenly desperate for it, whatever shape it might take. It felt like the only path to forgiveness that Will had glimpsed all day. 

But then Hannibal’s gaze broke away, dragging the tension away with it. He drained his glass, and started to rise, “we should get some rest,” and he did sound exhausted. The kind of worn down that lives in your bones and that sleep can’t fix. Will stayed behind as Hannibal made his way to his room with uncharacteristic slowness. The glass of whiskey Will was nursing became three before long as he reflected on his situation. He had gambled all his dreams for his future on Hannibal’s capacity for forgiveness and it was starting to feel like a losing bet. He passed out eventually, still slumped in the stiff chair as a gray predawn spread across the sky.

*********************

Hannibal avoided Will over the next few days, waking early enough that he had time to prepare a light breakfast and be out of the house before Will stirred. On the fifth day of this routine, Will appeared in the kitchen entryway just as Hannibal was cleaning his plate. Will had obviously just rolled out of bed in an effort to head Hannibal off. His eyes were still bleary with sleep and his sweat-damp shirt clung to his chest distractingly. He wore just a plain pair of gray briefs on the bottom, and as Hannibal eyed him, Will seemed to become suddenly aware of that fact, blushing instantly in a way that was both endearing and affecting. He brought a hand up and ran it self consciously through his already hopelessly sleep rumpled hair. The entire scene made the heaviness in Hannibal’s stomach that had been his constant companion since they left Baltimore swell into a searing ache. He turned away and towards the fridge, pulling it open needlessly, simply to allow himself a moment. His eyes fell shut as he took a steadying breath. 

“You’re leaving again?” came Will’s voice, neutral, but with an edge of irritation that helped Hannibal regain his control. 

“There’s much to do,” he said as he closed the fridge door, withdrawing a bottle of water and placing it on the counter. When he turned back to Will, Hannibal’s expression was, thankfully, blank once more. 

Will was scanning Hannibal now, plainly displeased, but he didn’t fight him on it. “Is there anything I can do to help?” He said quietly, in what appeared to be an earnest offer. 

Will’s assistance would be helpful. He was less distinctive in appearance than Hannibal, arguably less memorable, and was not, as far as Hannibal was aware, on any Most Wanted lists. Yet. That would likely change imminently, assuming that Abigail awoke yesterday as scheduled. But to let Will assist was to put his life in Will’s hands. There were too many opportunities for Will’s ambivalence to sow seeds that could eventually be their undoing. Some error or sloppiness, perhaps even unconsciously done, that would provide the essential bread crumb Jack needed to find them. 

Hannibal turned away from Will to finish gathering everything he’d need for the day, “the best thing you can do is remain out of sight.”

Will gave an annoyed huff, but he didn’t argue. Hannibal could feel Will’s gaze on him as he placed the laptop and burner phone he’d purchased their first day in Paris into the bag, the bottom of which was already filled with enough cash to pay off the discrete forger Hannibal’s contacts had referred him to. “When will you be back?”

Hannibal looked up at Will then, unintentionally meeting his dark eyes. There was something desperately unhappy in them that made Hannibal feel a surge of guilt and unease. But it was swiftly swept away by resentment. That Will had this kind of hold on him, that he could lead Hannibal to irrationality with a simple look. 

“I’ll be back when it’s finished,” Hannibal said, crossing to the front door and leaving without a backwards glance. 

Despite his harshness that morning, his inconvenient compassion for Will won out, and he returned home earlier than usual only to find the apartment empty. He decided to properly cook for the first time since they’d arrived, hoping he could assuage some of his guilt simply by providing for Will. He recalled, with a pang, that this was Will’s first time out of the United States and he was in the culinary capital of the world. Yet Hannibal would not be able to risk taking Will out to enjoy it. The least he could do was let Will experience a bit of what Paris had to offer in the privacy that their situation demanded. So after a brief trip to a nearby market for ingredients beyond the pantry staples they’d been subsisting on until now, along with stops at the fromagerie and boulangerie, Hannibal set about preparing a plat du fromage, soupe a l’oignion and coq au vin. That had been four hours ago, and the various dishes lay strewn around the kitchen, the skillet of coq au vin cooling and congealing on the stove top. It was nearing nine p.m. and Will was still gone. 

The first hour, Hannibal had thought nothing of it. Assuming Will had taken himself on some errand or other. The second hour, a sense of disquiet started to creep in. By the time three hours had passed, and reasonable explanations for Will’s absence started to lose any plausibility, Hannibal could no longer keep his suspicions at bay. He was reminded of the abruptness of Will’s change of heart. Perhaps here was finally an explanation. A longer play, let Hannibal make his preparations, forge documents, dozens of other tiny, but fully indictable, crimes in his effort to protect them and assure a clean escape. Give him all the rope he needed to hang himself with. Hannibal couldn’t help picturing Will returning with a swat team in tow. Or Jack Crawford himself. 

And with that image firmly in mind as he moved into the fourth hour without any sign of Will, Hannibal poured himself a drink, took his customary seat by the window in the living room, and considered the best course. Briefly he imagined taking his things and leaving. He had made the necessary preparations at this point and Will knew nothing of the plan — he paused to congratulate himself for his foresight in that if nothing else. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it out of hand. Perhaps, if he ran, Will would chase him, but the possibility existed that he would not. That he would withdraw. And that thought left Hannibal feeling so inexplicably hollow that he realized, with something as close to dread as he’d ever experienced, that he might not be willing to accept a future without Will in it anymore. Their fates might be permanently bound now, for better or worse.

 Which left only one option: wait and face whatever reckoning Will had chosen for him. But he would not go quietly. Will would bleed for this. Even if it meant Hannibal’s capture or death, Will would bleed. Just as that vengeful oath was crossing Hannibal’s mind, the door lock turned and a very harried, sweaty Will stumbled through. He looked grouchy, for lack of a better word, his face scrunched up in an almost comically exaggerated frown. And he barely even glanced at Hannibal as he all but slammed the door behind him and threw his jacket onto a nearby chair. 

When he finally did look up, whatever he saw in Hannibal’s face had him doing a subtle double take before he stood up straighter, clearly sensing the danger in the room. His eyes were running over Hannibal assessingly, and Hannibal saw him swallow, noted how he shuffled his feet slightly, shifted his arms as if unsure what to do with them. Hannibal couldn’t tell whether it was guilt or nerves or both.

”Hannibal?”

Hannibal stood and advanced on Will in a few quick strides. And disturbingly, Will backed away automatically, matching him step for step until his back hit the wall, always keeping his eyes locked on Hannibal, as if anticipating a strike. Seeing fear in Will’s eyes wasn’t at all satisfying, even in light of his recent actions. In fact, it made Hannibal feel vaguely ill. He stopped short of boxing Will in, a few feet between them as he got a closer look at him. Will looked exhausted, the scent of other people’s body odor clung to all of his clothes, including his discarded jacket, and oddly, there was a thin layer of dust coating his shoes. 

”It’s late, Will.”

Absurdly, Hannibal felt for a moment as though he were a parent scolding a teenager for getting home after curfew.

“I didn’t realize what time it was until I noticed the sun was setting,” Will responded evenly, not dropping his guard for a second.

”Sunset was hours ago.”

”And I was hours from the apartment when I noticed it,” Will responded, a hint of frustration entering his tone. Hannibal found it strangely reassuring. 

Hannibal was still scanning the state of Will’s attire when he asked, voice deceptively calm, “where were you, Will?”

Will tread carefully as he answered, “I was going stir crazy sitting around this shitty apartment. I had to get out.”

“‘Get out’ where?” 

Will’s eyes dropped to the floor before he responded, “I…decided to check out the Louvre and lost track of time. The place is a maze.”

Hannibal’s eyes jumped to Will’s face at that, and he couldn’t suppress his genuine surprise. Will seemed relieved to see it, ”the Louvre?” And glancing back at Will’s shoes, Hannibal had to admit the dust reminded him of the loose paving in the Tuileries.

”Yeah..” and Will looked slightly embarrassed now, “I don’t know how long we’re going to be here and I’ve never been to France. I wanted to see something.”

Hannibal considered this. Will didn’t sound like he was hiding anything, but, Hannibal acknowledged with a pang, he never had. Hannibal’s wariness and lingering doubt must have shown on his face because Will’s face was tightening with irritation, “where else would I go, Hannibal?”

Hannibal looked up at Will with a challenging gleam, ”You tell me, Will.”

”What, you think I stepped out for a couple of hours to call Jack? Or maybe I just went ahead and reported us to interpol?”

Hannibal didn’t consciously react, but his stare must have flickered because Will looked suddenly as if Hannibal had struck him. He said nothing for a beat, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion.  

“You can’t actually believe I’d do that,” Will almost whispered, his indignation at the accusation obvious, but Hannibal was unrepentant.

”Recent events have made clear to me, Will, that I have no idea what you’re capable of. And I underestimate you at my own peril.”

”Jesus.” Will said, rubbing his face roughly and shouldering past Hannibal to pace the room. “No, Hannibal, I really was at the damn Louvre wandering by a bunch of wall-sized canvases of horses and ships and naked bodies fighting and imagining what obscure facts you’d be sharing about each of them if you’d been there.” 

Hannibal had to quickly stifle a lurch of sadness hearing that. There was a time only a week ago, when Hannibal happily imagined acting as Will’s guide through the museums of Paris. But he would have started with the Musee D’Orsay instead of the Louvre. For all that Hannibal admired the technique of the neoclassical style, he suspected Will would prefer the bright and bold works of the impressionists. Sacrificing clarity and precision of form, yet capturing the world with even greater candor; subjects and nature depicted as they truly were, flaws and all. But that fantasy died as soon as he caught Freddie Lounds’s acerbic fragrance on Will’s collar. 

“I’m curious why you would stay so long if you saw so little merit in it?” And Hannibal didn’t even try to hide his skepticism.

”Because I was looking for the Barque de Dante,” Will returned hotly. 

And at that, Hannibal lost any capacity to wrangle his emotions, a fact Will clearly noticed, as his face softened as he took in Hannibal’s reaction. 

Hannibal was late returning home and was quietly pleased to find his door unlocked, hallway lights leading a path to the study, where he could see the tell-tale flickering of the fireplace through the ajar door. A soft smile was already on his face knowing what — who — he’d find when he reached it. Alana would never let herself in like this.

As he pushed the door open, he found Will glass held loosely in one hand, standing across the room from the warmth of the fireplace, eyes locked on one of the few paintings Hannibal had in this room, and by far his favorite. Hannibal came up behind him soundlessly, letting Will’s scent and his presence wash over him. His eyes fell shut for a moment before Will broke the silence. Predictably, there was no greeting; no matter how long had passed since they’d seen each other, Will always spoke as if he were continuing a conversation they’d already been having. Hannibal liked to indulgently imagine it was because Will spoke to Hannibal in his mind as often as Hannibal did Will. 

“A little grim compared to the rest of the decor, which is saying something.” Hannibal could hear the smile in Will’s voice. It was a novelty to be teased in this way and not feel even a hint of irritation. To have someone who knew him well enough to manage it.

“I select my art for its honesty, not its levity.”

”And this is honest? Looks like something out of someone’s nightmare.”

”The greatest nightmare of all. La Barque de Dante. Some credit it with ushering in the era of Romanticism. This work draws inspiration from the Divine Comedy. You’ve read it?”

Will nodded silently, eyes drifting from the painting to Hannibal. 

”The grotesque tortured souls bookending the frame, seeking to sink the ship, any vestiges of their humanity forfeit to the eternity of turmoil they’ve endured. And in the foreground, the hopelessness of those fresh souls just beginning to comprehend their lot, searching wildly and futilely for deliverance. Above the ruckus, Dante looks on in terror, fearing he too will succumb to the hysteria and horror beneath. Virgil and Charon, his literal and metaphorical paddles, keeping his boat afloat and his mind sound, on the treacherous path to the Empyrean.”

Hannibal turned back to Will, finding his eyes had never wavered from Hannibal’s face as he spoke. When their eyes met, the moment felt charged in that peculiar way it had for weeks now. Will had become almost impossible for Hannibal to read, and far from trepidation, that fact filled Hannibal with a simmering kind of anticipation he’d never experienced before. They let the tension sit between them for a moment as they held each other’s gaze, then Will turned back to the painting, taking in the details Hannibal had mentioned. 

“His paddle. Does that make you the Virgil to my Dante?” Will was wearing that almost mischievous smile he wore so often these days, and Hannibal couldn’t help smiling helplessly in return, but Will’s smile dimmed slightly when he turned to catch Hannibal’s eye, “guiding me through the darkest pits of human lamentation on the path to paradise?”

Hannibal met Will’s eyes and breathed through the now familiar ache he almost always felt in his presence. “You need no paddle or guide, Will. You are the master of your own fate, now perhaps more than ever. ‘If the present world go astray, the cause is in you, in you it is to be sought.’”

Oddly, Will’s face dropped at that, his expression suddenly, inexplicably, serious, as his eyes grew unfocused. Hannibal felt his own brow draw down in response. Then on a breath as if speaking to himself, Will whispered, “‘midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost,’” Will’s eyes were fixed on the painting as he spoke, and Hannibal felt for a moment as if he’d forgotten Hannibal’s presence entirely. Hannibal was at a loss to explain the shift in Will. But seconds later Will came back to himself with a small shake of his head and took a step closer to the frame, his hand outstretched, but not quite touching the glass covering the print. He was hovering over where Virgil’s hand reached out to Dante’s in an unmistakable gesture of reassurance.

When he spoke next, his voice was still soft, “still, must be nice to have a constant source of calm during the storm.”

Hannibal stepped forward until they were practically touching and placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. “You may no longer need a paddle, Will. But we are pilgrims journeying together. Capable of being each other’s calm, each other’s shelter against rough seas.” It was the first time Hannibal had shared this gentle hope for his future with Will, for what they could be to one another. A hope that Hannibal had been privately nurturing for some time. He felt exposed saying it now. But the soft intimacy of the moment, of Will’s own strange vulnerability and uncertainty, had loosened Hannibal’s tongue.

And Will clearly caught the emotional significance because he met Hannibal’s eyes with an intensity that was unprecedented between them. It seemed for a long moment as if Will were going to say something, or do something, he hadn’t before, but then he visibly swallowed everything he was thinking and feeling down with another sip of his drink, eyes turning back to the painting. Hannibal stamped out a flare of disappointment as he returned to watching Will watch the painting, surprised to find his breathing less steady than usual. 

When he returned from his reverie, Will was watching him intently. “It took me a while to find it, but once I did, I probably spent an hour or more just looking at it. Cataloging every brush stroke. I think the museum staff thought I was planning a heist,” Will gave a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Hannibal still found himself unable to speak, and Will’s face turned serious again. “I wanted to.. recapture that feeling in the study when I first saw it,” Will took a deep breath, “that sense of peace within the chaos. And not being alone.” His voice was slightly choked at the end, and he paused for a second, rubbing his face in frustration, “but that’s a hard thing to access when you’re surrounded by tourists and screaming children,” he finished wryly, pacing again now, “I couldn’t stomach the crush of humanity on the metro so I just started walking back. And this city is fucking huge apparently. Took forever.” He glanced back up then and whatever he saw in Hannibal’s expression had him stopping, his arms dropping, and his face going slack.

Hannibal saw Will work to gentle his voice and his stance as he offered, “I think it would have been different if you’d been there. We could go back. Together. Tomorrow,” and Hannibal didn’t have the energy to feel embarrassed or irritated that Will had read his yearning for exactly that. “Take a break from logistics and planning and enjoy the city for a minute.” Hannibal could see Will catch himself before he could say “enjoy each other.”

Hannibal had felt the strange sensation of his control starting to slip as Will described what he hoped to find when he saw the painting again, but with this gentle offer, Will’s face open and hopeful, his control collapsed entirely, like a shoddily built dam finally giving way to the current. The longing and sorrow he’d carefully suppressed up until now flowed through him in a painful rush. He had no idea what his face was showing. Had infuriatingly little control over it in that moment, but if the sudden devastation on Will’s face was anything to go by, Hannibal was hiding very little. Hannibal almost winced at the display of vulnerability. But Will was crossing to him now with determination and urgency, and Hannibal had no idea what he’d do when he reached him. The idea of Will touching him while he was feeling this raw, was intolerable. So he forced some version of his walls back into place, brutally leashing his expression and the feelings underlying it. And Will caught this change too, a flash of genuine anger and frustration crossing his face as his steps slowed.

“Hannibal—“

“The Louvre is the most visited museum in the world, Will. It was reckless for you to go there when our pictures have likely been running nonstop in the U.S. news cycle.”

Will deflated at that, and he didn’t argue. He simply looked defeated, his head hanging as he stared at the ground, his shoulders rounded in a hunch that Hannibal hadn’t seen in over a year, that he’d hoped he wouldn’t see again. And Hannibal felt a twinge of guilt and regret, for hurting Will and for not allowing the scene to play out in whatever way it would have if Will had come to him.

 “You gonna tell me where we’re going, or am I too much of a liability?” Will’s tone was quiet and snide, the end clearly intended as a joke, but Hannibal stiffened in response, unintentionally broadcasting the fact that he’d been thinking that precise thing minutes earlier. Hannibal could practically see Will’s stomach sink to the floor, and his face flashed with something so close to anguish that Hannibal set aside his concerns and answered.  

“I have a small property in Argentina and have been making arrangements for our arrival. We should be able to leave in a couple of days.”

Will nodded numbly, his face betraying no excitement or curiosity as if it made no difference to him where they went, and Hannibal knew that blankness was his fault. As surprisingly sickening as it was to see Will so diminished, something in him balked at saying anything to comfort him. And the meanest, cruelest part of him was pleased to watch Will share some measure of Hannibal’s own suffering. Still, he felt no satisfaction seeing Will’s eyes fixed on the floor, as if he were trying to hide his expression from Hannibal. And eventually Will nodded once more and walked away without a word or another glance in Hannibal’s direction, padding down the hall and into his room, shutting the door softly behind him.

As soon as Will was out of sight, a sense of loss overtook Hannibal. Not for Will’s current absence, but for all the potential that seemed to be slipping further away each day. He returned to his seat by the window and took another heavy pull from his drink, appreciating the burn and, after a second and third sip, the dulling effect. As the whiskey carried him gently towards inebriation, others of Dante’s words crossed his mind, these curiously, painfully apt: “lost are we, and are only so far punished, that without hope we live on in desire.”

Chapter Text

They left for Argentina a day and a half later — just before Will’s picture joined Hannibal’s at the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted list — with newly minted passports and identities. Different last names, Will noted absently, irritated at himself for even noticing. 

The “small” property that Hannibal owned was a massive plot of farmland an hour and a half outside of Buenos Aires. It was idyllic, with a vast vegetable garden lined with seasonal fruit trees, and sprawling green fields surrounding a surprisingly modest farmhouse. The house charmed Will instantly. It was rustic, far more so than Will’s old house in Wolftrap, and while it was obvious even from the outside that certain features had been updated, it maintained its original aesthetic. The brick tile floors and ceilings lined with wooden beams couldn’t have been more different from the moody, pretentious atmosphere of Hannibal’s home in Baltimore, but as he watched Hannibal maneuver around the bright kitchen, preparing a freshly harvested root vegetable medley, he found this suited Hannibal just as well. 

Hannibal was still keeping Will at a distance. The farm was, in part, a working farm, renowned for its beef, and the fact that Hannibal Lecter had a cover identity as one of Buenos Aires’ foremost purveyors of specialty meats was almost too on the nose. Hannibal immediately took to his role as the long absent, but wildly charming, head of the business. And Argentinian restaurateurs were serious enough about excellent beef that he was granted instant status, access to elite circles and the broader cultural arts scene of Buenos Aires. Hannibal received an endless stream of invitations to parties and shows, which meant he almost always had a reason to skip evenings with Will. And before long he had a circle of acquaintances and colleagues, none of whom Will had ever met, and no plans to remedy that were forthcoming. 

And with Hannibal almost always away, Will had nothing to distract him from watching the fallout back in the States. He followed their coverage to an obsessive degree that was clearly unhealthy. Hannibal’s identity as the Chesapeake Ripper was confirmed as soon as Abigail woke from her sedation, and with her damning account of Will’s role in their escape, the FBI eventually had to accept Will’s culpability as well. Abigail was surprisingly in her element in the media spotlight. She seemed to have made her peace with her abandonment by leaning into her newfound fame. She was the macabre darling of every morning show, the final victim of the Chesapeake Ripper and Minnesota Shrike both. And she was more than willing to paint Will and Hannibal in as tawdry and malevolent a light as her audience wanted, recounting every lurid detail — the majority of which were manufactured — of their blood soaked love affair. 

Freddie Lounds was having a field day, coining the term “Murder Husbands” and letting it tear across the internet like wildfire. And Will was just as unable to look away as everyone else apparently. He’d watched every interview, read every story. And he must have watched Abigail’s first press conference after she was discovered about twenty times, enough to have every shift in her expression memorized. But what always stung the most was the sight of Jack and Alana on each side of her. Jack, who’d quietly, and ignominiously, retired from the FBI shortly after that press event, and Alana, who looked pale as a ghost, and just as lifeless. Jack and Alana — the ransom Will had paid for the life he had now. And as he wandered aimlessly, and alone, through Hannibal’s house, only ever seeing the man himself during one of their tense meals, or in passing as he made his way out the door in a tuxedo on his way to some ritzy affair, Will felt a tug of regret. He knew any other result would have been unbearable. But most days, his life here didn’t feel especially bearable either. 

Hannibal, by contrast, was completely disinterested in anything happening back home. Gave no indication that he’d seen any of it. Until eventually, unable to help herself, Freddie Lounds published an expose on Alana’s relationship with Hannibal that was particularly trashy even by Tattlecrime’s standards. There were gratuitous references to how Hannibal’s sadistic and cannibalistic tendencies might have played out in the bedroom, some so degrading to Alana that Will had to pause his reading in disgust. Alana had unquestionably suffered the worst of it, vilified as a lovesick pawn at best, a possible accomplice at worst. And for all that Will resented her unwillingness to see what was right in front of her, even when he was shouting it in her face, he didn’t relish seeing her pain. And knowing he helped cause it was even harder to stomach. 

And it seemed, irritatingly, that Hannibal’s feelings ran in a similar vein. A few days after the story was published, to wild success, Will caught Hannibal skimming it over breakfast, his fist clenching whenever he read a particularly tasteless line, his expression the picture of murderous resolve when he finished. 

“It’s a shame that Ms. Lounds’s death was a hoax. That may have to be remedied.”

And for all that Will had thought almost the exact same thing when he first read the story, he bristled at Hannibal’s protectiveness of Alana, now, when he and Will were on such shaky ground with each other. Though jealousy of Alana was, unfortunately, nothing new. 

The dinner seemed a terrible idea to Will, but Hannibal frustratingly didn’t see an issue. So it happened. And it was — predictably — an ambush. The three of them sat around the table in sham cordiality, Will at Hannibal’s right, Alana at his left, as she laid out her accusations with all the subtlety of a bullhorn. Hannibal’s gently amused demeanor never wavered, even as Alana watched their reactions to Freddie’s claims like a hawk. A masterful front, obviously refined over years of deflecting even the faintest inkling of suspicion, and it meant Alana eventually turned her accusatory glare on Will alone. Still, it was clear that she would continue pulling the thread of suspicion until it unraveled now. The fact that this meant Will’s plan with Jack was approaching its natural conclusion, that Hannibal’s position was growing so untenable he’d be forced to reveal himself, should have been a relief; it wasn’t. Will felt as though the walls were closing in on him too. 

 Will wasn’t surprised that he had a tough time keeping it together under Alana’s interrogation, particularly when the questioning ventured into the nature of his relationship with Hannibal. What was surprising were the other reactions Will seemed unable to repress the whole night. His irritation at the proprietary way she navigated Hannibal’s kitchen. How it rankled every time Hannibal touched her shoulder or lower back when he passed behind her, or when she squeezed his hand in thanks as he handed her a fresh glass of beer unprompted, not even pausing in her speech, as if she barely noticed she’d done it. And despite the tense conversation during dinner, Alana still gave Hannibal a brief kiss of thanks as he cleared her plate. Their affection was probably more subdued than it would have been even a week earlier, Freddie’s words troubling Alana more than she yet cared to admit, but that almost made it worse. That meant this intimate choreography was practically rote, so ingrained that they followed the steps without conscious thought. All of it, every affectionate touch or sidelong smile, filled Will with an inexplicable sense of wrongness that had him clenching his teeth so tightly, his jaw was aching by the end of the night. 

Will lingered longer than was socially acceptable after dinner, hating the thought of leaving while Alana stayed behind, not that Hannibal showed any sign that he minded his presence. Will indulged liberally in the offered refreshments, and in vino veritas apparently, because the foggier his mind grew, the more willing he was to acknowledge the reason for his unease. These past weeks had offered Will a sense of connection that was unprecedented, he’d assumed for both of them. He knew Hannibal was using Alana for cover. It had never occurred to him that he might still find some pleasure in his closeness with her, but tonight made it clear that, at least on some level, he did. And Will resented the reminder that Hannibal was more practiced in many forms of intimacy, particularly the physical variety. Not just sex, but casual physical comfort. Hannibal touched many people for many reasons. It made Will wonder if the spark he felt when Hannibal touched him was one-sided.  

And as he swirled his third drink of the night, he found himself considering the particular brand of intimacy shared by romantic partners. It had never even remotely occurred to Will that he might want that from Hannibal, and he still didn’t quite believe that he did, yet to be denied something that Alana freely claimed felt unnatural in a way Will couldn’t articulate. As he took a large gulp from his glass, an image seized his thoughts: Will and Hannibal escorting Alana to the door to see her off, Hannibal’s arm wrapped loosely around Will’s waist. Will taking his place beside Hannibal as they cleaned and dried the dishes — a domestic ritual that signified belonging and some measure of ownership. Of the space and perhaps of Hannibal as well. He was startled by the feeling of rightness that image evoked.  

“Are you sure you’re able to drive home, Will? You’re welcome to stay the night.” Hannibal’s hand was on Will’s shoulder as he leaned over him, his face earnest and warm as always. It was, Will realized, the first time Hannibal had touched him that evening. Usually touch was fairly common between them, but Will understood Hannibal’s instinct to hide that feature of their bond from Alana. Will felt protective of it too. Still, in his liquor softened state he found himself leaning into Hannibal’s touch automatically, hungrily. Hannibal held firm, doing nothing to discourage Will’s reaction, but the thought of Alana’s observant eyes on them had Will forcing himself back.

And Will looked past Hannibal to Alana, only to find her trying, unsuccessfully, to hide her annoyance and making no effort at all to hide her disapproval. Will’s lowered inhibitions had him meeting her eyes in a momentary spark of defiance, and of course Alana caught it, her face flowing quickly from surprise to confused affront. He felt the childish urge to accept Hannibal’s offer just to watch her face drop, but then he thought of what that would actually entail. A night spent in a guest room as Hannibal and Alana shared a bed a few doors away. He imagined himself staring up at the ceiling for hours, unable to keep himself from straining to hear any stray moan or whimper. Somehow he knew Hannibal wouldn’t hold back in deference to Will’s presence. His eyes fell shut imagining how miserable that would be.

“No, I should run the dogs before bed anyway.”

Hannibal nodded, but when Will glanced at Alana again, she looked thoughtful, considering, and Will tried to guess how much of his thought process had played out on his face. 

“At least allow me to send you off with some coffee. I’ll be just a moment,” Hannibal straightened and made his way to the kitchen, pressing Alana’s shoulder gently as he passed her, a mirror of the touch he’d just shared with Will. It had Will gritting his teeth again. 

Alana was still staring at Will, but she waited a long minute before she finally broke the silence. “This must be… strange for you, Will. I’m sorry for not thinking about it before.”

Will made sure his face didn’t betray a thing, “strange?”

She paused at length before continuing, as if searching for a diplomatic way to say what she wanted, “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forget what you tried to do to Hannibal, Will, even though he can, apparently,” the last was said with an exasperated huff, but her eyes were unforgiving as she continued, “some things you just can’t come back from.”

Will was readying a scathing reply when she continued, “but,” and her eyes were sympathetic now in a way Will hadn’t seen them since he was released, “that doesn’t mean I have to throw our relationship in your face. And I guess I’ve been doing that all night, haven’t I?” her tone was filled with self-reproach and Will could tell the apology was genuine. But it was hard to feel moved by that when his chest was seized in irrational panic that she’d read the reason for his upset. Fortunately, her next words quickly put that fear to bed, “I’m sorry, Will. For how things went between us. For hurting you. It was the right choice for all of us, but… I can’t help thinking about how differently things might have gone for you, if I hadn’t let all that get in the way of seeing how badly you were struggling.” For a moment, Will couldn’t think through the flood of relief, but then Alana’s words caught up with him and his expression grew cold.

“You’re entitled to live your life, Alana. And, for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t change a thing,” and while convincing Alana was part of the plan with Jack, Will was unnerved to hear how emphatic his voice sounded. And he was equally disconcerted to discover just how much he meant that; he wouldn’t trade what he had with Hannibal right now, and through the soft buzz of alcohol, he could already anticipate the panic and self-loathing he’d experience tomorrow for that thought. 

Alana was also, apparently, taken aback by the vehemence in Will’s tone, and her clever eyes were running over Will anew now, reassessing Will’s behavior that evening. Fortunately, he was saved from any further examination by Hannibal’s return, “here we are. Black coffee to help carry you safely home. But I must still insist that you pull over should the urge arise during the drive. More accidents are caused by exhaustion than inebriation.” Alana was frowning deeply now, and Will opted to make his exit before she drew whatever conclusions were coalescing in her sharp mind.

Hannibal alone walked Will to the door, and in the relative privacy of the entryway, he helped Will into his coat, unnecessarily brushing it down once it was on, as if to remove invisible lint. Will smiled, sensing that he hadn’t been the only one disturbed by their lack of physical contact that evening. And the shoulder squeeze and soft look Hannibal gave Will before he turned to open the door warmed Will the whole long drive home. 

Will forced himself to take a bite of his toast before responding. “Freddie Lounds is vulgar, but Alana brought this on herself. She was a fool when it came to you.”

Hannibal glanced up at Will, before taking a small sip of his coffee as he looked back down at his iPad, “loyalty can make fools of us all.”

That little barb, the suggestion that Alana was more loyal than Will, stung probably more than Hannibal intended it to, “because she didn’t know you,” he returned gruffly.

“Didn’t she? She knew many parts of me better than perhaps anyone else. I allowed her intimacies I rarely extended to others.”

Will didn’t think he was imagining the slight emphasis Hannibal placed on the word intimacies. It was making it hard to keep a level head. “And for the sake of those intimacies she blinded herself to the truth of you, at the expense of everyone around her. She sowed every bit of antipathy she’s reaping now. As much as it might bother you to see her dragged through the streets on your account.”

“Green is an unbecoming shade for you, Will,” Hannibal responded shortly, eyes still fixed on his iPad as he scrolled idly.

And Will’s cheeks grew ruddy with embarrassment at having his jealousy read so easily. “If you play, you pay. She needed to learn that lesson.”

Hannibal’s eyes flitted up to Will briefly, an unkind smile on his lips that made Will grip his knife more tightly, “and here you are, still lamenting the fact you never got to play with Alana. If it’s any consolation, I meant it when I said you would have been terrible together,” he held Will’s gaze then, vindictive amusement overlaying anger in his eyes, but it fell away when he registered Will’s confusion. Will knew he should probably have felt relieved that Hannibal, like Alana, had misconstrued the source of his envy; for whatever reason he didn’t at all. 

Will took a beat before responding. “Any feelings I once had for Alana are ancient history, Hannibal,” and he said it with such a lack of artifice that Hannibal accepted it right away, face growing thoughtful, but Will couldn’t leave the conversation there. He needed Hannibal to know the breadth of Alana’s betrayal; to shatter the fantasy of her apparent devotion. “She turned on you in the end, you know,” and Hannibal’s face lost all expression at that. Will sunk the knife deeper, “the second she started realizing the truth about you, she became as much a part of the plot as Jack was.”

”And as you were?” Hannibal didn’t bother watching that blow land, busy setting his silverware on his plate, but when he did glance up, those eyes were teeming with such spite, Will had to look away. Hannibal swallowed his last mouthful of coffee and rose from the table without another word. Will wasn’t sure how long he sat there, stewing in self-condemnation as he ran his fingertips over the knots in the table grain; long enough to hear the door slam when Hannibal left for work, and the next time he thought to take a sip of his coffee it was ice cold.

**************

The scene could practically have been clipped from the Baltimore Society papers, aside, of course, from the singular setting of the Teatro Colón. Hannibal at the center of a group of hangers-on, a broad smile on his face as he regaled them with an entirely fictional story from his past — or his alias’s past. A young woman Hannibal had met at a number of these affairs hung on his arm, laughter tittering incessantly. As drinks were consumed, the shy interest she’d shown earlier unfortunately evolved into something far blunter and more irritating. Hannibal caught the eye of an older woman across the circle, and they shared a small smile. The woman, Daniela, was a seasoned art dealer who had fast become one of Hannibal’s favorite acquaintances in Buenos Aires and she was observing the interaction with wry humor dancing in her eyes. Some of the men too were watching Hannibal with interest. They were subtler, but their private smiles and flirtatious eyes still met Hannibal’s over their champagne flutes. And of course others were looking on with envy. All of these reactions were useful to Hannibal; would help to solidify his position within this social ecosystem. And normally, the gamesmanship involved in cultivating his outward persona was a favorite pastime. But nothing felt as it once had. A fact that Hannibal found immeasurably frustrating. There was a hollowness to it all now that Hannibal couldn’t shake. Hannibal had always lived a solitary existence, even with a crowd clamoring for his attention, but true loneliness was a novelty until now. And he understood its source. Apparently, it took only one evening sharing a room like this with someone who actually mattered to drain this tinseled world of all its color.

It was the final week of their time in Baltimore, and as a send off and farewell of sorts to the place he’d called home for decades, he acquired two box seats for the opera and he invited Will to join him. Will was dressed in what was obviously his finest suit. Still plainer than anything anyone else would be wearing, Hannibal knew, but it hardly mattered when Will wore it as he did. Gone was the twitchy nervous man who would have spent the evening trying to blend into the wall coverings. Now Will carried himself with an understated confidence that commanded the attention of everyone who met him. He was polite, but never pandered, never put on the kind of false smile that was de rigueur, and they wanted him all the more for it. Even those that recognized him from the papers latched on to him with a morbid kind of fascination and taboo attraction. But Will ignored the socialites circling him like a pack of wolves, was entirely unaffected by the splendor and decadence, almost to the point of derision. Will’s eyes were only for Hannibal, and to be the focus of Will’s attention to the exclusion of all others was a heady thing. 

Will scarcely left Hannibal’s side, which meant Will spent most of the night watching Hannibal with an indulgent, and slightly amused, expression as Hannibal flitted between various circles holding court. Hannibal wasn’t at all surprised when he spotted one of the loveliest young artists in the city make her way through the crowd and descend on Will with intent the moment Hannibal left him to fetch another round of drinks. Hannibal’s lip curled briefly in irritation, but when he glanced back, his eyes met Will’s dark gaze, which was seeking Hannibal’s across the room, even as he placated the woman with half-hearted lip service. And later, when a persistent admirer waylaid Hannibal on his way back from the bar, Will intervened. The man had been speaking to Hannibal for less than a minute and already Hannibal felt courtesy losing the battle with exasperation, then suddenly there was a firm hand pressed against the small of his back in an unmistakably possessive gesture. Will was beside him, eying the fawning man with an air of annoyance that edged on true anger. Will made only the most token effort at politeness, taking his own drink from Hannibal’s hand and steering him away with a clipped, “excuse us.” Hannibal had to conceal his pleased smile in his wine glass. 

The performance itself was the only thing that could pull Hannibal’s attention from Will. An unusual, some might even say controversial production, but rumored to have some of the best vocalists to visit the Baltimore Opera in years. And the soloists did not disappoint. The twin voices of the tenor and soprano soared through the vaulted hall, hovering on each note with vibrato that made Hannibal’s bones tremble in sympathy. It was one of the most emotionally evocative portrayals of Tristan Und Isolde that Hannibal had ever witnessed and he was duly transfixed, and on his feet, clapping uproariously before the final bar had even faded from the air, eyes brimming with tears. And only then did he turn to look at Will, who was watching Hannibal as intently as Hannibal had been watching the stage. And the expression on Will’s face was something Hannibal had never seen before. It was tender in a way Will almost never allowed and filled with longing. And between the euphoria of the performance, and Will finally looking at him with such transparent affection, Hannibal thought that it might have been among the happiest moments of his adult life. But the moment broke as Will took his cue and rose to his feet to join Hannibal and the rest of the hall in clamorous applause, his smile impossibly soft as his eyes continued to drift between Hannibal’s face and the stage. 

Hannibal was jerked back to the present by a supercilious voice that reminded him unaccountably of Chilton, and the contrast with the memory was almost unbearable. And as usual these days, Hannibal found himself going back over his reminiscence with a more discerning eye. Scrutinizing every look and laugh — Will’s uncharacteristic, but disarming warmth. Hannibal tried in vain to gauge what, if any of Will’s behavior that night had been genuine, and how much was calculated baiting by a talented fisherman. It would have been an embarrassingly simple matter for Will to intuit how to exploit Hannibal’s attachment, to feed his ego and interest until he was pliant enough to ignore the noose circling his throat — even to place it there himself. And the humiliation and pain accompanying that thought sapped any remaining pleasure from the evening. Propriety demanded that Hannibal stay, and he went through the motions until the final curtain call, but he didn’t linger after the show.

As soon as he opened the door to their house, he reflexively started searching for signs of Will’s whereabouts. Will wasn’t in the kitchen or dining room as Hannibal passed by, but when he dipped his head into the living room he was greeted by a sight that made him ache. The fire was clinging to the last dregs of life, embers flickering even as most of the wood had been reduced to char. And slumped in the armchair closest to the fireplace was Will, with his foot tucked beneath him, an open book hanging loosely from his hand on the verge of falling. The dying fire cast an amber glow across Will’s face and while Will was always strikingly handsome, he was even more arresting like this. When Will was awake, glowering at the world with his flannel armor and sharp tongue, it was quite clear that one would call him lovely at their own peril. But like this, the word was inescapable. He was unbearably lovely. Asleep, he looked years younger, and with the lingering heat from the fire lending his cheeks a flush, he had a particular vibrancy.

Despite Hannibal’s melancholy mood, the performance that evening had, in fact, been one of the finest Hannibal had seen, the Teatro Colón one of the most celebrated venues on the continent, if not in the world. And bustling with the wealthy and glamorous of Buenos Aires decked out in their finery for the opening night of the season, it was a sight to behold. Yet Will in the firelight was, without question, the most beautiful thing Hannibal had seen all night. And that ache grew like a conflagration, the sudden need to touch Will’s face, run his fingers through Will’s hair, almost impossible to resist. 

Fortunately or not, as soon as Hannibal felt his restraint giving way, Will’s eyelids started to flutter and his body unfolded, stretching his arms to the sky like a contented cat with an endearingly unselfconscious yawn. Then his eyes blinked open and he spotted Hannibal standing a few feet away. At first the drowsiness still clinging to Will had him breaking into a sleep-soft smile that stole Hannibal’s breath. But Hannibal saw the moment Will’s keen mind reasserted itself; his eyes growing instantly sharp and assessing as he took stock of the situation. His face settled into an expression of cautious neutrality, and Hannibal could practically see Will’s mind whirring, his eyes searching for any clue as to Hannibal’s current mood.

“How was the show?” Will asked levelly, trying for an inoffensive opener.

”Impressive. I eagerly anticipate future productions.” 

Will nodded, eyes darting back and forth between Hannibal’s, his mind working quickly as he considered how to proceed. Hannibal couldn’t blame him for feeling at a loss. Even these kinds of benign exchanges between them tended to grow teeth given time, and Hannibal was almost always at fault. They hadn’t managed an extended civil conversation in weeks.   

But as the silence stretched on, Hannibal saw Will come to some sort of decision, ”I didn’t mean to fall asleep just then,” Will said, rubbing his face and running a hand carelessly through his hair in a way that was so effortlessly alluring it was maddening. When he looked back up at Hannibal, he hesitated for a beat, then stood with a groan. “Want a drink?” He asked, pulling down two rocks glasses and pouring himself a measure of whiskey before turning to Hannibal with the bottle in hand and a question in his eyes. As if this was something they still did regularly. 

And it was startling, how badly Hannibal wanted it. To melt into the armchair opposite Will’s as Will mixed him a drink. Let the warmth of the whiskey soften the edges between them. He’d missed talking to Will. Missed hearing the peculiar way his mind worked, that singular lens through which he experienced the world. And he was almost irresistible like this; with his shoes off, his top few buttons open in deference to the warmth of the room, his penetrating gaze locked on Hannibal’s with some intense emotion. It was very like the yearning Hannibal had seen in Will’s eyes in that moment at the opera. But Hannibal had to assume his expression that night was at least partially born of deception. He wondered what that meant for the expression Will wore now. The thought soured the prospect of a quiet evening spent in Will’s company. Made it hard to even look at him.

“I’ll leave you to it. Goodnight, Will,” Hannibal said as he started crossing to the door, not meeting Will’s eyes. And Will didn’t respond at all. Just turned back to the sidebar, eyes shut for a moment, before he tipped more liquor into his own glass. 

******************

There wasn’t anything special about the day Will finally fell apart. He was following his usual solitary routine. After a morning spent making some headway clearing the thicket that ran the border between their yard and the forest, he came back inside for lunch, sweaty and starving. On work days, Hannibal was typically out until dinner, sometimes longer, which meant Will had to rely on his own culinary acumen, and that usually amounted to a thrown together sandwich. The kitchen was filled with natural light, and Will stared out the window as he started smearing mustard on the fresh baked bread Hannibal always kept in the house. It really was a stunning property, with lush fields as far as the eye could see. And it occurred to him that it was the perfect place for a dog, maybe a few. For all that the past weeks had been spent fixating on the people they left behind, he hadn’t given any thought to his pack, perhaps out of some latent sense of self-preservation. But he was thinking of them now. He tried to imagine where they might be, if they’d been separated, knew they almost certainly would have been. And surprisingly that thought was what brought the emotional wall he’d been shoring up for weeks tumbling down. 

He went from glancing idly out the window to gasping through tears so quickly he was practically dizzy from it and he was shaking enough that he had to steady himself, resting his elbows on the oak countertop as he held his face in his hands. He missed the uncomplicated affection and loyalty that dogs provided, sure; missed coming home to some breathing thing that loved him. But they weren’t what he was grieving. Or not just them. It was the knowledge that his dogs, his little house, the career he’d spent his whole life building, his social ties, such as they were, everything that made him recognizable as Will Graham had been leveled. Every person he’d ever known or cared about thought he was a monster, and he’d done all of that, scorched the earth of his sense of self, for the promise of a future that, he had to acknowledge at this point, was likely never going to arrive. And all Will could think was how he wished he’d gone through with the plan, let Hannibal exact his bloody vengeance, whatever the outcome. Anything would be better than this silence. 

“Will?”

And of course Hannibal chose today to make a midday appearance. Will’s eyes shot up to find Hannibal, car keys still in hand, coat still on, having obviously rushed there as soon as he stepped into the house. Will didn’t want to imagine what humiliating sounds he’d been making to prompt that kind of urgency. Hannibal looked increasingly concerned as he took in the scene. And that had Will picturing this through Hannibal’s eyes: a sweaty, disheveled Will leaning on the counter, the makings of a lackluster ham sandwich spread out before him, the butter knife he’d been using carelessly knocked to the ground, the sleeves of his shirt wet and tacky with tears and snot from wiping his face. It was a pathetic image. Will scrubbed his hand down his face roughly once more as if he could erase the evidence of his moment of weakness. 

“Wasn’t expecting to see you. There’s still some of that ham you cured in the fridge,” Will gestured vaguely, as he pulled another knife out of the drawer and started sloppily lathering mustard onto the bread. Hannibal still hadn’t moved or spoken, and Will took advantage of his stillness to get out of there before he found his voice. 

Will retreated to the patio, throwing the sandwich on the table and collapsing into the nearest chair with a sigh. The tears, thankfully, didn’t return. Displaced by humiliation as what just happened ran on repeat through Will’s mind. Will was still wallowing in it, groaning into his hands, when his head jerked up at the sound of the chair across from his scraping out. Hannibal took the seat, placing his own far more appetizing sandwich on the table before him. He said nothing as he dug in, and Will felt compelled to join him, lest the situation grow even more awkward than it already was. 

“I was thinking perhaps something a little different for dinner tonight, Will. Do you have any interest in trying a traditional asado? I’ve been eager to make use of the outdoor grill. And I believe you’re overdue for some kind of introduction to Argentine cuisine.”  

Will had gleaned enough about Argentinian culture to know asados were often larger social gatherings and he was surprised Hannibal wasn’t taking advantage of the opportunity to make an event out of it. Whatever Hannibal did would likely be elevated, something closer to a multi-course high-end dinner than a casual barbecue, but either way, the meal typically lasted hours. It was quite a departure from the barebones — by Hannibal’s standards — dinners they’d been sharing sporadically since their arrival in Argentina. And it would be impossible to maintain the chilly silence that so often fell between them when they spent time together these days. The proposal was an olive branch. Will was so surprised that he didn’t answer immediately, eyes boring into the top of Hannibal’s head as he continued eating his sandwich. But when Hannibal glanced up at him expectantly, Will hurriedly found his voice. 

“Yeah, yes. That sounds amazing.”

And Will could see that Hannibal’s answering smile was genuine. It made tentative hope flicker to life in Will’s chest. 

*****************

Stumbling upon Will sobbing openly in the kitchen in the middle of the day was not an experience Hannibal ever wanted to repeat. And something in the manner of Will’s reaction to being discovered made Hannibal think it might have been the first time he’d done this, but would not be the last unless something between them changed. A conciliatory gesture was long overdue. 

Will dressed for the occasion, arriving in the kitchen freshly shaven, hair carefully styled, and dressed in his finest dark blue button down and black slacks. He looked stunningly handsome, of course, but would have looked truly devastating in a well cut suit. And Hannibal wondered absently if he could persuade Will to attend a fitting with his tailor in the city. While Will would have balked at the concept if Hannibal had raised something like it in Baltimore, he was certain that now Will would agree to it with little fuss. It was an odd reminder that this new life presented an opportunity to redraw the borders of their relationship in ways that he might never have considered before. 

Hannibal opted for a take on the more traditional asado that was simultaneously pared down and more elaborate. There were eight courses of various cuts of beef, pork, chicken, and freshly made chorizo, accompanied by a selection of salads and ending with a traditional Argentinian dessert. As he served the first course, an admittedly non-traditional grilled octopus as a prelude to the hardier fare, Hannibal felt a twinge of concern that the persistent silence between them would have grown impenetrable, their rapport reduced to stilted exchanges. Or worse, that Will would act as though nothing had changed, delving right into deeper conversational waters than they could safely traverse. Hannibal was thankful to find neither was the case. 

Will was polite, the conversation decidedly lighter than normal, steering clear of anything that could trigger a spiral, but it was by no means trite. Will began with a question about the history of Buenos Aires, and looked at Hannibal with such frank curiosity, Hannibal believed he was genuinely interested in the answer. And paradoxically, by not forcing the issue, they organically made their way back to something more substantive. The history of Buenos Aires, pivoted into a discussion of street art, a topic about which Will was both surprisingly knowledgeable and delightfully opinionated. Hannibal felt the thrill of having to work to keep up, something he rarely felt with anyone other than Will, and the exhilaration of recapturing that feeling again had Hannibal smiling softly almost the entire evening. 

And although he hadn’t been aware that he was doing it, Hannibal had a trove of anecdotes and interesting observations about life in Argentina stored up to share with Will, all of which were now tumbling out in a rush. And Will was weathering the onslaught with aplomb, meeting each new topic with obvious interest and the kind of insightful commentary Hannibal had come to expect from him. Hannibal felt lighter than he had in weeks, perhaps years, as he went to collect the final course. 

He placed the plate of soft, crumbly confections between them with a flourish, as Will looked up at him with a quirked brow.

“Alfajores. A traditional Argentinian dessert consisting of dulce du leche, shortbread, and powdered sugar.”

”You baked cookies?” Will said with a teasing smile that Hannibal had desperately missed. 

“I baked cookies,” he confirmed, meeting Will’s eyes with a small smile of his own.

Will looked down at the plate, his fingers waggling in the air, as though giving great consideration to his selection of cookie. Hannibal couldn’t help but find it endearing. When he finally settled on one, based on some criteria Hannibal couldn’t discern, Will popped the entire thing in his mouth in one go. And something about it, the crunching sound of Will’s careful chewing, his eyes closed in pleasure, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, and the subtle smile he wore when he met Hannibal’s eyes after, had a memory flooding Hannibal’s mind like an oil spill.

A rite of passage, if you will. Bones and all? I was euphoric when I killed Freddie Lounds. Hannibal had thus far carefully avoided remembering that night. At the time, that meal had felt sacred to Hannibal, like a shared communion. Now his jaw clenched as he recalled how he prattled on in inane ignorance, as Will plied him with lies about how his body reacted to killing, how his mind was changing. Anticipating, and offering up, every response Hannibal would want to hear. Blood and breath are only elements undergoing change to fuel your radiance. Will looked him in the eye then, the same eyes he had now, and unflinchingly lied to Hannibal’s face. About a part of himself that Hannibal had never dared share with another soul before. Will had sat there, completely unmoved, as he played Hannibal for a fool. 

Humiliation burned through Hannibal and he saw a look of alarm flash across Will’s face, before Hannibal shut his eyes. He could feel that his control was in tatters and he realized that at some point, he’d taken his steak knife in hand. And that had Hannibal pushing his chair back, throwing his napkin on the table. When he glanced up and caught Will’s look of confusion and hurt, it just fanned the flames. Hannibal briefly pictured leaning over the table and sliding the knife across Will’s throat, wondered if in Will’s eagerness to please he might sit back and allow it, and found, disturbingly, that the thought filled him with a vindictive kind of pleasure. But intertwined with that pleasure was nausea so intense Hannibal thought he might be sick. He jumped to his feet, needing distance from Will. Didn’t trust what he might do otherwise. 

“Excuse me.”

Will looked on helplessly as Hannibal beat a hasty escape to the kitchen. 

***********

Will sat back in his chair in stunned silence. He already knew how the evening would proceed from here if he did nothing: Hannibal retreating to his room to stew and tomorrow, a return to form. Hannibal ignoring Will and Will trying to pretend that this new life with Hannibal wasn’t some failed experiment. 

Will knew if he let that happen, they might never find their way back to this point. And when this fever dream ended, as it inevitably would, Will would truly have nothing. So he followed Hannibal and found him leaning back against the kitchen counter with his eyes shut, arms folded across his chest. He seemed much more composed now, but when his eyes locked on Will, there was something like disdain swimming in them and the sight stopped Will in his tracks. Will was certain he’d never looked at him like that before. It made something in his chest crack open. 

“We can’t keep doing this,” Will said, stubbornly meeting Hannibal’s eyes. 

“Now is not the time to discuss this, Will,” and Will could hear the quiet threat in those words. He ignored it.

”It is,” Will pressed, and Hannibal’s face contorted in irritation briefly, his lip curling. 

“Will—”

”This silence between us is…corrosive, Hannibal.”

“You won’t like what I have to say.” 

And Will knew that wasn’t an idle warning. This conversation might break them, but if they didn’t have it, Will was certain that they’d break anyway. 

“Whether I’ll like it or not, I have to hear it. And you have to say it.”

Hannibal looked Will over, his expression giving nothing away, and when he eventually spoke, his words were as breathtakingly painful as Will feared, “I don’t believe I’ll ever trust that I’m seeing the truth of you, Will. Our connection was the byproduct of a plot to destroy me.”

Will forced himself to speak through the pounding in his chest “it wasn’t,” and for all the effort it took, his voice was still barely audible. It didn’t matter anyway, as Hannibal plowed on as if Will hadn’t spoken at all. 

“Shifting sands can’t be a foundation for anything.”

”I’m not shifting,” at Hannibal’s raised eyebrow, Will amended with chagrin, “not anymore. I chose this life. With you.”

“And a few weeks before that you chose to entrap me. What should I expect from you next month? Or whenever your dubious sense of morality decides to reassert itself? Or your guilt overwhelms you?”

Will shook his head roughly not wanting to acknowledge the fact that he’d been asking himself similar questions since Paris, “I was confused about who I was for much of the time I’ve known you, though I had some help maintaining that confusion,” Will shot Hannibal an accusatory glare, but Hannibal gave no reaction, face staunchly unapologetic. Sobered, Will met Hannibal’s eyes more softly, “those last weeks in Baltimore gave me clarity. This is what I want,” he said, letting the feeling behind that declaration bleed into his voice.

Hannibal didn’t immediately react. But eventually he cocked his head, neutral expression not giving an inch as he asked, “how long have you had this clarity, Will?”

“What?” Will muttered, the question setting off alarm bells.

”How long would you say passed between when you ‘chose this’ and when you arrived at my home with plane tickets? A week? A day?” He held Will’s eyes with a knowing look, “an hour?” And Will couldn’t block the memory of idling in his car near Hannibal’s house that morning, his hands periodically making aborted moves to both the door handle and the ignition as his indecision played out in real time. His face must have shown that the question hit its mark, because Hannibal’s lips lifted in a mean smile, eyes hard, “or should I ask how many minutes?”

Will swallowed once, then again. He felt skewered and helpless to stem the bleed. He made himself meet Hannibal’s scornful stare head on, ”I’m not confused anymore, Hannibal.” But his voice was faint and even he could hear that it lacked the ring of conviction. 

Hannibal approached Will then and placed his hand gently on Will’s shoulder, as he had dozens of times. It had always been a grounding gesture, an act of comfort, but Will recognized that this was a mockery of that former tenderness. Still he couldn’t help leaning into the touch greedily, and as Will pressed closer Hannibal brought his other hand to Will’s face, steadying him, running his hand up through Will’s hair almost soothingly. They stayed like that for a few moments, Will keeping his eyes carefully averted from Hannibal’s face, not wanting to see his expression. But then Hannibal bent down and caught Will’s eyes, and the cold indifference in his face, as if he were comforting some overwrought patient out of obligation, was agonizing. “My only consolation in this, Will, is realizing that, for all my efforts, you will likely spend your days in an unending cycle of confusion about your true nature. Damned to eternal indecision,” his tone was pitying, almost sympathetic, but the words slid under Will’s skin with the cool bite of a blade. Then Hannibal disentangled himself, squeezing his shoulder as he turned with a sigh, “a cold comfort.”  

The pain of that unsparing assessment bubbled up into rage, “and what about you, Hannibal? I should trust you?”

Hannibal looked back at Will then, expression placid, “you’ll do as you see fit. As will I.”

Will let his tone grow scathing, “you’ve mutilated people close to me. You spent most of the time I’ve known you manipulating me.”

Hannibal had turned fully to Will now, but his expression was unmoved, “I don’t regret doing what was necessary.”

Will let indignation flow through him, and when he spoke, his tone was seething, “it was necessary to let encephalitis almost destroy my mind?” 

Hannibal didn’t so much as flinch, “look at how you’ve grown in the wake of it.”

And Will couldn’t deny the truth of that, ugly as it was. He felt himself scrambling for purchase, “you killed Beverly, let me believe I’d caused Abigail’s death,”

And Hannibal didn’t even bother responding, his expression almost disappointed. Those were the most painful of Hannibal’s offenses, but even Will could recognize that they were more or less acts of survival. 

Will could feel the moral high ground crumbling beneath his feet. And there was a plaintive edge to his voice as he came to the crux of it, “I’ve let go of everything you put me through. Why can’t you do the same?”

Hannibal looked Will over with an air of detachment that made Will want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Made him want to scream in his face until Hannibal’s calm shattered. “Such simplicity would certainly be reassuring, but I’m afraid the world doesn’t break down neatly into quid pro quos, Will. You can forgive what you perceive to be my sins against you. It does not mean that I’ll forgive yours.” 

“Can you forgive me, Hannibal? Do you even want to? If not, what is the point of any of this?” Will had been doggedly avoiding asking that question, but it felt as though they’d finally reached the end of the line.

To his credit, Hannibal didn’t respond immediately, as though he appreciated the gravity of the moment. And when he met Will’s eyes, they weren’t clouded by anger. They were clear, and Will knew there would be deliberation and forethought behind whatever followed, “I’m not certain that there is a point, Will.”

And those words filled Will’s stomach like cement. Will felt the strangest sensation of cold spreading through him, felt as though he were watching this play out from some distance away. He looked down at his hands and they didn’t seem like they belonged to him. It was some kind of panic attack, Will knew, but not like anything he’d experienced before. Almost as if he were dissociating, and while he had the presence of mind to know he should feel concerned by it, he couldn’t muster the energy to care. Eventually, he glanced back up at Hannibal to find that his unshakable calm had finally fractured. His brow was drawn in worry. But Will realized with a sick twist, that it didn’t even matter anymore. 

Hannibal was watching Will carefully now, and his voice when he spoke again was the gently coaxing tone one might use to calm a scared and unpredictable animal, “I—“ and he fell silent, seemingly unsure of his words, “this wasn’t the moment for this conversation, as I said. Tomorrow we can —”

But Will couldn’t stand to hear the rest when they both knew exactly what tomorrow would bring. And every day thereafter. Will turned, heading for the doorway, “Will.” Hannibal called to Will’s retreating back, voice slightly raised. Will huffed a pained laugh and slowed as he leaned against the side of the doorway, “what would be the point of continuing this tomorrow, Dr. Lecter? We’ve said it all.”  And when Will glanced back, there was finally something like regret in Hannibal’s face. He searched himself for an emotional reaction to the sight and found only numbness. 

Will continued down the hall to his room and shut the door softly behind him. 

**************

Will was gone when Hannibal rose to make breakfast. Hannibal passed his room and found the door open, Will’s bed neatly made, but the man himself was absent. It was likely the only time Will had risen before Hannibal. Hannibal wondered if Will had even slept. Hannibal certainly hadn’t. 

Hannibal had regretted last night’s conversation even as it was happening. For all the command he had of himself, he never had a talent for managing his wounded pride. Anger made Hannibal reckless and vicious and he had been both of those things with Will. The truth was, Hannibal had practically forgiven Will already, despite his words. Forgetting was the trick. To not let Will’s actions color every moment of their future required a measure of willful blindness that wasn’t in Hannibal’s nature. But he hadn’t wanted to hurt Will as he so obviously had. Nor did he mean to suggest that they were beyond repair, even if he didn’t have any inkling how to fix this. It was unfortunate that Hannibal had to work that day, leaving the house when Will was missing left him feeling unsettled. 

When Hannibal pushed open the front door that evening, the house was eerily still. He’d seen Will’s car in the driveway, knew he had to be home, but for one heart stopping moment, Hannibal actually thought Will had left. Then he noticed a light on at the end of the hall, in his own room oddly enough, and the door slightly ajar. He made his way there with an unfamiliar sense of foreboding. And Hannibal froze at the sight that greeted him when he nudged the door open. 

Lined up on a silver tray along his side table were several glistening, freshly sharpened knives. One or two he recognized from the kitchen, others appeared to be newly acquired. And there were two scalpels Hannibal could only assume came from his medical kit. But that wasn’t the most shocking sight. His bed had been covered in what looked to be some kind of plastic sheet. On top of the sheet were white bath towels running from the foot to the headboard. And lying on top of those towels was Will Graham. 

It was an odd experience, to be rendered speechless. And when he found his voice again, he’d been robbed of any eloquence. “Will — what?” It was enough to draw Will’s eyes to him and those eyes were alight with some fierceness that made Hannibal straighten automatically, his fists tightening slightly in readiness.  

Will gestured to the knives, “‘I would have hurt you rather exquisitely,‘ you said?”

And it took a moment for Hannibal to place that quote. Eventually he recalled, through the whiskey dulled haze, those words leaving his lips that first night in Paris. He would never have said them sober. 

“Will, I didn’t —“

”Think of this as lancing an abscess, doctor. Bleeding the infection so the host can survive.” Hannibal’s brow furrowed at that. Will continued, “you can’t, or won’t, forgive me without retribution. So that’s what I’m offering you.”

Hannibal paled, “what exactly did you imagine I would do, Will.” 

He watched Will take a deep breath, but his eyes didn’t waver, “whatever you want.”

And Hannibal was suddenly furious at Will’s recklessness, at the absurdity of this solution. He crossed to the knives on the table, selecting an especially wicked looking chef’s knife, gripping the handle with familiarity that he hoped Will would find unsettling.  

He met Will’s eyes to deliver his next words, ensuring no emotion played on his face, “and if I wanted to slit your throat? Cut your fascinating head open so I could finally see the inner workings of your mind for myself,” he carefully brought the knife to Will’s head, close enough for the threat to feel real, for the knife edge to almost prickle Will’s skin. Will swallowed audibly and Hannibal felt a glimmer of triumph as he pulled the knife back, let his mouth form a cruel smile, “would you forfeit your life to my whim, Will?”

But when Will’s eyes met his again, they weren’t anxious or scared, only filled with steely determination that put Hannibal on the back foot, “I’m offering whatever you need to move beyond this.” 

And Hannibal wilted at that, his hand dropping to his side as he searched Will’s face and, alarmingly, found only honesty there. “Will…”

“What would you have done if I’d gone through with it?” Will interrupted with impatience, “you must have had something in mind.” 

Hannibal felt utterly out of his depth, “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“Come on, doctor,” Will said with a sharp smile, “you love a good thought experiment. Imagine the moment of my betrayal. What would you have done to me?”

Hannibal had to swallow through sudden dryness in his throat before he responded, “I would have cut you,” and he sounded choked to his own ears. 

“Where?” Will’s eyes were fixed on Hannibal’s with a challenge.

Hannibal knew exactly where, though he was reluctant to engage with this madness. But Will’s eyes were unrelenting and Hannibal started to fear there might be no escaping this. “Here,” Hannibal gestured just above Will’s hip bones, and he continued in as clinical a voice as he could manage, “the lower abdomen is the most painful place to be cut open, bleeds alarmingly, but done correctly, is unlikely to cause death.” There was more to it of course. This cut was always delivered while facing the victim, clutching them in something akin to an embrace. And it would be poetic to hurt Will in that way, masking the sting of the blade with false intimacy, a mirror of Will’s own treachery.

Will held Hannibal’s eyes for a moment as if he’d understood that deeper significance, then nodded and scooted back on the bed, “let’s start with that then.” 

Hannibal’s eyes widened, even though he’d been expecting it, “we can’t do this, Will.”

But Will was already unbuttoning his shirt. He removed that and his jeans, with quick efficiency as Hannibal looked on, stunned. Will hesitated slightly at his briefs before he pulled those down as well, and Hannibal couldn’t help staring. He’d never seen Will fully bare before and he was exactly as glorious as Hannibal had so often pictured in his mind. 

“Hannibal.” Will said softly and Hannibal’s eyes, which had been taking in every inch of Will’s naked form, jumped up to meet Will’s. Will’s breathing had picked up, Hannibal noticed, but otherwise he seemed the picture of grim determination. And Hannibal understood that Will was committed to this course. The thought was terrifying and exciting in equal measure. 

Eventually Hannibal found his voice again, “have you ever been cut like this before, Will?”

Will huffed a nervous laugh, the first sign of anxiety Hannibal had seen so far, “well I got stabbed in the shoulder.” 

“Not like that. Slowly and with intent?”

Will swallowed, “you mean like during sex?” He practically whispered. 

And Hannibal felt a pulse of arousal, “if you like,” he responded, voice rougher than he would have preferred.  

A lovely blush was stealing over Will’s face and with his shirt off, Hannibal could see that it stretched down his neck and chest as well, “no, you’d probably find my sexual history depressingly vanilla,” a pause, “have you done that before?” 

Hannibal nodded faintly before answering, “I have on occasion indulged a partner using knives in a sexual context.” And Hannibal could see Will struggle to keep some strong emotion from his face. 

Will took a few moments to respond, and when he did his voice was excessively modulated, “well then I’m in good hands.” And the implications of that response had Hannibal turning towards the table of knives to stall while he regained his composure. He placed the chef’s knife back and selected a smaller knife that would be easier to control. He bounced it, testing the weight and grip and then turned back to Will, whose eyes were locked on Hannibal’s hand on the knife. 

As Will stared back up at the ceiling with a shuddering breath, Hannibal felt a touch of unease. He tried to see past his arousal and fascination at the idea of touching Will in this way and consider why Will felt the need to offer this at all. With a sinking feeling he recognized that Will must have been truly at the end of his rope. And desperation was a dangerous starting point for anything like this. Hannibal glanced back towards the bedroom door in indecision. 

“Hannibal,” and he turned back at the sound of Will’s voice to see his eyes running over Hannibal’s face as if reading every thought that had just crossed his mind. “We’ll only take this as far as you want. You’re the one with the knife,” he said with soft sincerity, but there was intensity in his eyes that certainly spoke of desperation. It strengthened Hannibal’s reservations and he moved to replace the knife on the table, “Perhaps we should—”

“Hannibal, enough. We both need this,” and there was such strength in Will’s voice that Hannibal found himself turning back to him. Will held Hannibal’s eyes without a shred of fear or uncertainty, “I need you to do this. Please.” 

And with that soft “please,” Hannibal let his concerns fall away, decision made for better or worse. He placed the knife back on the table for a moment as he stripped his suit jacket and shirt, a process Will observed with rapt attention. Then Hannibal toed off his shoes and crawled onto the bed, straddling Will’s upper thighs. Will’s cock had been lying soft along his thigh, but at the shift in position, it thickened slightly. Hannibal pointedly looked away, conscious of the fact that Will hadn’t explicitly requested sexual gratification. But he couldn’t stop his eyes from running over the rest of Will hungrily. Will’s breath was quickening as he waited patiently for whatever Hannibal chose to do to him. And with simmering arousal, Hannibal recalled how he’d wielded his knife in the past to satisfy his partners. The image of Will lost in pleasure held much more appeal for Hannibal than the violent reckoning Will had requested. 

“I need to get you used to the feel of the knife, and to being cut. It will make it less likely your body will go into shock,” Hannibal said, radiating calm in the face of Will’s now obvious nerves. 

Will nodded his head jerkily a few times, “yeah, ok.”

Will inhaled sharply at the first touch of cold metal. Hannibal was just holding the flat of the knife to his skin, letting Will get used to the size and shape of it. But Will was practically panting as Hannibal dragged the dull side of the knife over Will’s arms and shoulders. When Hannibal pulled the knife across one of Will’s nipples experimentally, Will couldn’t suppress a small moan. Hannibal had to stifle a smile. He was so beautifully responsive already. Hannibal continued this way for some minutes until all the tension seemed drained from Will’s body, then he pulled the knife away. 

“I’m going to cut you now, Will.”

Will’s head lolled in response, and it was a moment before he could verbalize a reply, “ok,” he said, sounding almost drugged already. 

And then Hannibal brought the sharp edge of the knife to Will’s skin, and with only the faintest pressure, he slowly drew a thin line down Will’s arm from his shoulder to the bend of his elbow. Will let out a whimper at the new sensation, and Hannibal watched his expression closely. As expected, it didn’t seem to be causing him any real pain. Hannibal could see the skin knitting back together in the itchy beginnings of a scab, almost as soon as he started a fresh cut. And after some minutes of Hannibal’s careful work, Will started squirming. Hannibal looked down to find that Will’s cock was fully interested in the proceedings now, and leaking freely. Will had his eyes shut tight and with each new cut, he was letting out little keening moans that he seemed entirely unaware of. 

Will was intoxicating like this, lost in the throes of sensation. Hannibal was enraptured by the sight. He was just dragging the knife down Will’s side, when the sensitivity made Will buck, and before Hannibal could adjust his grip, the knife slid a little deeper. It was an accident, but Hannibal stared, transfixed, as the blood bubbled up in earnest, immediately tracking red down Will’s torso. Hannibal shook his head slightly and was about to turn away to find a clean cloth to slow the flow, when his eyes caught Will’s, which were staring at him with more coherence than Hannibal thought him capable of. “Go deep like that again.” Will whispered and his eyes were black with desire. 

Hannibal swallowed subtly, “it may scar,” he said as calmly as he could manage. And to his surprised delight, Will’s hands clenched in the sheets and his cock, which Hannibal had been ignoring to the extent possible, gave an obvious jerk. “Do it,” Will said, his voice like gravel. 

And Hannibal had to press his own cock with the heel of his palm to ease some of his thrumming arousal. Once fully in control of himself again, Hannibal brought the knife to Will’s torso and pressed a short line in the center of his chest, shaking the knife slightly to make the edges more jagged. It wasn’t deep enough to cause harm, but it was certainly deep enough for Will to feel the pain of it. Red pooled immediately and Will’s blood dripped down his chest in a steady stream. If left untreated and allowed to scar, it would scar beautifully. Hannibal’s mark cutting across Will’s heart. 

And despite the pain, Will was writhing now, and he was leaking steadily from his reddened cock. Hannibal wondered if Will had any inkling before now that pain could draw such responses from him. It would take nothing for him to come, Hannibal realized, and he couldn't resist bringing his hand to Will’s cock and stroking him. Will jerked wildly at the contact, eyes flying open as he sucked in air through his teeth, making guttural noises that were so wanton, Hannibal knew Will wasn’t in control of them. Another time Hannibal would have drawn it out, but Will was on the edge already and after only a handful of strokes, he was thrusting helplessly into Hannibal’s fist as his come streaked his chest.  

The picture he made then, a patchwork of fine cuts up and down his arms, that would itch and sting for days. And the deeper cuts, still bleeding sluggishly. Rivulets of blood and sweat intercepting the mess Will made on his stomach. It was a feast for the senses. And Hannibal realized he was aching now. He subtly adjusted himself, but when he looked up, Will was eying the bulge in Hannibal’s pants with obvious need. Hannibal knew from experience that with his arousal spent, the pain of the deeper cuts would grow more urgent, move from a dull ache to throbbing. And Will would need medical care, the sooner the better. But Will seemed disinterested in anything else as he licked his dry lips and glanced up to meet Hannibal’s eyes, his hand already reaching for Hannibal’s waistband. “Can I?”

And only in his most indulgent fantasies had Hannibal imagined sharing that kind of intimacy with Will. But even with Will still heaving and covered in his own spend, Hannibal felt a prickle of unease imagining himself so exposed while Will looked on with clear eyes. Without another word, he rose and went to the bathroom to get the first aid kit. He used butterfly stitches on the deepest of Will’s cuts after cleaning them. They wouldn’t scar, but that was likely for the best. The others he cleaned, but they were by and large already well on their way to healing, and would disappear soon enough, Hannibal recognized with regret. 

Will’s eyes were closed as Hannibal worked and neither spoke. Hannibal finished up as quickly as possible and went to put the first aid kit away. When he returned, Will was sitting up, staring down at the plastic wrapped comforter. 

“I should go,” it had the cadence of a question and Hannibal felt a jolt at the suggestion. He was still half hard, but ignoring it with as much dignity as the circumstances would allow. Hannibal wanted Will to stay in his bed, wearing his marks, more than he could remember wanting anything in recent memory. But even with this new dynamic between them, Hannibal couldn’t stand the thought of gifting Will any more of his vulnerability. 

Hannibal bent to pick up his discarded dress shirt from the floor, walking it over to his closet door. “Yes you should,” he said as he tossed his wrinkled shirt into the hamper, before his eyes were drawn inexorably back to Will’s nude form, trembling slightly now in the aftermath of the exertion, “and I’d suggest keeping warm and hydrated to help stave off the worst of the possible side effects,” he said as cooly as possible. 

Will didn’t look back up. He just inhaled sharply, still blinking into the middle distance of the room. Then scooted off the bed, walked through the door and closed it behind him without looking at Hannibal once. He left behind the knives, including the one stained red with his blood. Hannibal took it up, spinning it in his hand, staring down at it. He pressed his fingertip to the edge of the blade until his own blood bubbled up in a thin line, clean, but deep enough to leave its own mark. The crimson drops of his blood rapidly became impossible to distinguish from Will’s. He swiped his finger through the mixture and brought it to his mouth, letting the flavor of the blend coat his tongue as he would a new vintage. His eyes fell shut as he set the knife on the side table and breathed deeply.   

Chapter Text

There was a distinct unreality to the morning after. Hannibal had rarely opened his eyes to find the waking world more surreal than the dreamscape left behind, but that was precisely what he felt now. He’d removed, and disposed of, the plastic sheet and towels. His bed looked just as it always did, but in his mind’s eye it was indelibly marked by the image of Will writhing under his knife. He closed his eyes against the swell of desire the image conjured, and his unspent arousal from last night came surging back. Hannibal permitted the indulgence as he took himself in hand, picturing the little moans steadily streaming from Will’s mouth, the sheen of sweat as he panted and squirmed, his eyes when he asked Hannibal to go deeper, the taste of him. And that thought undid Hannibal as he came over his fist with a grunt. 

But the blissful relief was short-lived. There was a niggling feeling of unease as he showered and dressed, and when he went to cross the threshold of his room he hesitated, unsettled as he considered what awaited him. In the unforgiving light of day he could see that he’d behaved cruelly. He’d tended to Will’s physical recovery, yes, but the emotional toll of such an encounter could be considerable for anyone, particularly someone like Will. Hannibal had been dismissive, cold, in the aftermath, even as Will sought reassurance. He knew enough about the kind of dependency that can form, even temporarily, with these kinds of practices and Hannibal had deprived Will of even the slightest comfort. Will likely had an especially challenging night, Hannibal thought with an internal wince, even with his unmatched resilience.

Remorse settled in his stomach like a stone as he passed by Will’s closed door, seeing no sign of life behind it. Hannibal made his way to the kitchen, resolved to prepare a hearty breakfast in the hopes that feeding Will might help assuage some of his unease. Comfort food in lieu of comfort. He heard Will’s bedroom door open a half an hour into his preparations, just as he was placing the sausages in the cast iron skillet to brown.

And when Hannibal glanced up as the sound of shuffling feet reached the doorway, he found he was not prepared for the intensity of emotion he felt at the sight of Will. Will looked wretched. His eyes were bloodshot from what Hannibal could only assume had been two consecutive sleepless nights. And Hannibal recognized the telltale puffiness of tears as well. Will hadn’t bothered to tend to his facial hair, his stubble growing in somewhat patchily as a result, and his curls were almost laughably unruly. He was also walking carefully, as if every step brought some small sting of discomfort with it, and that thought stirred a dark twist of arousal in Hannibal; even with Will fully clothed, Hannibal knew every line and gash that painted Will’s skin intimately, as an artist remembers every brush stroke. And as Will shifted and swayed on his feet, searching for a position that would ease the ache, he was more beautiful than he had ever been, and it brought the danger of this new dynamic into sharp relief. Hannibal came to the sobering realization that he would always look at Will differently now. The tenderness and desire he‘d worked so hard to shove into the shadows of his mind, forced into the light, and sharpened to a point by a new dizzying need that Hannibal had no confidence whatsoever he would be able to repress. Will had been the one naked, the one at the mercy of the blade, but seeing him standing there rumpled and stern-faced and unspeakably gorgeous, Hannibal felt flayed. 

Will was regarding him too now. He’d frozen when he caught sight of Hannibal in the kitchen cooking up a storm, as it were, but now his face was unreadable as he slowly scanned Hannibal and the room, taking in every half made dish scattered across the stovetop and counters. Hannibal didn’t try to guess at Will’s reaction, prepared for anything from cool silence to a much deserved upbraiding. But unsurprisingly, Will managed to surprise him when he simply rasped out, “can I help?”  

Hannibal blinked to buy himself a moment to regroup then he gestured to the wooden cutting board where a variety of fruits and berries were waiting, “you may cut the fruit.” And when Will nodded faintly and started crossing to the counter, Hannibal pulled a knife from his knife block and set the handle in Will’s hand, meeting his eyes briefly with a small smile. Will’s answering smile was so heavy with relief, Hannibal had to turn away. 

He finished seasoning the eggs, but once they were in the oven and left to set, he found himself drawn helplessly back to Will, taking a small cutting board and the freshly picked mint and coming to stand beside him, some  possessive thing in Hannibal instantly relaxing at the renewed proximity. He took the opportunity to observe Will again out of the corner of his eye. Will was proficient in the kitchen usually, but now his movements were slow, excessively careful. Even though he was wearing his softest sweater, a hunter green cashmere blend that Hannibal had been shocked to find among the sea of flannel in Will’s wardrobe, it still brushed the hairline cuts every time he moved, making Will shiver. And Hannibal found himself suppressing sympathetic shivers of his own. They stood beside each other, the only sounds the rhythmic tapping of knife against wood, and their breathing, which had synchronized as minutes passed. Then Will broke the companionable silence, “what happened there?”

He pointed to the small mark on Hannibal’s finger as he pushed the evenly sliced pieces of peach to the edge of the cutting board, pulling a fresh fruit forward to cut. He wasn’t looking at Hannibal at all, but Hannibal still felt his keen gaze observing him closely. 

“A slip of the knife as I chopped herbs for the quiche. Careless of me.”

After a beat, Will nodded slightly, “uncharacteristically so,” he said, skepticism and a question plain in his voice. The cut was obviously not fresh enough for that and Hannibal recognized that he’d made the lie intentionally flimsy, some part of him wanting Will to know the truth of it. To press the point so Hannibal would have to admit to cutting himself with the knife stained with Will’s blood, perhaps have to admit to more than that. But when Will broke the silence, it was to let the matter go, “did you have a concept in mind for these?” 

With faint disappointment, Hannibal handed Will a glass bowl for the fruit salad, the sweet complement to an otherwise savory breakfast. And while he knew Will would enjoy it, Hannibal realized he had no idea what kind of breakfast Will preferred. It was not the kind of thing it had ever crossed Hannibal’s mind to wonder about. Will’s preferences in such matters inconsequential. But he found, now, it irked him that he didn’t know. The words left his mouth without much forethought, “Do you have a favorite breakfast, Will?”

Will subtly, but noticeably, startled at the question. His eyes sliding to Hannibal with a speculative stare. Hannibal felt a prickle of annoyance and an unfamiliar touch of self-consciousness at Will’s reaction, but after a few moments during which Hannibal could practically see Will’s mind working, he answered, “blueberry pancakes.” 

Sweet then; and Hannibal was irritated to find that it actually bothered him that the comfort meal he’d chosen didn’t match Will’s preferences. 

“And sausage,” Will added with a pointed nod towards the sizzling pan.

Perhaps it was simply placation, but Hannibal felt some tension leave him at the addendum. And it was gratifying to know something like this about Will. Even accepting recent revelations, Hannibal knew Will better than anyone ever could, but he knew complex, shifting things — the ebbs and flows of his faltering becoming; truths Will wanted to hide away from, and lies he’d held in his heart so long, alchemy had given them the sheen of honesty. Knowing something like this felt cleaner, realer for its simplicity. This was the kind of thing a family member would know. Or a lover.

“And you?” Will asked softly, tearing Hannibal from that dangerous line of thought before it could coalesce. Will’s eyes were still on the bowl as he tossed the fruit and added the garnish of mint Hannibal had sliced into ribbons. Staring at Will’s profile, Hannibal could discern no wiles or coaxing. There was no obvious agenda to this question. Will seemed to just genuinely want to know this about Hannibal as Hannibal had wanted to know the same about Will. 

No one had ever asked him this before, but in the spirit of reciprocity, he gave Will as candid an answer as he could. 

“My aunt generally did not cook, but on the anniversary of my sister’s death she would prepare for me a traditional Japanese breakfast, usually grilled mackerel, soup made from mushrooms and other vegetables from her garden, pickled daikon, soy beans, rice, and tamagoyaki — a rolled egg omelet. She never drew attention to the date. I would merely arrive downstairs to find her in the kitchen and we would share the meal in contemplative silence. It was one of the rare occasions in my life that a loved one prepared a meal for me purely as a gesture of comfort. I haven’t had it since she passed.“

Will still wasn’t looking directly at Hannibal, as though afraid eye contact would break the moment. And he might have been right; the thought of meeting Will’s incisive stare as he spoke of Murasaki, of Mischa, made Hannibal’s chest tighten. But Hannibal could see he was listening raptly, no longer mixing or even moving, merely leaning on the counter with his palms, absorbed entirely in Hannibal’s words. 

”Do you know how to make it?” Will asked carefully, and Hannibal had been expecting the question.

“It’s rather simple. The dish’s worth lies more in the quality of the ingredients than the complexity of the preparation.”

Will hesitated, “if it’s simple, I’m sure I could manage.” And that Hannibal had not expected. He was at a loss for what to say, fairly stunned by the implication that Will wanted to resurrect that lost comfort. And though Will said it with a practiced casualness, his shoulders had lifted, unconsciously assuming a defensive posture, as if he expected the gentle offer to be thrown back in his face with force. And Hannibal could understand why. Of all the things they’d been to one another, all the things they still were, they weren’t this. It was almost wholesome, kind in a way they had never been. But at that moment, Hannibal didn’t want this kind of gesture to be beyond them. 

“I’d be happy to teach you,” Hannibal replied, his own voice carefully neutral. And Will’s smile, though small, was incandescent. Hannibal busied himself removing the sausages from the heat.

***********

The room was teeming with sleekly-dressed strangers and his back was getting numb from being pressed against the wall for the past hour. Even though it was haute couture, Will’s tuxedo itched, and he couldn’t stop pulling at the collar of his shirt in a move that broadcasted just how out of place Will was in a setting like this. Will had expected Hannibal to start hosting again at some point and here finally was an opportunity to meet the people that dominated so much of his time in Argentina; but Will was of two very starkly opposed minds about it, which seemed to be a running theme in his life these days.

Things had somehow gotten better since that disastrous night. After Will left Hannibal, dazedly stumbling to his room, he collapsed in a boneless heap on his bed. The room felt bitterly cold, the lamp on his side table garishly bright, but no matter how long he laid there buried under the covers in the darkened room, Will couldn’t bring his trembling or breathing under control. Sometimes Will’s life felt like an endless string of low points, but he still entertained the thought that he’d at last reached a nadir. He had never felt more tired, but he didn’t sleep a wink. Every time exhaustion would settle over his mind, finally quieting his restless thoughts, he’d shift in a way that would brush one of the cuts and the events of that night would come rushing in again with a surge of heart pumping adrenaline. He could not imagine how they could come back from what they’d done — what Will had pushed them to do, and he cursed himself for being so shortsighted. What the night had revealed about Will — what he apparently wanted from Hannibal — and what Hannibal made clear he did not want from him, was too painful to focus on directly. Every time his mind drifted to the moment Hannibal backed away from him, his thoughts lurched to something else before the picture could fully form, like reflexively jerking a hand away from a hot stove before the searing heat even registers. But even without the sharp agony of that particular memory, shame still tightened his chest all night as he stared at the ceiling for hours. 

The last thing he expected to find when he pulled himself out of bed was Hannibal mid-apology. When he reached the threshold of the kitchen that morning and found Hannibal preparing his most elaborate breakfast since they’d arrived, Will felt a flutter of hope. And there was a softness to Hannibal’s gaze when it finally landed on Will that had not been there since Baltimore. Will was so breathtakingly relieved to see it, he felt his throat grow tight.

Hannibal’s behavior slowly changed after that. First he was home more often, and then he was around Will more when he was home, simply sharing the space as he composed or drew. And eventually, he broke their habit of stilted silent meals. “Do you plan to work here in Argentina, Will?” 

Will almost dropped the bite on his fork at the interruption to his internal monologue. Hannibal wasn’t looking up yet, eyes still on his plate cutting a portion of his pork loin, which meant he didn’t catch Will’s momentarily stunned stare. Then his words sank in and Will leaned back slightly in his chair as he considered the question. “I’ve spent most of my life doing something I despise. But I’m not entirely sure I’m built for anything else.”

Hannibal lifted a bite to his lips, carefully chewing and swallowing before responding. “Your understanding of your potential has long been dictated by the narrow perceptions of those around you. A less fortunate side effect of your empathy, I’d imagine. Trust me when I say, Will, you are quite capable of excelling at almost any profession you put your considerable talents towards. It’s simply a question of what you want,” he smiled slightly, “I understand that question may be the more daunting one.”

Will took that in, thrown by the novelty of having someone ask him what he wanted seemingly without already having a plan in mind. “I’ve always liked working with my hands,” he put in, watching Hannibal’s reaction closely, but his expression remained one of bland curiosity. Will haltingly continued, “It felt…selfish before. I was told by more than one law enforcement higher up that I owed the world my brain. That failing to use my unique mind to prevent someone’s death was the moral equivalent of killing them myself,” Will carefully sidestepped mentioning Jack directly. But as he watched Hannibal cut another precise bite, he wondered if Hannibal might be thinking something similar. Not that Will should be working to catch serial killers, obviously, but that if he didn’t apply his imagination to whatever he did, he’d be wasting the most worthwhile part of himself. The thought of disappointing Hannibal was surprisingly unsettling, as was the realization that he cared at all about Hannibal’s opinion of something like this. 

”False choice ethical dilemmas are behind you and of no moment given your current circumstances. Buenos Aires is a coastal city. There are many opportunities to work with your hands on docks or at marinas should you wish to return to your roots. Not to mention, you’re rather well positioned to explore farming.” Again Hannibal was barely looking at Will, speaking almost absently as he smeared sauce on a cut of meat, but embarrassingly, Will’s eyes felt hot. The lack of expectation was entirely unprecedented in Will’s life and to have it coming from Hannibal, who tended to treat all of his social connections as game pieces, was unexpected to say the least. He‘d never considered farming as a possible path; For whatever reason, the bemused expressions Zeller and Price would have worn if he’d ever floated the concept sprung to the front of his mind. But now he felt the freedom to genuinely imagine it and there was something intriguing about the notion of working with soil and dirt, making something grow. 

“I’ll consider it.”

”Good.” Hannibal said with a smile so small it was barely there. The rest of the dinner was silent, but there was an undercurrent of warmth that stayed with Will the rest of the night. 

Neither Will nor Hannibal was the type to linger on polite exchanges for long, so it took one off-color comment on Nietzschean morality from Hannibal for their conversation to fall full tilt into hours-long philosophical debate. And once the dam was broken, the silence simply faded away almost as if it had never existed. Almost. Hannibal was very deliberately holding part of himself back. It took Will a while to realize it. The first time he caught the shape of it was when Hannibal offered to teach Will to make empanadas. If the invitation hadn’t felt like such a leap forward, Will would have spent the entire time pissed off. Hannibal handled the filling while Will was put in charge of the dough and turns out, he isn’t a goddamn pastry chef. The butter was too warm and the flour ended up clumpy, not sandy as it was apparently supposed to be; he had no idea what it meant to “fold in” the egg and oil, and somehow, by the time he was done adding water per Hannnibal’s instructions, the whole thing was a soggy, sticky mess. Hannibal watched this all with a barely there smile that Will met with a scathing scowl.

Eventually Hannibal smoothly took over, rescuing the sopping mess by some baking miracle and leaving Will with three evenly divided, perfectly rounded balls of springy dough for him to knead. And this was when Will hit his stride. After a minute, the rhythm of it felt almost meditative: pressing the heel of his hand into the dough with his full weight, stretching the elasticity of it as far as it would go, then folding it over to start again. Satisfying in its Sysiphian repetition. Will turned his head to Hannibal with a smile, about to joke that he finally seemed to have the hang of it, when he caught the tail end of an expression that had Will straightening, smile dropping away. He almost wasn’t sure that he’d seen it for a second, but Hannibal stalked over to the stovetop as soon as he noticed Will’s scrutiny, suddenly busy adding more seasoning to the browned beef and onion. And that blatant avoidance was all the confirmation Will needed. 

Hannibal’s expression hadn’t been like anything he’d seen before, not even in Baltimore. It was something furtive, possessive, and undeniably hungry. Will stared at Hannibal’s back for what had to have been a full minute as Hannibal conspicuously kept his eyes on the stove, stirring and flipping pans seemingly at random. Eventually, eyes still averted from Will, he crossed to the stone slat where the dough lumps were resting. “Are you finished here, Will? The texture looks correct, well done.” He didn’t so much as glance up as he said it, and while his tone was perfectly calm, there was something anxious in the speed of his speech, as if he couldn’t risk a pause, even for the sake of punctuation. Then there was how he needlessly gave each ball of dough a final squeeze, just to occupy his hands, and most damningly, how he still wouldn’t look Will in the eye. 

Will considered, for a moment, pressing the point. Forcing Hannibal to acknowledge what they both knew he’d seen in Hannibal’s eyes as he watched Will practically bent over the counter, his shirt rising and falling with the motion of the kneading. But Will couldn’t prove it and he knew somehow that Hannibal would gaslight the hell out of him on this. They’d be left with this nebulous accusation lying there between them, and Hannibal would clam up tighter than Fort Knox in the aftermath. He’d pull away again. So reluctantly, Will let it pass, and over the following twenty minutes an almost imperceptible tension left Hannibal’s body as he realized he’d been granted a reprieve. But now, Will knew to look.

And after that Will could feel Hannibal’s caution, his restraint, like a tangible thing whenever their interactions drifted into more dangerous territory. And when that restraint failed him, could make out the edges and astounding breadth of what lay beneath. The next time Hannibal slipped enough for Will to see it directly, it was thanks to alcohol. The bottle of wine that Hannibal opened with dinner had been exceptional and they refilled their glasses liberally until they had to open a second and worked through most of that one as well. And as the conversation flowed, neither wanted to bring the night to a close. They moved to the living room where several glasses of whiskey were consumed and before long, both of their smiles were coming more easily, and their movements were less polished. And Hannibal apparently felt compelled to ask about the piano in Will’s house. “Do you play?”

“Not like you do.” Will said as he swallowed another long sip.

A teasing smile broke across Hannibal’s face then, and Will was utterly disarmed by it. ”Would you like to learn to play the harpsichord, Will?”

Will barked a laugh, “that depends, can you even play Billy Joel on the harpsichord?” Will raised a teasing eyebrow.

Hannibal’s smile broadened at the joke, “we’ll find out together,” he said, rising to his feet, hand outstretched for Will to take. And with another huff of incredulous laughter, Will joined him.

As they took a seat at the bench, Hannibal trilled the keys slightly, “the principle difference between the piano and harpsichord is how the strings produce sound. The harpsichord plucks while the piano strikes.”

”And there are two sets of keyboards. That feels like a pretty big difference.”

Hannibal’s lips lifted slightly, “less so than you might think,” and then without further ado Hannibal launched into the opening phrases of “Piano Man.” It was utterly surreal that Hannibal knew the song at all, let alone how to play it, and to hear it in the tinkling tones of the harpsichord was bizarrely anachronistic.

 When he came to the end of the first chorus, Hannibal stopped and turned to Will, who couldn’t think of anything to say beyond, “how?”

Hannibal gave a grin that could only be described as cheeky. “You would be surprised how often my dinner guests requested this particular song. It’s far from the first time I’ve played it.”

Will laughed fully at that, picturing Hannibal’s diamond strewn guests gathered around the harpsichord, swaying and belting out the lyrics. “Billy Joel, the great equalizer,” he said with a final chuckle.

Hannibal was still wearing a self-satisfied smirk as he said, “alright, I believe the song selection is now yours. And we’ll see if we can adapt it for the minor alterations of the harpsichord.” Hannibal shuffled down the bench to give Will space, and Will placed his fingers on the keys, feeling the lingering warmth of Hannibal’s own. For no particular reason, Will began playing the moonlight sonata. After a few measures, he sped up the tempo to accommodate the clipped chiming sound of the harpsichord, and of course, the absence of pedals meant the notes didn’t linger and flow into each other as they would have on the piano, but he found the emotion of the piece still built as expected. And Will lost himself in it, playing for much longer than he’d initially planned, spurred on by the invigorating experience of rediscovering an old passion in a new light. It was only when he reached the final chord that he realized he’d been playing for almost fifteen minutes, and he turned to meet Hannibal‘s eyes with a sheepish smile. But what he found in Hannibal’s face drained the moment of all levity. 

It was more than tenderness or affection. It wasn’t anything as simple as lust, but there was certainly desire there and something like wonder. Will was terrified to put words to what it was he thought he was seeing. And in his liquor softened state, Hannibal wasn’t hiding it away yet. “Beautiful, Will,” Hannibal said, his voice gravelly and thick, and not referring to the music at all. Will knew without a sliver of doubt that if he leaned over and pressed his lips to Hannibal’s just then, Hannibal would allow it — welcome it, even. And Will was just whiskey-brave enough to try it. But Hannibal must have sensed the anticipation thrumming between them as well, because before Will could even turn fully towards him, Hannibal was shaking himself and pulling away. 

“It seems no lessons are required, Will. You have the harpsichord well in hand,” he rose from the bench, swaying in an overdramatized way, “and we’ve both certainly had enough for one night.” Hannibal’s smile then was bright and warm and entirely fake. Will despised it. Hannibal had never lied to Will quite like this. Will met the false cheer with a hard stare, unwilling to humor him, but Hannibal smoothly ignored it. “I’ll see you in the morning, Will.” He said, already heading for the door.

*********

Those teasing glimpses behind the curtain made Will hungry for the unfiltered truth of it, and hungry for other things as well. As he realized that Hannibal wasn’t entirely indifferent to what they’d done together, Will was able to think about that night without shame. And once he’d started, he could not, hard as he tried, stop thinking about it. He watched Hannibal constantly. Remembering his hands, skillful and unexpectedly gentle, as they slid the blade across his skin. The bulge in Hannibal’s pants afterwards haunted Will in particular, and he couldn’t ever remember being turned on by a hard cock before, not that he’d really had occasion to see many. But now he couldn’t stop using his considerable imagination to picture Hannibal’s body all the way stripped bare, leaning over Will, giving and taking whatever he wanted from Will’s body. And although Will had never experimented with pain in sex before, his fantasies headed unerringly in that direction now. And that was the hardest part. More than anything, Will wanted to do it again. To relive that rush of turning his body over to Hannibal to use as he pleased; to give Will pleasure or pain or the heady mix he’d experienced that night. He ached for it. 

And the fact that Hannibal was essentially always slicing or dicing or carving something didn’t make things easier. Will couldn’t watch Hannibal chop vegetables now without his cock showing interest at the picture of Hannibal, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he expertly applied the knife to the task, just as he’d applied it to Will’s flesh. And Will had enough perspective to see that feeling envious of a carrot was a new low. So Will let it go, to the extent possible, and kept the yearning he’d awoken in himself to himself. 

But at times it was more challenging than others.

*********

The party was some kind of promotional event. Gather the finest chefs, winery owners, and others prone to spending exorbitant amounts on raw ingredients and give them a taste of their farm’s finest product. Given that Will’s cover identity was somehow involved in the business, Hannibal invited him to cohost — a surprising declaration of Will’s permanence and place in Hannibal’s world — and Will felt an irritating need to not screw this up. So he begrudgingly broached the subject of a new suit over dinner, asking after Hannibal’s tailor, and the shark-like smile he got from Hannibal in response was both encouraging and worrying. They made an appointment with Alfonso, whose suits, Will was sure, cost the equivalent of two months of his FBI salary. And much to Will’s dismay, Hannibal took the opportunity to update Will’s wardrobe in its entirety, meaning the fitting dragged on for hours. Being poked and prodded and measured within an inch of his life, while Hannibal sat in a chair in the corner watching, sipping complimentary glasses of expensive champagne was miserable, but also so unexpectedly arousing, Will was biting his cheek viciously the whole time to keep it from affecting the line of his trousers.

Hannibal’s response to the final product was worth it, though. For Will, Hannibal had selected a midnight blue tuxedo with a slight sheen in the lapels, and scanning his reflection, Will had to admit the ensemble brought out the color in his eyes, as hackneyed an observation as that was. When Will finally tamed his hair and made his way into the entryway, he found Hannibal decked out in a classic black tuxedo and tie that could only be described as debonair. When Hannibal turned to Will, he did a gratifyingly candid double take that had Will biting down on a grin. The whole drive to the venue, Hannibal kept finding excuses to glance over in Will’s direction, and Will’s chest was feeling unusually warm as they made their way inside, the already beautiful space transformed under Hannibal’s tasteful direction. But as soon as the guests arrived, Hannibal fell into role, pressing insincere kisses to cheeks, gladhanding, accepting embraces from every wealthy sycophant that walked through the door. 

And that was how Will discovered another delightful side effect of what passed between them: Will couldn’t stand not having Hannibal’s eyes on him now. Will had never particularly enjoyed watching Hannibal in a crowd, always felt faintly irritated by the swarm flitting around him like fireflies — dazzling and insubstantial. But this was something else entirely. With each passing minute that Hannibal ignored him, freely deploying that way he had of making each person feel like the only one in the room who mattered, Will felt a blistering resentment seize his chest. It was a surprisingly corporeal experience. Heat was rising along the back of his neck; His palms were sweating, and his fists clenched tightly enough that crescent indents scattered his palms. Currently, Hannibal was in deep discussion with a young woman who kept grabbing his arm and hand every time he finished speaking, laughing shrilly. And Will knew damn well Hannibal was not that goddamn funny. He hadn’t so much as looked at Will in an hour. Will knew this for a fact, because he’d been standing in the same corner staring at Hannibal as if he could set him on fire with his eyes alone. The woman was wiping a faux tear of mirth from her eye now, and she had so insinuated herself into Hannibal’s space, he actually had to lean slightly back. Will briefly pictured hurling his brimming champagne glass against the wall. The silence that would follow the din of it shattering. How Hannibal would have no choice but to look at Will then. And Will knew he had to get out of there. He slipped the bartender a large note in exchange for a bottle of some kind of brown liquor and he retreated to the garden to wallow in peace. 

As soon as the cool air hit him, Will felt a little more like himself. He tore off his new tuxedo jacket so roughly he was sure Hannibal would’ve winced if he’d seen it, and he made his way to a part of the garden that was semi-obscured from view by hanging wisteria. He took a deep swig from the bottle in his hand as he dropped onto a bench. It burned pleasantly on the way down, every fresh pull searing away unwanted thoughts. And Will only meant to take the edge off, to drink away the image of that woman hanging on Hannibal’s arm, and him allowing it; but as he spiraled, he thought of Hannibal touching Alana’s back, her neck, kissing her, fucking her. All those lovers who helped Hannibal learn to wield knives for pleasure and he shook his head vigorously to push away the thought of them. But it tenaciously clung on, and left Will wondering if Hannibal got hard watching them like he did Will. Whether he let them touch him back. He almost certainly did. There was inherent equality to romantic relationships that didn’t seem to exist in whatever the hell he and Hannibal were. Will wasn’t sure how long he sat there, drinking those reflections into submission, but his mind and the bottle were both significantly lighter when eventually a voice to his right said, “I think you might have the right idea. I hate these things.”

Will barely stifled a groan at the interruption, his self-control significantly compromised by the alcohol in his system, “a little crowded in there,” he muttered without looking up, hoping the man would take the hint and leave.

”Absolutely. Much nicer out here. And better refreshments,” he said, gesturing to the bottle in Will’s hand with a smirk.  

Will stiffened at being called out, “by a given definition of better,” he said, the words jumbling around his mouth like marbles as he struggled to force his tongue to cooperate. He might have overdone it. 

”You’re the host. I say you do as you like.” The man said, taking a seat on the bench beside Will as Will’s stomach sank.

And Will felt a spike of panic as he struggled to recall what his role was in their cover. He’d never had to deal with it before. And for a second of sheer horror, he couldn’t even remember the name of his cover identity, but then a hazy image of his passport picture crawled across his mind, “Patrick Johnson. Erick’s business partner. Nice to meet you,” he held out his hand for the man to shake, as his heart rate slowly returned to normal.

“Pleasure. I’m Ronaldo Garcia,” he said with the kind of smile that made it clear he expected that name to ring a bell to Will, to inspire some awestruck response. Will took the man in. He was probably between Will and Hannibal’s ages, but the cut of his tux leaned younger. His ensemble was overembellished in a way that said he wanted people to understand just how wealthy he was, and his watch was solid gold. He was good looking as well, and the combination of all these qualities meant he was probably insufferably accustomed to getting his way. Now having taken the time to observe him, Will was fairly confident he was going to despise this man. Still, he had no clue how to extract himself without giving Ronaldo a front row seat to Will’s walk — or more realistically stumble — of shame back inside.

At Will’s blank expression, Ronaldo’s grin dimmed a little, “I own a few wineries in Mendoza, and manage their sale here in Buenos Aires,” and Will could tell that he was probably being grossly over modest, hoping that when Will later realized just who he‘d been speaking to, he’d be mortified. Will looked forward to never giving Ronaldo the satisfaction of that moment. At Will’s silence, which had probably carried on longer than appropriate, not that Will was gauging the passage of time very well at the moment, the man continued on, widening his legs on the bench so they were almost touching Will’s, “And that is how I came to know Erick. After all, nothing goes better than a full-bodied red and a fine cut of steak.” He said with a wink that Will couldn’t quite follow. 

To say Will’s conversational muscles were out of practice would have been an understatement. They’d atrophied since they got to Argentina, not that they were strong to begin with. And with the amount he’d had to drink, alcohol was no longer a helpful social lubricant; Will felt like he was thinking through molasses. He grasped for something civil to say, imagining the disappointment and lack of surprise on Hannibal’s face if reports of this interaction reached his ears. How Hannibal would have to massage and excuse Will’s social ineptitude. Confirmation that Will was a liability in more ways than one, Will thought grimly.

“I’ve been hoping to visit the wine region. Looks beautiful.” And Will felt he’d calibrated the triteness of that response well enough, and sounded relatively sober delivering it.

Unfortunately, Ronaldo’s smile brightened in a way that had Will certain he’d missed something. “Oh it is, and you must. Just let me know when you’d like to come and I’m more than happy to host you for a weekend.”

Will’s face fell at that, and he was searching his cotton ball-stuffed mind wildly for a way to smoothly backtrack. He could not imagine anything worse than a weekend in wine country with Hannibal and this guy tagging along being smarmy.

“We couldn’t impose.”

“It would be no imposition. And you need not bother Erick, he’s a very busy man. Whereas you, I’ve never had the chance to see, almost like he prefers to keep you locked away from prying eyes.” And the subtext there was obvious. Will should have expected it. And now he felt the urge to palm his face at the cliche picture he’d unwittingly painted. Hannibal, the illustrious businessman, Will, his younger, kept man, sad drinking in the garden while his rich and beautiful boyfriend charmed his way around the room. And while it was obviously as false a narrative as their cover identities, the bones of it cut a little too close to the truth for comfort.  

“We don’t have that kind of relationship,” Will muttered, his voice unbearably awkward to his own ears. 

”Oh, no need to explain, I’d already assumed as much, given how Erick carries on at events. But does dear Erick let you get away and enjoy your own amusements, as well?” And the man shuffled a fraction closer, his hand now resting on the bench dangerously close to Will’s knee.

There was so much wrong with that, so much that was infuriating, Will honestly didn’t know where to start. But his heart had opted to linger on the gut punch of hearing how Hannibal “carried on” when he spent evenings away. For whatever reason, the possibility that Hannibal was sleeping around had genuinely not occurred to Will, but it would make sense. He was entirely within his rights. He and Will were not lovers, Will repeated to himself for the nth time since that night. But then there was the immediate issue of this man thinking Will had tacitly agreed to some kind of sex weekend and whatever ramifications that would have for their cover down the road.  Will had to actually shove his face in his palms at that, very much too drunk to safely navigate any of this. 

“I think I’ve given you the wrong impression.” He said through the gap in his hands as he rubbed his face roughly.

The man sighed theatrically, “I should apologize. I admit I’m having some trouble with subtlety at the moment,” and Will was certain this man wouldn’t know subtlety if it punched him in the jaw, “you’re a distractingly attractive man, Patrick. I don’t know how Erick gets anything done.”

And horrifyingly, as Will turned back to Ronaldo with a frown, he felt himself redden. Will honestly could not recall a time anyone, man or woman, had spoken to him like this. Like he was an object of desire playing coy. It was so outside Will’s concept of self it was disconcerting. And embarrassing. Unfortunately, Ronaldo took Will’s blush as a positive sign, his smile growing predatory as he slid the final inch closer, bringing their legs together and placing his hand on Will’s knee. Will reared back slightly in affront. He had the strongest urge to either laugh in the man’s face or hit him, fallout be damned, when Hannibal’s inflectionless voice sounded from a few feet away.

“Ronaldo, Patrick. I had wondered where you’d gotten off to.”

Ronaldo was wearing an unbearably smug smile as his head swung towards Hannibal, whose mask of gentility was as close to slipping as Will had ever seen it. His eyes were running over the scene with obvious malice. And that made Will conscious of the picture they presented. Ronaldo, sitting too close, his arm hanging loosely along the back of the bench behind Will almost proprietarily. His other hand on Will’s knee. Will blushing like a goddamn virgin being plied with cheap compliments. It was repulsive, and Will jerked to his feet and away, with less coordination than he might have preferred. It took a half second for him to realize it just made him look guiltier. Ronaldo smirked at him and Hannibal was gripping his rocks glass so tightly Will thought it would shatter in his fist if it weren’t made of crystal. 

“I was just getting some air,” Will offered unprompted, “your… friend found me,” Will tried to convey his displeasure with his eyes, but Hannibal refused to meet them, opting instead to stare daggers at Ronaldo. 

”It certainly seems he found what he was looking for,” and the contempt in Hannibal’s face as he looked Will over had panic clawing at Will’s throat and his heart sinking. He’d hoped Hannibal would never look at him like that again.

Unfortunately before he could speak, Ronaldo’s insufferable voice broke through, “your lovely business partner was looking lonely, Erick. You should take better care of him.” His leg was crossed over his knee, both arms now spread along the bench like he was relaxing on his couch at home. In total command of the situation. The presumption set Will’s teeth on edge. 

But when he glanced at Hannibal, Will honestly thought Hannibal might kill him then. And as little as the thought bothered Will, it was the last thing they needed. So Will reluctantly took up the mantle of peacemaker.

“Erick, I’ve been neglecting our hosting duties long enough. And I’m sure you’re missed.” And though he aimed to placate, he couldn't keep the edge out of his voice, remembering Ronaldo’s words about Hannibal’s supposed promiscuity.

”I don’t imagine you could manage much hosting in your current state.” And that reply didn’t even have the gloss of civility to it. Hannibal tilted his head with disapproval at the bottle abandoned on the bench. Will couldn’t help blushing again in shame.

Ronaldo was glancing back and forth between them, clearly delighted at the taboo of witnessing, and precipitating, a lover’s spat. “I should let you two discuss this more. Do let me know about my offer, Patrick,” he said, shamelessly giving Will a once over that made his skin crawl.

“I’ll walk you back, Ronaldo. Patrick, why don’t you return when you believe you’re ready.” Hannibal didn’t so much as look at Will as he chastised him like a child. Will watched Hannibal’s stiff back as he retreated into the venue with Ronaldo, and he dropped down onto the bench, face in hands.

***********

Hannibal could not recall ever working so hard to maintain his composure. His smile felt plastered on and brittle and he was counting down the minutes until he could reasonably bring the party to a close without inviting gossip and speculation. 

These past weeks since that night had been torturous and euphoric in equal measure: a microcosm of his entire relationship with Will Graham. It hurt less to look at Will, to be close with him, with the memory of how raw and vulnerable Will had been constantly at the front of Hannibal’s mind. But that night, and the intimacy that followed in its wake, had unlocked something in Hannibal. In the safe cocoon of his mind, his thoughts no longer heeded attempts at restraint, and his feelings for Will had become consuming. It was terrifying, how he needed Will. Although yet untested, Hannibal sensed that it might eclipse all other drives, even his own self-preservation. Will held more power now than he ever had, and Hannibal had no faith whatsoever that he could be trusted with it, making the situation singularly dangerous. So Hannibal kept his responses under ironclad control, even when he sometimes caught Will eying him speculatively, even longingly. He took care of his more prurient needs in privacy and silence where Will would never bear witness and aside from a few unfortunate slips that undoubtedly tipped his hand, he maintained an air of intimacy, while keeping Will at a distance and in the dark.

As soon as he saw Will in his tuxedo, he knew the night would test him. The image of tearing it off of Will’s body with his teeth sprang instantly to mind, all due respect to Alfonso’s workmanship. And their guests responded to Will as expected, eying him with obvious interest. One particularly bold woman, whose face Hannibal filed away for a time when hunting would draw less attention, gave Will a flirtatious wink over her champagne flute. Another man lingered as he shook Will’s hand, rubbing Will’s knuckles with his thumb and holding his eyes with intent, though it fortunately seemed to fly over Will’s head. And even aware of the catastrophic consequences, Hannibal's hand twitched towards the knife in his pocket. Distance was the path of least resistance, so he made the rounds slowly, paying gratuitous attention to each guest and suppressing the impulse to look at Will every few minutes. But he did keep Will’s stationary form in his peripheral vision, noting how his expression seemed to darken with each sip from his glass. 

At some point, a moment of inattention allowed Will to slip away unnoticed, and after searching each room for him with all the subtlety he could muster, he finally caught sight of him in the garden, cozied up with Ronaldo Garcia of all people, probably the wealthiest winery owner in attendance, with a notorious weakness for beautiful things. 

Hannibal knew Will wasn’t interested in Ronaldo. If Hannibal had put together a list of people who could actually tempt Will to kill in cold blood, Ronaldo would have neared the top. But the brain was a surprisingly irrational thing, and the picture they painted was the archetypal portrait of infidelity — an assignation in a secluded corner of a soirée. Hannibal’s reaction to it was visceral. Will didn’t want Ronaldo. And Hannibal had no actual claim on Will, but none of that mattered in the slightest. His mind was such a cacophony of betrayal and fury that he couldn’t quiet the voice hissing that he should have expected something like this. That he had expected it, and allowed himself to forget just what Will was capable of. And as the hours wore on, the edges of his mask frayed to the breaking point as he struggled to keep up the facade of good humor.

Will had slunk back in twenty minutes after Hannibal discovered him with Ronaldo. He was holed up in a corner, radiating such misery and hostility, the room seemed to automatically give him a wide berth. Unfortunately, his gloomy demeanor would fuel the gossip mill for the foreseeable future. Hannibal had already fielded a fair few raised eyebrows and pointed stares in Will’s direction. Hannibal couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Eventually, thankfully, the guests started to depart until it was just Will, Hannibal, and the remnants of the catering staff. When Hannibal closed the large double doors behind the final guest, the fete well and truly at an end, he hesitated before turning to Will, taking a steadying breath. When he finally looked back, Will was a watching him with the expression of a man seconds from bursting into a speech. 

“Not here.” Hannibal said and Will visibly swallowed down the words on the tip of his tongue. 

Hannibal drove home. Will looked a great deal more sober than he’d been when he was in Ronaldo’s embrace, but he was still in no condition to operate a car. And Will smartly said nothing the whole drive, eyes trained out the window as they passed fields and distant mountains, knowing better than to raise something this potentially explosive while Hannibal was behind the wheel. 

But as soon as they got home, Will’s reticence vanished. He was barely through the front door before he turned, advancing on Hannibal, “you have to know that wasn’t what it looked like. The man’s a clown.”

Hannibal paused for a moment while removing his coat, ”of course, Will, I wouldn’t insult you by questioning that,” and Will looked relieved, before he took in Hannibal’s unchanged expression.

“Then why do you still look like you want to kill something?” he asked with an uncertain smile. 

And there was the rub. Hannibal had no reason to be this angry. No rational justification for this seething pulsating jealousy that was lying just beneath his skin. He could hardly explain it to himself, and he certainly couldn’t tell Will that just the concept of him with someone else — even accepting just how poorly met Ronaldo’s clumsy advances were — seeing Will sitting on a bench with another man’s arm all but wrapped around his shoulders as he blushed so prettily for him brought Hannibal closer to an impulsive crime of passion than he’d ever been in his life. And the realization that Will could, likely would, find another man or woman in Argentina who suited him, even just for release, burrowed deep into Hannibal’s psyche where it would fester. Hannibal was helpless to prevent that eventuality. Whatever else he owed Hannibal, Will did not owe him that kind of faithfulness —

“Hannibal,” and Will’s expression was grave now, ”please, talk to me.” Will’s brow was furrowed in concern and of course Will had been able to read the emotional contours of that train of thought.

Avoiding Will’s perceptive stare, Hannibal placed his car keys on the table and made his way into the living room, aware of Will following cautiously behind. Hannibal was halfway to the bar, intent on a drink, before it occurred to him that alcohol had caused enough trouble that day and pivoted to one of the armchairs by the fireplace. Will came to stand a few feet away from him, but didn’t sit. Will’s gaze had the heat of a brand, and Hannibal could feel his defenses dissolving under the appraisal. He resorted to deflection, his eyes fixed on the blackened fireplace, “your behavior tonight will create a cloud of intrigue around me and you and our relationship. Something we hardly needed.” He looked up at Will just in time to see him roll back on his heels as if absorbing a blow, his face screwing up in a troubled frown. Hannibal pressed on, “do you have any concept of the effort it takes to strike the perfect balance between affability and anonymity. To remain superficially engaging, but not so much so that an acquaintance might find cause to dig deeper. You’ve invited exactly the kind of tongue wagging and scrutiny that will cause others to ask more questions, about both us and our past.”

Will paled slightly in the face of Hannibal’s castigation. “I’m sorry,” he said faintly, clearly caught off guard, and Hannibal could see the regret and shame creeping into Will’s expression. Hannibal knew he should drop this. The likelihood that Will’s actions would truly endanger them was vanishingly small. If anything, his behavior lent credence to the idea that they were business partners and secret lovers. But Hannibal’s anger was still roiling. 

“What were you thinking drinking half a bottle of whiskey?”

”I wasn’t thinking.” Will said, articulating more pointedly as his irritation grew, but in the next breath he seemed to deflate and Hannibal grit his teeth to keep himself from softening at the sight, “I was feeling off. I didn’t handle it well.” 

“Feeling off,” Hannibal repeated in a withering tone, “well your feelings compromised us today,” and he made sure to make the word sound as derisive as possible. Will’s eyes flashed in response. 

”I know you might not be personally familiar, but most people can’t turn their reactions off like flipping a goddamn light switch.”

”Then I shall just have to avoid inviting you and your volatility to such affairs in future,” Hannibal said, and he felt a startling surge of possessive satisfaction at the thought of tucking Will away from the world. He was reminded of Will’s accusation months earlier: you’re fostering codependency. You don’t want me to have anything in my life that isn’t you. And Ronaldo’s surprisingly insightful query. Does he allow you out to enjoy your own amusements as well? 

Will’s voice was clipped with anger now, and Hannibal couldn’t tell if he was relieved or ashamed to hear it, “Sorry I lack your talent for maintaining a cover identity. I’ve had less practice lying to everyone I’ve ever met.”

”Don’t sell yourself short, Will. I’ve found you to be a first-rate liar,” and the disdain in Hannibal’s voice was unmistakable. 

Silence followed and Hannibal turned back to find Will looking utterly resigned as his eyes ran over Hannibal’s forbidding profile. 

“One step forward, two steps back, is that it, Hannibal? Is this just what we do now? I fall short on whatever metric you’re using, you cut me out?” His voice was strained as he awaited Hannibal’s judgment. 

And the question doused Hannibal’s anger, leaving him feeling as empty as Will looked. The thought of going back to experiencing Will as ships passing in the night was intolerable. But the events of the day had made it abundantly clear that his tentative trust in Will lived on a knife edge, and was ever at risk of wounding them both. It was a depressing thought, and the path forward felt as elusive as it ever had. Then suddenly, recklessly, Hannibal recalled the last time he’d trusted Will without reservation. 

“Not necessarily.” He said, forcing his voice calm. Hoping Will would follow his meaning and at the same time hoping Will would not, that he’d stop that mad thought in its tracks.

Will searched his face for a moment, frowning, then realization dawned, and Will swallowed audibly as he blanked his expression. “Is there something we could do to help you let this go?” Will’s voice was soft, but there was already a huskiness to it that had Hannibal tensing in anticipation. 

“I believe so.” Hannibal said tightly, unable and unwilling to ask for it explicitly, even if that meant letting the opportunity pass. For better or worse, Will seemed to pick up on this. 

“Give me ten minutes,” Will said, holding Hannibal’s eyes for a moment before retreating down the hall.

As soon as Will quit the room, Hannibal crossed to the sideboard for a fortifying drink. It was incalculably unwise to give in to this impulse again, but there was nothing for it. And in the privacy of his own mind he could admit to wanting this rather desperately. He sipped his drink, trying not to think, and after exactly ten minutes made his way down the hall after Will.

************

The sight that greeted him was just as breathtaking as before, even without the element of surprise. Will had chosen Hannibal’s room again, but there were rather telling differences in how he’d laid the scene. The selection of knives was scaled down, geared more towards precision than damaging potential. And Will was already nude, laying in the center of Hannibal’s bed, flat on his back, his cock thickening under Hannibal’s observation. Hannibal’s eyes darted hungrily over Will’s skin, the skin that had been taunting him almost nightly since they did this last. Most of it appeared untouched, pristine, and Hannibal found the sight infuriating, the compulsion to correct it near overwhelming. 

But in the center of Will’s chest, Hannibal noticed a faint white line. It hadn’t healed perfectly, and Hannibal couldn’t tell if that was some fault of his own or if Will had done something in the days that followed to ensure some scar would remain. Either way, the sight of the thin, slightly raised mark cutting across Will’s heart ignited an urgency in Hannibal. He stripped his suit jacket, vest and shirt with quick efficiency and didn’t stop there as he had last time. He removed his suit pants as well before climbing onto the bed and straddling Will, wearing just his dark silk briefs. Will was watching every movement, eyes pooling with desire, his cock hardening and breath already coming in stuttering little gasps. 

Hannibal’s own interest was impossible to hide from Will now who was regarding the bulge and wet spot in Hannibal’s briefs as though he were just barely restraining himself from reaching for it. The situation was already overtly sexual in a way it hadn’t been until the end last time, and if Will were his lover, Hannibal knew precisely what he would have done next to wring pleasure from him. But Will was not his lover, and that wasn’t the point of this, he reminded himself as he tried to reclaim some measure of control. He tore his eyes from Will with effort and surveyed the knives on the table, selecting a scalpel this time. And for some reason seeing Hannibal holding a scalpel as he straddled him had Will groaning and his cock jerking. Hannibal smirked down at him, curious at the implications of that reaction.

Pink bloomed instantly in Will’s cheeks as he met Hannibal’s eyes with a shy smile. The sweetness of the moment was such a departure from last time, it made Hannibal uneasy. He had spent weeks fantasizing about Will’s body crisscrossed with his marks; had spent hours recalling the soft give of Will’s flesh under his blade, but in that moment, Hannibal didn’t want to hurt Will. Which left him at a loss. As usual, Will read Hannibal’s disquiet with unnerving accuracy.

”I don’t care where you cut, but I want it deeper this time,” Will said, voice authoritative and filled with such eagerness it washed away most of Hannibal’s hesitancy.

”I’m not going to mark your entire body, Will,” Hannibal forced himself to say, though the thought of making every plane of Will’s skin his own was unquestionably appealing.

”It doesn’t need to scar,” Will said, leaving the decision in Hannibal’s hands rather recklessly, “but I want them to last longer. They were gone in a few days last time.”

And Hannibal had to stifle a groan at the thought of creating marks that would linger beyond a handful of days. Perhaps even a few weeks. Weeks of watching Will quake as his body stung with overstimulation. Knowing Will lived with constant, physical, aching reminders of what Hannibal could do to him. Hannibal’s desire thickened like a fog, wrapping the moment in a kind of hazy surreality, rational thought a distant thing. The possessive monster within Hannibal that had been snapping and yowling at the sight of Ronaldo and Will together, was temporarily sated, purring in satisfaction at having Will laid out before him like a feast, to do with as he liked. Hannibal yielded to the urge to drive the point home. 

He brought his scalpel to just under Will’s clavicle and pressed down with more force than last time, not giving Will time to acclimate as he had before. And Will jerked, pressing his lips together to hold in a small whine. This cut was designed to hurt. He wanted Will’s mind sharp for this. “Ronaldo saw you as a fruit ripe for the picking, Will. He thinks you’ll be his to enjoy soon enough.” Hannibal spoke steadily as he slid the knife across Will’s chest, tracing the clavicle — a particularly painful place to be cut. And Will obviously wasn’t enjoying it in the same way as last time, not yet at least. His fists were clenched and he was already damp with sweat as he fought to keep himself still. 

“He saw what he wanted to see,” Will gritted out.

”You did little to disabuse him. Quite the ideal target — lovely and lonely, drinking from a bottle in the corner.” Will’s eyes widened and his brow furrowed at that description. Hannibal’s scalpel reached the juncture of the collarbone and shoulder and Hannibal lifted it away, as Will released a long, hissing exhale, “can socializing really be that trying for you?”

Will was panting now and his voice was rough and thick as he answered, ”it wasn’t that.”

”What was it?” Hannibal asked as he replaced the blade on Will’s skin an inch down from the last cut and pushed in.

”I didn’t like…how we were with everyone else around. It wasn’t—” Will took a shuddering breath, teeth clenching as Hannibal dragged the scalpel across his pectoral, “I just didn’t like it,” he finished breathily. And Hannibal could certainly relate to that sentiment. 

“What didn’t you like, Will?” Hannibal asked conversationally as he began making a shallow, but lengthy cut from Will’s shoulder down his right bicep. 

”That woman was all over you,” the words punched out of Will in a rush, ending in a keening whimper as Hannibal reached the soft skin near the bend of the elbow, ”grasping onto you like a fucking limpet. They all were.”

Hannibal paused, pulling the knife away for a moment, and Will gasped at the reprieve. Will’s displeasure had been obvious all evening; Hannibal hadn’t expected the cause to be misplaced possessiveness. Watching Will’s reaction closely, still holding the knife aloft, he said, “as Ronaldo was hanging on you.” 

“No,” Will cut off again, breath coming harshly as he fought through the distraction of pain, “that wasn’t my choice,” and his eyes when he glanced at Hannibal were fierce with accusation.

“You believe I relish being the object of their attention. Prefer it,” it wasn’t a question.

“Don’t you?” and though Will practically spat the words, Hannibal caught the thread of insecurity running through them.

Some impulse had Hannibal fisting Will’s hair. Will grunted in discomfort as Hannibal yanked until his head pulled at an awkward angle. Hannibal waited until Will’s eyes met his, “No. I don’t.” And he was pleased to hear that his voice sounded perfectly level, but still some of the riot of emotion he normally kept so carefully contained breached the surface. Perhaps someone else would never have caught it, but this was Will. His face went lax at first, gaze flicking avidly between Hannibal’s eyes, then his own eyes narrowed as he rapidly absorbed whatever feelings Hannibal had been helpless to rein in. Distantly, Hannibal recognized the threat of this kind of scrutiny from Will, but he was too lost in the moment to stop it.

And Hannibal saw something indefinable shift in Will; there was a note of pleading in his eyes now and his cock, which had gone soft in response to the earlier pain, was steadily thickening. Acting on instinct, Hannibal set the scalpel aside. Broadcasting his movements as clearly as possible, he reached his hand down and took Will in hand. It was as though he’d given him an electric shock, his body seized violently and his eyes fell shut again as he moaned and squirmed. Hannibal stroked him slowly, knowing the sensation of the cuts across Will’s chest and arm would be changing, the intensity of the burn feeding into the pleasure, lighting Will’s body up. After a few minutes, Will was leaking and moaning unabashedly as he lost himself in pleasure and Hannibal was hard as a rock watching it. Eventually, the begging began, just a steady refrain of, “more,” and “please,” Will’s lovely mind robbed of higher thought, reduced to need and instinct. And Hannibal happily indulged him. He shuffled down the bed, eyes never leaving Will’s, and took Will in his mouth. 

Hannibal was almost undone as the flavor of Will hit his tongue, his eyes falling shut at the scent of him, stronger and muskier here as Hannibal pressed his nose to Will’s damp skin. The confluence of smell and taste, overlaid by Will’s harsh breathing and stuttering moans, was utterly intoxicating, but Hannibal forced himself to maintain his some semblance of coherence, unwilling to let them both be entirely lost to this. When Hannibal managed to reopen his eyes, he found Will’s locked on him, now almost entirely black and filled with something like awe.   

Lifting his head to watch Hannibal pulled at his cuts, causing some to reopen, fresh blood streaking down his chest, but Will didn’t seem to notice, his eyes running over Hannibal as if he couldn’t stand to glance away for a second. When their eyes finally met, Will’s gaze melted into something tender and far too knowing, and Hannibal felt unbearably exposed. So, still holding Will’s eyes, Hannibal pulled almost all the way off of Will’s cock, a move that had Will whimpering, mouth opening in protest. Then he took Will back down to the root, setting a punishing pace and encouraging Will to fuck his throat. And it had the desired effect. Will broke the penetrating eye contact as his eyes rolled and he started thrusting with abandon. It took almost no time at all for Will to come with a wail, and Hannibal had to close his eyes once more as the taste of Will’s spend filled his mouth, crude and bittersweet. 

He worked Will through the aftershocks, and finally, reluctantly, pulled off at the first signs of oversensitivity. Hannibal wiped his mouth messily, tongue running over his teeth and palate chasing the remnants of Will. And he couldn’t help staring for a moment. Will had collapsed onto the bed, one arm draped over his eyes, utterly debauched. There was blood dripping sluggishly from his arm and especially his chest now, tracking down his nipple, and Hannibal just held himself back from taking that nipple in his mouth. Will was already trembling, skin pilling with goosebumps as the sweat dried and the pain slowly made itself known. Hannibal would not allow these cuts to scar. He wouldn’t want the events of today to live in Will’s skin, but still he memorized every detail of the encounter and Will in the aftermath, adding new dimension and color to the well-worn memory of their previous night together. All preserved in a private, precious room of his mind palace. One he’d been visiting with frequency of late.

It took effort to turn away, but Hannibal eventually managed it. He moved to climb out of bed only to have Will grab his arm with surprising strength, stilling him. Will’s gaze was jumping between Hannibal’s crotch and his eyes, and his expression was urgent. And that’s when Hannibal realized he was so hard he was throbbing, closer to the edge than he could ever remember being without some kind of physical stimulation. Will’s grip was firm, but his words, when he finally spoke, were plaintive, “please, Hannibal. Please let me.” 

Hannibal had to shut his eyes against the image of Will, like this, begging to touch him. It was temptation itself. And while he was inclined to grant Will anything at the moment, if he gave into this, Will would know it all by the end. A vast and treacherous landscape of vulnerability that Hannibal was still learning the terrain of himself. It was the equivalent of coming to Will in supplication, heart in hand, for Will to keep or discard as he liked. And while Hannibal suspected he would eventually be lost enough to do just that, he was not yet so self-destructive as to throw himself at the mercy of Will’s inconstancy. Desire was notoriously fickle, and regrettably, so was Will.

Will’s other hand was moving down now, a question in his eyes, and Hannibal knew if it reached its destination, lust would win out. 

Hannibal pulled back sharply, almost unbalancing Will where he was leaning into him and saw hurt flash across Will’s face as he made his way briskly to the bathroom. As soon as the door closed behind him, he pressed back against it, slid down his briefs, and took himself in hand, sighing in relief at the first touch. It took embarrassingly few strokes before he was coming over his fist, his other hand shoved in his mouth to muffle any stray sounds. As he came down from it and cleaned himself up, thankfully, he felt his long-absent self control start to return. He washed his hands thoroughly and grabbed the first aid kit before returning to Will who was lying flat again, frowning at the ceiling. But when Will scanned Hannibal and realized what he’d done, Will’s face flushed with real anger. Hannibal pushed away a twinge of guilt, and began tending carefully to each of Will’s wounds as Will looked on, his expression stony. When Hannibal finished, he set the medical kit aside, and considered inviting Will to stay the night. It was the right thing to do after sharing something like this, and after spending the past ten minutes the object of Will’s fury, Hannibal could admit to himself at least, Will was not the only one in need of reassurance. “Will, perhaps—“

But Will didn’t let him finish. Hannibal watched with a sick feeling as Will stormed away, wrenching the door open and leaving it bouncing on its hinges. 

Chapter Text

Over the days that followed, Hannibal received a rather heaping dose of his own medicine. Will withdrew in every way imaginable. He stayed in his room until he could be certain Hannibal had left for the city, even on days Hannibal lingered. When he couldn’t avoid the sight of Hannibal, he treated him with an iciness that made their conversations at the BSHCI seem friendly. Hannibal could find no fault in his own choices or actions, but the consequences, he could admit, were more painful than he would have imagined. Still, helpless to find a resolution, Hannibal made his peace with this new distance, confident that it lacked staying power. Will’s need for companionship of some kind would eventually eclipse his rather tenacious capacity for self righteous anger. And Hannibal could admit that it was not altogether the worst thing for them. Their last encounter had been indulgent and dangerous, clinging to the notion that they were engaging in some ritual of penance by only the most threadbare plausibility. And Hannibal reflected that he was fortunate Will was responding to the revelations of that night by retreating as opposed to anything more dangerous. 

But those thoughts proved to be famous last words. After a week, Will stopped avoiding Hannibal and took to watching him instead. The silence held, but the distance gave way to evenings in shared company once more. The simple proximity eased some of the ache in Hannibal’s chest. But it was also distinctly unnerving when Hannibal realized Will spent much of their time together eying Hannibal’s back or profile, puzzling him out as he would a case. Hannibal waited on tenterhooks for the other shoe to drop. 

And ten days after their encounter, Hannibal opened the front door to the scent of roasting meat with notes of thyme and rosemary, and understood that Will’s reckoning was at last at hand, whatever form it might take. There was a concerto playing softly in the kitchen, and with reluctant steps, Hannibal followed the sound to literally, and figuratively, face the music. When he reached the threshold his heart both dropped and started pounding. Will was there in a full suit — an especially devastating black and charcoal ensemble that Alfonso had designed specially for Will. His hair was styled, his face freshly shaved, and some delicious cologne wafted subtly, combining pleasingly with the smell of searing meat. It brought to mind the shift in Will’s appearance the night that he informed Hannibal he planned to resume his therapy. Blatant manipulation; using his beauty as a sword. But even aware of the influence, Hannibal was helpless to resist it. Will was incomparably lovely, always, but especially like this — self-assured, unpredictable, and potentially lethal. Will was standing by the counter before a bottle of a very fine Merlot and two wine glasses, pressing the wine opener to the cork.

“Hi,” Will said, glancing up at Hannibal as he pulled the cork from the bottle, as though nothing about this were unusual at all, ”Dinner should be ready in a few minutes if you want to set the table,” he flashed Hannibal that same enigmatic smile he wore so often in Baltimore. It put Hannibal on edge even as he melted before it. 

“What have you prepared?”

Will didn’t look up as he poured two even glasses of red, “roasted lamb with root vegetables and potatoes.”

The choice of lamb certainly had meaning, but Hannibal couldn’t yet follow the symbolism. He momentarily humored the thought that Will intended to kill him — the proverbial lamb being led by loving hand to slaughter — but then Will crossed to pass him his glass of wine and understanding struck Hannibal as the pieces fell distressingly into place. Will was standing too close for it not to be intentional, particularly with someone as generally averse to physical touch as Will. He was glancing up at Hannibal from underneath his eyelashes, clearly aware of how to employ his features to his advantage, but with absolutely no sense of just how tempting he was when he looked at Hannibal like that. But what brought the epiphany home was his scent. Up close, Hannibal could tell it was the precise fragrance Will had worn those final weeks before they fled, an aftershave that Hannibal had recommended, sandalwood and citrus pairing irresistibly with Will’s fresh, natural aroma. This was a recreation; a seductive invitation to forget, by a Will fully aware of the charms at his disposal and wielding them with intent; and Hannibal had no sense of how he’d weather this kind of assault. He took the wine graciously and retreated to the dining room where he fell into the mindless routine of setting the table. 

The dinner once served, was delicious, the meat succulent, the potatoes soft and crisp, perfectly cooked, and Hannibal couldn’t help how his mouth lifted in a small smile as he chewed the first bite, flattering himself that Will would not have been capable of such a culinary feat before Hannibal. “Delicious, Will,” he said entirely honestly, and Hannibal could sense no manipulation in the pleased smile Will gave him in return. Hannibal almost regretted shattering this gentle illusion, but there was nothing for it.  

With his eyes on his plate, he said, “food is transporting, it’s one of the few means of time travel available to us outside of fiction,” he glanced up and held Will’s eyes, ”are you trying to transport us, Will?”

Will was clearly unsurprised, if slightly abashed, to have his machinations dragged into the light so brusquely. He bought himself a moment taking a small sip of wine, then kept his eyes on the glass, running his thumb along the rim. “You once spoke of teacups regathering. Last time we shared lamb you asked me a question. I gave you the wrong answer,” he looked up at Hannibal, his eyes earnest and pained, “I can’t for the life of me understand why I did.”

Hannibal sipped from his own glass then took up his cutlery, “You followed your conscience and instincts as they existed in that moment. The multitudes of you will always be at odds with each other, Will.” He took another bite of lamb as he finished.

Will frowned and Hannibal noted that he hadn’t yet touched his food.

Hannibal continued, warming to his theme, “is that what this theater is intended to accomplish, Will? Did you hope to bring the teacup back together?”

Will’s jaw clenched, “I got the sense during our last night together that we share an interest in turning back this particular clock. Reclaiming what was lost,” and Will’s eyes were challenging, daring Hannibal to deny what they both knew he’d seen. With Will’s uncanny gift, he likely comprehended Hannibal’s feelings more fully than Hannibal was even willing to admit to himself.  And even as Hannibal bristled at being so exposed, he could still feel the pull of this temptation, a yearning to fall into the past with Will, to a time when his love and need were untainted by cruel lessons learned. And having been given this small taste of it made it all the more appealing. Will had crafted his lure perfectly. But this beautiful lie could never sustain them, so Hannibal forced down the longing this little scene had stirred, let his expression become a shield of derision.

“Be that as it may, the shards cannot regather. Time cannot reverse, Will.”

Will held Hannibal’s gaze for a moment more before his eyes dropped to the table before him, “Not even in your mind?” Will asked quietly, his previous confidence wilting.

Hannibal felt a twinge of regret as he cut another bite of meat, “in many ways, we are as we would have been. We’re together, we share a life.”

Will laughed mirthlessly, “That’s geography, Hannibal. That’s not what we lost.”

“What was lost that you mean to regain with this farce?”

Will flinched slightly at the demeaning description of his efforts, but continued, “trust, faith, intimacy.”

Although clearly not how Will meant it, Hannibal couldn’t help remembering Will’s head thrown in pleasure during their last night together, “I would argue that we still share a measure of intimacy,” he said carefully, not looking up at Will, but when he did, he found Will wearing a fetching blush.

Will pressed on despite his flushed cheeks, “intimacy is a space. A mutual knowing. What we have is… tentative. Or transactional. Locked doors and hidden rooms. The intimacy we had before has become inaccessible.”

“By that definition we never had intimacy, Will. There were always locked doors and hidden rooms whether or not I was aware of them or you were. What we have now is a natural outgrowth of the faithlessness we intentionally cultivated.”

Will’s eyes dimmed as he searched Hannibal, “Would it have made a difference if I’d said yes to leaving together that night?” and Will’s voice was so unhappy Hannibal ached from it, but his expression didn’t soften.

“No.” 

The rest of the meal passed in a heavy silence, too thick to penetrate.

********

In the early hours of the following morning, Hannibal was awoken by the feeling of his mattress dipping, the scent of Will filling his nose before he was even fully conscious. When he did blearily open his eyes, the image that greeted him burned through any lingering fogginess. 

Will was naked, his sleep pants and briefs kicked off at the foot of the bed, and he crawled towards Hannibal until he was straddling his thighs. Belatedly, Hannibal realized that Will had a hunting knife in one hand. Will’s expression was utterly inscrutable as he stared down at Hannibal and Hannibal could easily see Will pressing his body down until they both came apart in pleasure, or sliding the knife across Hannibal’s throat, looking on emotionlessly as Hannibal bled out on the sheets. And caught between dream and waking, with this vision of Will before him, Hannibal would have welcomed either fate.

Will stared at Hannibal’s bare chest in silence for some minutes before he spoke, his voice raw with emotion and disuse, but still startlingly loud in the silence of the room, ”you won’t accept my touch.” And as those words registered, Hannibal realized, for all that Will was essentially sitting on him, he wasn’t touching him. At most, Will’s inner thighs were faintly grazing Hannibal’s legs. Hannibal’s attention was snapped back to the present as Will brought the knife down, hovering the edge of it just above Hannibal’s bare chest, exactly where the heart was. He brought the knife a hairsbreadth from Hannibal’s skin, but never pressed the cool blade to flesh, just left it there suspended until Hannibal found himself aching for it, just barely holding himself back from bucking up into Will. 

And Will of course caught the small squirm Hannibal couldn’t suppress and glanced up at his face, “but you want to touch me. Not just with this,” he said, tilting his head at the knife.  

It wasn’t a question, but Hannibal nodded silently anyway, having succumbed entirely to whatever strange spell Will was casting. Will’s eyes scanned his face, and then he nodded, discarding the hunting knife on the side table almost as an afterthought and sliding off of Hannibal to lay down beside him.

”Touch me then,” and his eyes were no longer on Hannibal, instead they were trained determinedly on the ceiling, and Hannibal noticed with a sickening lurch that Will was completely soft. Hannibal paused then to take Will in fully and something in Will’s eyes stank of hopeless resignation, not the fiery challenge of the first time. This was a bitter kind of need. And it wasn’t at all what Hannibal wanted from Will, but Hannibal sensed that if he sent Will away now, when he was already so fractured, something in Will might finally break.

He picked up the knife idly, “to what end, Will?”

Will’s expression shifted in irritation, and Hannibal was actually relieved to see some sign of life, “intimacy, Hannibal. The kind that isn’t inaccessible to us.”

“What are you seeking in this intimacy, Will? Pleasure or punishment?”

“I’m not seeking at all. I just —“ Will closed his eyes, “Would you enjoy touching me?” And his voice was softer and less sure than Hannibal had been expecting. It stirred a matching softness, an urge to reassure in this if nothing else.

“Yes,” Hannibal whispered roughly, with a fervor that felt a hair too honest.

Will swallowed, “that’s what I’m seeking then.” 

Hannibal watched Will for a few moments more, before abandoning the crutch of the knife to the side table. Hannibal looked over Will’s body leisurely. Will was here to connect in the only way available to him, by Hannibal’s unintentional design. And Hannibal would make sure any enjoyment was not one-sided.

Scenes from numerous fantasies ran through Hannibal’s mind before he decided, in the spirit of the exercise, to simply follow the urge that most spoke to him. So he began by pressing his lips to the scar on Will’s chest, licking, and gnawing. And he found Will responded beautifully, immediately moaning through clenched teeth, his hands flopping uselessly at his sides, unsure where to find purchase. After a minute, Hannibal lifted his head and caught Will’s eyes, “put your hands on my head, Will.” And as if he’d just been waiting for permission, Will did right away, tearing his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, and palming his head in a firm grip. And Hannibal was pleased to find that Will stopped trying to suppress his sounds after that. 

Hannibal worked his mouth across Will’s body, licking the faint traces of the cuts he gave him last time, just to feel their uneven texture on his lips, to taste the coppery scabs as they healed, though he was careful not to reopen them. He would not spill blood this time. Then he took Will’s tempting nipple in his mouth, pink and already perked to a peak. Will grunted, bucking as his head tilted back, delightfully responsive. Will was thickening steadily now as Hannibal sucked, and nibbled and rolled it with his tongue, then transferred his attention to the other one. And by the end Will was leaking freely, his cock hard and red, and Hannibal smiled internally at the progress in him, before moving forward to the next stage.

Hannibal pulled off Will's chest and slid down his body to give his flushed cock a lick from root to tip, then sucked on the head. And the shout Will gave in response had Hannibal pulling back, worried Will was too close. Hannibal sat back on his heels and watched Will catch his breath. He was flushed all the way down his chest, his hair a riot of messy curls where he’d clearly yanked his fingers through them. Hannibal realized this was how Will looked in the throes of pleasure unadulterated by pain and Hannibal found himself returning to Will’s body somehow hungrier, bringing his mouth to a place he was fairly certain Will had never shared with another before. 

He licked a wet stripe across Will’s hole, in a move that left Will stuttering and trying to lift his head, then Hannibal pushed inside with purpose, immediately thrusting his tongue at a quick pace. And the sound Will made in response was barely human. After a minute, Will’s hands were clinging to Hannibal’s head again, pressing Hannibal against him more firmly, shamelessly demanding more. Will had lost control, and it was indescribably gratifying to see him as undone by pleasure as he’d been by pain.

Eventually, Hannibal lifted his face from Will, to a grunt of protest that made Hannibal smirk. Hannibal reached for the lubricant in his side table and threw it on the comforter. Will stared at it. ”Have you ever been penetrated, Will?”

Will was swallowing spasmodically, and his voice was hoarse when he replied, “no. Never.” 

That was what Hannibal expected, but the possessive part of him grinned hearing it, “would you like me to finish you with my fingers or my mouth?”

And the groan Will gave then sounded wounded, “whatever you want, Hannibal, please just anything you want.”

Hannibal slicked up his fingers efficiently, and brought them back to Will’s hole, watching his face closely, even as Will turned his head from Hannibal and shut his eyes. When Hannibal’s finger breached Will, he saw Will’s entire face clench and even knowing some discomfort was inevitable at first, the sight of pain tainting Will’s pleasure rankled. He pressed in more deeply, quirking his finger until he found the nub of nerves that would distract Will from the ache of the stretch. And when he touched it, Will’s eyes popped open in shock as his body jerked. Hannibal smirked and decided then to stop teasing. He pressed and rubbed at Will’s prostate until Will was sweating and moaning, a mess of sensation that was just this side of too much — utterly intoxicating to watch. When it became clear Will was approaching the edge, Hannibal ducked his head and took him in his mouth, letting Will come across his taste buds as Hannibal’s eyes fell shut in secondhand pleasure. 

It took some time for Will to recover and Hannibal just watched his panting and shaking form with a self-satisfied warmth blooming in his chest. Eventually he realized Will was watching him back, and he was looking at Hannibal’s crotch, where Hannibal was still hard as a rock. As Will took in Hannibal’s state of arousal, Hannibal’s stomach dropped at the thought of having to deny him again, genuinely wondering if this time he wouldn’t have the strength. But after a moment, Will pointedly turned away, sat up, and slid off the bed. Hannibal looked on with a confused frown as Will gathered up the clothes he’d dropped earlier. When he reached the bedroom door, he glanced back at Hannibal, his face that mask of calm once more, “goodnight, Hannibal,” he said and then left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, leaving Hannibal reeling and miles from sleep.

******

The following morning, Hannibal had no idea what version of Will to expect. Hannibal had yet to discern any of the rules of Will’s new game, or the game’s objective. He prepared a light breakfast, for Will as well, and busied himself brewing coffee until he heard Will enter the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. Will looked soft — sleep rumpled, and exhausted, but otherwise entirely normal, and Hannibal could not reconcile this Will with the incubus who’d held a knife to his chest last night. But just as he began to question whether last night had all been some vivid dream, he caught Will’s scent. Will obviously hadn’t yet showered, likely just the most rudimentary clean up in the sink before bed, and the smell of arousal and release clung to him in a heady cocktail. 

“Morning,” Will said with a wave as he pulled open the fridge and removed a carafe of juice. 

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal responded, steadily as he could manage, inhaling deeply as Will’s musk wafted through the room.

Will yawned and tousled his hair roughly as he pulled open the cabinet to grab a glass. “You want some?” He asked, from behind the cabinet door.

”Please. Thank you.” And Hannibal hated how stilted he sounded in the face of Will’s relentless normality. He forced himself to match Will’s nonchalance, and poured two cups of coffee, preparing each to their respective preferences. 

When they were both seated at the counter, toast and eggs before them, Will said, “we need to talk about something.”

And Hannibal couldn’t choke down his bite of toast for how dry his throat suddenly felt. He took as graceful a sip of juice as he could manage. 

“Do we?” He asked, staring determinedly at his plate as he pulled his omelet apart with the edge of his fork. 

Will took a careful bite of his own before responding and chewed it unhurriedly. Hannibal’s lip curled in a slight snarl at the feeling of being toyed with. 

“I’d like to learn some part of the business, as you suggested. Or the farming side of it at least.”

And it wasn’t very often in Hannibal’s life that he was caught off guard, but every instance seemed to involve Will. Will took a sip of juice as he watched Hannibal revise his expectations. His faux innocence was perfectly executed, but Hannibal could see the gleam of humor in his eyes.The irritation Hannibal would have expected at being gently taunted never arrived and he couldn’t even resent its absence.

“You’d like to understand the work we do with livestock? Animal husbandry?”

“That’d be a good start. Would I have to learn to ride a horse?” He asked with a joking smile that made Hannibal feel light headed with relief. 

“If you plan to spend much time on the ranch then it would be ideal.”

”Can you ride a horse?” Will asked, lathering butter generously on his toast.

”My uncle’s country property had a large stable. Learning the essentials of horse care and riding was a requirement of my youth.”

“Hard to see you settling for just the essentials of anything.”

Hannibal tilted his head in agreement, ”I gave the hobby the attention it warranted, despite having no natural skill or affinity for it.” 

“Do you remember how to do it?”

Hannibal nodded, ”it’s fairly simple and I would imagine, not easily forgotten. Like riding a bike as they say.”

”Can you even ride a bike?” Will asked, smiling, his eyes dancing with laughter.

Hannibal smiled back, his chest warm, having missed Will’s gentle teasing more than he could express.

”Of course, Will. I taught myself when I was just a child.”

Will just glanced at him then in that way he did whenever Hannibal revealed something about his past. As though he was overlaying the person before him with a younger version of Hannibal, knees and palms scraped from fall after fall as he determinedly forced himself to learn the motions, to master the necessary balance with no one there to help him after a tumble. There was an aching kind of tenderness in Will’s face and for all that Hannibal was soaking in the joy of having Will’s soft gaze on him again, the emotion in his expression was a surprisingly sharp reminder of the danger in this. Especially after the activities of last night. Hannibal looked back down at his meal, preparing a bite with unnecessary care just to give him a distraction.

”Then maybe you can teach me to ride a horse,” Will said eventually.

And an image tore through Hannibal’s mind like a hot knife through butter, of sharing a saddle with Will, tucked behind him, arms wrapped around him holding the reins as their bodies jostled together with the rhythmic trotting of the horse. The arousal was sudden and searing before he ruthlessly suppressed it. Again he felt as though Will saw all of it, but where before there had been humor, now Will’s eyes looked serious, and calculating.

“If you’d like.” Hannibal answered casually, ignoring the intensity in Will’s stare in favor of preserving this soft peace between them. But Will watched him subtly for the rest of the meal.

Hannibal wasn’t surprised when Will came to him again that night. Or when he woke to the telltale shift of the mattress the night after that as well. 

They occupied this liminal space surprisingly easily. Days marked by engaging conversation and banter, their rapport effortlessly falling back into place, and nights dedicated to sating the need that hid in plain sight all day. Hannibal explored every part of Will until he knew how to work him into a heaving mess within minutes. And he learned that Will responded beautifully to both pleasure and many forms of pain. He’d groan as Hannibal pulled his hair, voice growing reedier and more desperate the more ruthlessly Hannibal gripped; Will would press his hands against the mattress in a silent invitation for Hannibal to hold him down, until Will had semipermanent bruises ringing his wrists that peeked out temptingly from beneath the cuffs of most of his shirts. On one occasion, an impulsive smack to Will’s butt cheek, and the wanton moan it elicited from Will, devolved into Hannibal raining down slaps as Will bit his fist brutally to keep from coming undone. By the end, Hannibal’s hand was stinging and red, and Will’s ass was hot to the touch with soreness. And watching Will squirm in his seat for days after, strained their strange balance nearly to the breaking point.

Their encounters didn’t happen every night, but they followed a set formula: Will would arrive at Hannibal’s bed nude, he’d leave as soon as they finished, and by unspoken agreement, they communicated exclusively through gestures, Hannibal adjusting automatically in response to a hand on the shoulder, a tug to his hair. And Hannibal made a point to add no new scars to Will’s body, something about the clandestine nature of their activities souring the idea of leaving any permanent reminder on Will. And Will, for whatever reason, made no attempt to touch Hannibal at all. Every encounter ended with Hannibal watching Will’s retreating back as he left Hannibal desperate and aching. As a result, Hannibal found himself engaging in self pleasure at a clip that would have alarmed him at any other point in his life. But even as the nights and mornings spent efficiently bringing himself off invariably left him unsatisfied, Hannibal refused to allow himself to consider the alternative. 

Then a wax sealed envelope from Ronaldo Garcia arrived, the card inside requesting the presence of Erick and Patrick for a small dinner party at his home. The man undoubtedly had some infuriating agenda with this invitation, but Hannibal couldn’t find a legitimate reason to turn him down, even as the thought of Ronaldo touching Will, even just in greeting, had him fisting the envelope into a ball. He handed the card to Will as Will sat at the counter eating lunch. Will stared at it for much longer than necessary to read the short missive, “you can’t actually want to go to this,” he said at last, glancing back up at Hannibal, searching his face.

”It would be rude not to. And at this point most are aware of your… interaction in the garden. If we don’t attend, it will be taken as confirmation of something untoward. Which was no doubt precisely Ronaldo’s intention.”

Will scowled, “we’re going then?”

”We are.”

That night, Hannibal didn’t bother feigning sleep as he waited for Will, too impatient for pretense. Will hesitated as he entered the room to find Hannibal already sitting up in bed, mostly naked, simply staring at the door in anticipation. He frowned and Hannibal saw Will open his mouth to speak, before his lips closed again as he thought better of it, locking the words behind his teeth, and Will climbed onto the bed silently like he normally would. But nothing else about the encounter was normal. 

Something about how imminently Hannibal would be sharing Will with the world again awoke a need to stake his claim. Hours passed in the blink of an eye and Hannibal still felt nowhere near ready to release Will. He’d gotten Will off within the first thirty minutes, using his tongue and fingers with relentless efficiency to drag him over the edge, and Will looked up at him in the wake of it, gasping, confused by this change in their routine. But then Hannibal took him in hand again, making his intention to continue clear — his touch teasing, slow, even as he could see Will fighting through the overstimulation. He touched Will that way for hours, bringing him to the brink and back so many times he’d lost count. And Will was insensate, drenched in sweat, voice hoarse from the steady stream of groans. 

Hannibal ignored his begging, and his own aching desire, which was so persistent he feared he was on the cusp of coming entirely untouched. He felt possessed, indulging every impulse and urge with a ravenous hunger he rarely allowed himself. He watched Will’s face, riveted, as Will weathered the unexpected onslaught. And Hannibal realized at some point that it still wasn’t enough, he needed to hear Will’s voice as well. “What do you fantasize about, Will?” Hannibal wasn’t sure where the question came from; he simply allowed his instincts to lead him as he had all night. 

Will was too far gone to even try parsing the significance of this interruption to their normal pattern, but a disgruntled huff mixed in with his little panting gasps, “you know,” he rasped, irritation plain in his voice. 

“It would please me to hear it,” Hannibal pressed, tone deceptively casual.

And delightfully, that had Will groaning as he thrust uselessly into the air. Then he gritted out with gratifying honesty, “it’s always you,” seemingly unaware of how profoundly his words affected Hannibal. 

“And before?” Hannibal asked, forcing his hand to maintain the same slow, glancing brushes against Will’s prostate.

Will swallowed audibly. “And before,” he answered breathily. 

Heat filled Hannibal’s chest, but the note of shame in Will’s voice had him asking, “did you hate yourself for it, Will?” 

Will swallowed again, hesitant, before responding in a barely there whisper, “sometimes.”

The answer was not surprising, the prick of hurt that accompanied it was. Hannibal pivoted, “what did you imagine?”

Will groaned then, unwilling to order his mind enough to form a reply. Hannibal was unmoved.

“Tell me.”

And Will’s brow furrowed in an endearing little frown. Hannibal could practically see Will forcing his scattered thoughts into something cogent, “at first, I thought about you with Alana, what you were doing to her.”

Hannibal’s relationship with Alana was a natural entry point. Hannibal imagined it haunted Will rather ruthlessly in those early days, precisely as it was intended to. Still, with his control currently so compromised, he found himself annoyed at the idea of sharing Will’s fantasies, which had him unintentionally pushing his fingers into Will with more strength. It simply made Will throw his head back as he stuttered out a moan. “Did you imagine yourself in my place? In hers?” Hannibal continued.

”Neither,” and Will was panting in earnest now, his breath leaving him in harsh little bursts, as he moved his hips seeking that firmer contact again, “I was just there, watching you both like a dreamwalker trespassing where I didn’t belong.”

”And how did that make you feel, to know you didn’t belong?” Were Will more coherent, Hannibal was sure he would have received a raised eyebrow at borrowing so shamelessly from his psychiatric script.

Fortunately, Will lacked the capacity for anything beyond honesty, ”Resentful. Hateful.” Each word punched out of Will like it pained him. “So jealous I could hardly breathe.” Will finished in a breathy rush.

”Jealous of whom?”

”I tried not to consider that question too closely.”

Hannibal wanted to press the point, but he resisted. “You said ‘at first’?”

Will was hesitant then, even through the fog of pleasure. Wary to speak of whatever had leapt to his mind. It just fed Hannibal’s eagerness to hear the words. He brought his other hand to Will’s cock to stroke slowly in time with each brush of his prostate, and predictably, Will whimpered, thrusting helplessly. 

“Will?” Hannibal’s voice was firm, even as he deftly used his hands to make Will more malleable.

”I would see some faceless thing. Sometimes, I’d see it pressing me into the bed.“ 

Hannibal paused, “faceless?”

“It was you. Or a manifestation of you.” 

Hannibal took that in for a moment. “What was this manifestation like?”

“Dark, powerful, nightmarish,” he swallowed, “tempting.”

It took effort to keep his hands moving as Hannibal processed this. “What did this faceless darkness do, Will?”

”It wasn’t…specific, I would just wake and recall a weight pressing down on me, almost consuming, and then a sense of ecstatic release.”

Hannibal’s mind was running rapidly, “pleasure suspended in shadow. That choice of fantasy absolved you of any agency. You bore no responsibility for the transgression, and could face no guilt come morning.” Hannibal retreated into detached analysis to hide from the unease he felt at this turn in the conversation.

“I know,” Will said faintly.

“Are you similarly absolved in your fantasies now?” Hannibal asked even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer. 

And his anxiety built as Will’s silence stretched. Eventually Will shook his head and turned his face away, as if trying to hide his expression from Hannibal, even with his eyes squeezed shut. 

Eyes darting over Will’s profile, Hannibal asked, “what do you imagine now, Will?”

And Will’s pause lengthened as Hannibal waited and watched the struggle play out in microexpressions across what he could see of Will’s face. Eventually Will huffed a rueful laugh and rubbed his face so roughly it must have stung, dropping his head back on the pillow. Will’s voice was thick when he finally responded, “now I just imagine you kissing me.” It was said simply, resignedly, with a thin thread of resentment. But there was wistfulness too, and obvious pain. The words settled like a stone in Hannibal’s stomach and he acted without forethought. 

He leaned down, until he was hovering above Will’s face, and swept his sweat slicked hair back from his forehead. And for the first time since he started speaking, Will’s eyes opened. They were damp, if from the intensity of what they’d done so far or the conversation, Hannibal couldn’t say. But his eyes, when he met Hannibal’s, were wary, and curious, and so helplessly vulnerable, Hannibal was drawn inexorably forward. He leaned down and pressed his lips to Will’s in a barely there kiss. And Will let out a harsh breath that seemed to melt into a sob before he leaned up and captured Hannibal’s lips in something demanding yet achingly sweet. And Hannibal lost himself to it, the soft dryness of Will’s lips, raw and red from hours of Will muffling as many moans as he could catch back. The taste of him here was different and Hannibal searched out every nuance of it like a bloodhound, pushing his tongue none too gently deep into the crevices of Will’s mouth, tasting and cataloging his flavor, drawing a desperate moan from Will. Will whimpered into it as their tongues twined together, and came over Hannibal’s fist. In the aftermath, his eyes were shut tight again, but Hannibal could tell it was more a matter of shame now. He felt the tug of guilt. That went farther than he’d intended, and perhaps the result was crueler than he’d meant. 

Will wouldn’t look at Hannibal as he pulled on the sleep pants and briefs he’d abandoned on the floor and he walked away unsteadily. 

*********

Will hadn’t been back to Hannibal’s bed since that night. Will wasn’t quite sure what possessed him to start this in the first place. He knew it was something like the desperation that had driven him to ask Hannibal to cut him that first time, but it was more than that. A need for some kind of recognition of what they both knew lay between them, even if Hannibal would never allow it to see the light of day. Hannibal hadn’t apologized for weaponizing Will’s admission about his fantasies, and Will hadn’t asked for one — the thought of acknowledging it at all felt excruciating. But Will had no sense of where they stood now, having taken a sledgehammer to their carefully delineated rules of engagement. He pushed those worries to the back of his mind as best he could as he sat in the passenger seat beside Hannibal on his way to Ronaldo Garcia’s home. 

Will hated Ronaldo’s house, or rather mansion, on sight. There were fewer cars parked in the large driveway than Will had been anticipating, only two parking attendants taking keys as guests arrived, and Will realized with some dread that this would be a much smaller affair. Most of the people, Hanibal greeted with a restrained kind of friendliness, and Will could tell he knew these people socially, but enjoyed very few of them. Hannibal was chatting to a gentleman near the bar who was a patron of the opera, and trying to convince Hannibal to make an appearance at the upcoming production of Tosca, when a woman entered the room, scanned the crowd, and made her way directly for them as her eyes lighted on Hannibal. She was around Hannibal’s age, hair streaked with gray. Elegant, but with a playful smile on her face and warmth in her eyes that reminded Will of Beverly for some reason. And Will pushed that thought into a corner of his mind that he avoided visiting at all costs.  As soon as Hannibal noticed her approach, he politely turned from the other gentleman and towards her, a warm, and entirely genuine, smile breaking across his face. The sight of it made Will ache.

”I’d assumed you fled the country, Erick, it’s been so long since you graced us with your presence,” she said as soon as she came within earshot, moving immediately to pull Hannibal into an embrace, which he happily accepted. 

“I’m afraid urgent matters have kept me away from the city of late, aside from work obligations,” and Will almost snorted at that euphemism for what they’d spent the past month doing.

”I’m sure,” she said, flashing an unexpectedly wry smile at Will before her expression turned open and friendly. She extended her hand, palm down. “Daniela Rodriguez. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Patrick. Every other sentence from this one is about you,” she said with a wink, and surprisingly, Hannibal took the teasing in stride. 

Will took her hand with a bemused smile, “it’s nice to meet you, too.”

”I am sorry for missing your soirée,” she said to Hannibal, “I might have been able to defuse some of the fuss in the aftermath.” She turned back to Will, as she released his hand, her expression long suffering, “Ronaldo is a fool who has experienced very little of the world and understands even less of it.” And then she rolled her eyes dramatically in a gesture Will was certain Hannibal would consider uncouth, but Hannibal’s gaze was still warm on Daniela as he took a sip of his wine, as if accustomed to her blunt manner. Something about her directness and informality made Will begrudgingly fond, and he found his mouth lifting in a lopsided smile despite himself. 

As different as she was from Hannibal, easygoing in nature, exuding effortless warmth, Hannibal obviously genuinely liked her. There was a familiarity in how they orbited each other, spoke with one another, that let Will know she was perhaps the closest acquaintance Hannibal had in Argentina. And despite the kernel of jealousy that roused, he found himself putting in effort to keep up his side of the conversation. It was made easier by how funny and remarkably clever she was. Will found himself laughing out loud at her commentary on an older gentleman who’d been posted up at the bar, mainlining whiskey for the past hour. And Hannibal looked between them, rarely contributing, with a soft smile on his face. Absurdly, Will couldn’t help feeling like he was a new partner, struggling to make a good impression on Hannibal’s friends. And by the time Ronaldo announced dinner, Will was feeling satisfied with his performance and light under the effects of Daniela’s good humor. 

The good mood lasted as long as it took them to reach the dining room. Place settings for Hannibal and Daniela were beside one another near the middle of the table, but Will’s name was nowhere to be found. At first, he thought Ronaldo intended to humiliate him by leaving him without a place at the table; imagined how he’d feign embarrassment at the mix up. And privately, Will thought the joke would be on him, as nothing would please Will more than to have an excuse to wait for Hannibal in the car. But then he saw that Ronaldo was waving at him from his seat at the head of the table, “Patrick,” and he was gesturing to the place setting at his left. 

Will frowned in momentary incomprehension, before turning to Hannibal for some cue as to how to navigate what even he could tell was a pretty egregious social faux pas given the rumors that had been swirling about them both. And Hannibal’s face was carefully, painfully, blank, but his jaw was tight, his eyes deadened with fury. Daniela’s eyes, in contrast, had widened almost comically. Then her face contorted in affront, and he could see her opening her mouth to read Ronaldo the riot act, when Hannibal interjected smoothly. 

“It seems the host would like your attention, Patrick. You should take your place. We’re delaying dinner.”

And Daniela, gratifyingly, looked as indignant as Will felt, “certainly not, Erick,” her voice carrying across the room by obvious design, “Patrick can take my place. This is beyond the pale.”

Hannibal didn’t dispute her assessment, but still responded, more quietly, “it would be rude to challenge the order of the host’s table.”

And Daniela bit down on a retort, reluctantly bowing to the truth of that. “Patrick?” Hannibal said, hand outstretched towards the head of the table, and Will felt a pang at Hannibal’s closed off expression. As Will turned, he felt oddly like he was making a march to the gallows, every set of eyes unsubtly watching him, guests sharing whispers as he passed, and if he hadn’t hated Ronaldo before, his contempt for the man was absolute now. 

Ronaldo, when he reached him, was wearing a plastered on smile reminiscent of a used car salesman, as he pulled out Will’s seat in mock chivalry. “My apologies for stealing you from Erick for the evening. I hope you’ll both forgive me,” he said, insincerity dripping from every word.

Will sat down, saying nothing in response, just took up his glass of wine and stared down at the charger and elaborately folded napkin before him.

Will eventually glanced back over at Hannibal and Daniela. Daniela was watching Will and Ronaldo with a small frown and when she met Will’s eyes she mouthed, “sorry.” Will smiled helplessly at that and she smiled back conspiratorially. Will found himself unaccountably grateful for her. Particularly as Hannibal was ignoring him entirely, discussing something with the man to his right who was gesturing wildly as he spoke. Will watched the man’s facial expressions, read his lips trying to parse the topic, when the servers arrived as if out of thin air and in perfect synchronization, placed a bowl of ceviche before each guest.

Will was just lifting his fork when Ronaldo broke the silence. “Patrick, I must apologize for our little misunderstanding last time.” 

Will held himself back from groaning, “it’s fine,” he said, trying with all his power to convey dismissal through body language alone. He turned back to Hannibal and Daniela and found her whispering something to him that had him breaking into a rare toothy grin. The sight caused the pang in Will’s chest to grow.  

“It’s not, and I know it’s not. I just got carried away. I hope I didn’t cause any difficulty between you two.” Ronaldo pressed on. 

Will glanced meaningfully down the table, to the guests within earshot, pretending not to listen while hanging on every word. Will couldn’t guess what Ronaldo was playing at, but he was done playing with him. 

“We’re fine,” he said with finality, meeting Ronaldo’s eyes with a warning look that even he couldn’t misinterpret. And satisfyingly, Ronaldo broke eye contact first, staring down at his place as he poked at a chunk of fish. 

Will took up his own fork and took a bite. Annoyingly, it was absolutely delicious. Will focused on bringing fork to mouth, savoring the silence as no one attempted to draw him into conversation, but every few minutes, Will glanced down the table to Hannibal and found he and Daniela lost in conversation, heads tilted towards one another. Hannibal’s eyes locked on her face as she spoke and something about Hannibal’s genuine interest in everything she said soured the flavor of the perfectly prepared snapper. 

“How long have you two been together?” 

Will actually startled at the interruption, frowning at Ronaldo’s obliviousness to Will’s hostility. 

“Long enough,” he replied shortly, bringing his water glass to his lips and turning his head fully away. 

“And do you think wedding bells are in your future?”

Will coughed inelegantly around a mouthful of water, staring Ronaldo down when he finally caught his breath. And he noticed this wasn’t quite the same arrogant confidence from before. He was facing Will, but not meeting his eyes, glancing away nervously even as he smiled. Will got the distinct impression he was missing something, and his planned response of “none of your goddamn business,” died on his tongue as he gave Ronaldo his full attention for the first time that evening.

And under Will’s obvious scrutiny, a sheen of sweat grew at Ronaldo’s hairline. 

“I’ve never given much consideration to marriage,” he said, eyes fixed on Ronaldo, gauging his response. 

Ronaldo cleared his throat noisily as he shot Will another plainly disingenuous smile, ”I understand entirely. But you both seem happy enough here, I was curious.”

Will nodded, “we like it here and neither of us has any intention of leaving. Certainly not apart.” He added, tone vaguely threatening, and Ronaldo swallowed audibly. Will felt like he was reaching blindly through the dark of this conversation, guided only by some deep-seated intuition telling him to keep Ronaldo talking. 

”As I said, I apologize for my behavior last time,” and that at least seemed genuine, if not entirely honest. The man clearly regretted hitting on Will before, but Will didn’t think it had anything to do with overstepping the bounds of propriety. Unfortunately, just as Will’s fingertips were skating the edges of some epiphany, it was snatched away when the woman to Ronaldo’s right interrupted with a question that had Ronaldo turning from Will, and brightening considerably.  

Will glanced down the table to see if Hannibal had caught any of that interaction, but his eyes were still on Daniela, watching her warmly as she laughed. Again, it made something twist in his stomach to see them. The dinner felt interminable after that, even without any new fumbling attempts at conversation from Ronaldo. When the staff at last cleared the dessert course, some rich, chocolate concoction that Will hardly touched, Will felt some of the tension finally leave him.

But his relief was short-lived. Ronaldo stood from his seat, “thank you all for joining me at my humble abode for this little get together,” he said, eyes twinkling, and the false modesty earned him a smattering of chuckles from his guests, “brandy will be served in the drawing room,” then as everyone started to rise, he turned to Will, saying quietly “one moment, Patrick. I had a matter I hoped to discuss with you.” 

Most of the guests were already filing out, distracted, but Will’s eyes jolted back to Hannibal and Daniela. Daniela’s disapproval was written all over her face, but Hannibal still wore a mask of neutrality, aside from the flintiness in his eyes. Without comment, Hannibal rose with the rest of the guests, pulling out Daniela’s chair and escorting her through the doorway without a backwards glance. And the sight of him with his hand in the small of her back snapped the last of Will’s faltering patience. He forgot his earlier curiosity about Ronaldo’s motives and as the last guest’s back faded into the hallway, he turned on him, “what are you playing at exactly?”

Ronaldo’s expression stuttered for a moment, before he regained his composure, some weak version of the smug smile from the garden lighting up his face, ”no game, I just wondered if you might permit me to take you out to lunch. Nothing improper. Simply an apology by way of fine food.” 

“No. Thank you,” Will bit out, already walking away.  

“Please,” and something in the urgency of that word had Will stopping in his tracks. He turned back to Ronaldo, eying him assessingly. 

“Why don’t you just say what you have to say?” Will said, meeting Ronaldo’s shifty gaze as best he could, and holding his breath for some reason he couldn’t quite explain.

For a second, it looked as though Ronaldo was going to answer, but in the next breath, Ronaldo’s expression melted into something pretentious. “I’d rather say it in private if it’s all the same to you,” he said with a meaningful glance at the catering staff clearing dishes. 

And in that moment Will resolved, whatever was going on with Ronaldo, he was done thinking about it. “I’m not interested in spending any more time with you alone than I already have. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back out there before any more rumors start flying.“ 

He walked away before Ronaldo could form a reply. The guests seemed to have scattered, some to the garden, most to the drawing room sipping brandy in little gossiping groups. Will scanned the room quickly as he walked past, finding no sign of Hannibal or Daniela, and when his search of the garden turned up the same results, a sense of foreboding crept in.

They weren’t in any room on the ground floor, so Will climbed the stairs and could hear the faint sound of hushed voices behind a closed door, where firelight flickered through the crack. When he nudged the door open, Will wasn’t even surprised to find Hannibal pressing Daniela up against one of the stacks, licking into her mouth with vigor as her hand moved rhythmically in his pants. Will couldn’t remember making a sound, but he must have, because they sprung apart, turning their eyes to Will. And Will felt his rational mind fade to black. 

******************

Will was exactly as glorious as Hannibal had imagined when moved to righteous violence. His burgeoning friendship with Daniela was lost to whatever base instinct had overtaken him. Will dragged his gaze across Daniela like a serrated knife, with a fearsome and merciless kind of focus. Hannibal was so enraptured by the exquisite sight of Will on the brink of savagery, that the import of the situation took a moment to sink in, but when it did, regret followed closely behind. 

He and Daniela had sought out the library with the most innocent of intentions, to settle a dispute that had arisen over dinner about Cuentos de Eva Luna. But in the firelight, huddled around the text, he caught the potent scent of desire, and realized that Daniela’s perusal of the book had turned absent, her attention elsewhere. 

Hannibal could have smoothly distanced himself, saving her any embarrassment or offense. But it occurred to him that he couldn’t begin to predict Will’s response to discovering Daniela’s scent on him, and curiosity won out. He didn’t pull away, and when she looked up at him questioningly, he allowed Daniela to close the distance, capturing his mouth in an unexpectedly passionate kiss. And surprisingly, Hannibal found that just the feel of her lips eased some of the ache that had been building after weeks of touching, but never truly having, Will. So when her hand drifted down, he let her take hold of him, even helping to tug his own pants open. He started hardening almost instantly as he called to mind the helpless sounds Will made the night Hannibal worked his body to the breaking point again and again. How beautifully Will broke for him in the end when he finally claimed Will’s mouth. And that single thought left Hannibal groaning and pushing into Daniela with an intensity that clearly took her by surprise. Daniela’s plump, red-stained, lips were nothing like Will’s raw-bitten mouth, and her tongue lacked the urgency of Will’s when it finally tangled with Hannibal’s, but he found it hardly mattered with memories of Will filling all of his senses, and an admittedly skilled hand stroking his cock. He slammed her back against the stack as she worked him, and when he lifted his head briefly to meet her eyes, he caught her smirk, before he dove back in, blocking out everything that wasn’t a refrain of Will, Will, Will. 

Then he heard a bitten off grunt of pain to their right and Hannibal knew without turning who he’d find standing in the doorway. When his eyes fell on Will, he looked quite literally gutted, glancing back and forth between them, gaze catching on every awful detail: Hannibal’s hard cock and unbuttoned slacks, Daniela’s hand as she subtly wiped it on her dress. But seconds later, the pain cleared from Will’s face, and something menacing took its place as he advanced on Daniela. Hannibal caught Will’s eyes flash to the letter opener on the desk and was granted the remarkable experience of watching Will’s design coalesce before his very eyes. Hannibal was ready to simply allow the scene to unfold precisely as Will planned it. But Daniela had also read his intentions, and she was backing away, pressing impossibly further into the bookcase. When she spoke, the words left her in a rush, “I was under the impression that your arrangement was flexible. That you were each unattached. It seems that I was misinformed about the nature of your connection and it led me to err. Rather grievously. I apologize.”

She was too smart to take her eyes off of Will, but Hannibal knew the censure in her voice was intended for him. And uncomfortably, he felt pinpricks of shame.

“I must apologize, Daniela. And Patrick. I forgot myself,” and the ring of truth in his voice was not put-on. He had not intended to use Daniela in this way, or to upset his tenuous balance with Will by allowing things to go so far.

Will paused midstep, blinking at the sound of his alias, as if waking up to the reality of the situation. He still said nothing to Daniela, but turned his eyes to Hannibal at last, something cold and immovable there. Will pivoted, gesturing for the door, the demand clear. And feeling like a chastened child, Hannibal complied, walking past him with as much dignity as he could muster, two sets of disapproving eyes burning his back. Will’s soft tread followed a few steps behind, almost too closely, as if ready to act as a physical barrier between Hannibal and Daniela. 

“Patrick,“ Daniela tried again, “I do apologize. Sincerely,” but Will didn’t glance back as he shut the door behind them. 

**************

Will, as they made their way home, brought to mind the stillness in the air before a hurricane. He was silent during the long drive, silent as he crossed the threshold and made his way to the living room, wordlessly taking his place in his armchair, leaving Hannibal to follow suit. And when, after some minutes, he finally spoke it was with deceptive calm. Only his coarse wording betrayed some of the fury lurking beneath the smooth facade.

Eyes trained on the cold fireplace, and with a painstakingly neutral voice he asked, ”are you fucking her then?”

Hannibal drummed his fingers on the chair arm, remorse and shame rising in his throat, ”I’m not.”

”Not yet,” Will returned with a cold smile.

“Tonight was a mistake, Will. I was impulsive and careless,” Hannibal said entirely truthfully, “and in any event, I’ve quite deservedly lost Daniela’s good opinion,” Hannibal acknowledged with a flicker of regret. Daniela had been quite amusing.

And finally some emotion broke through Will’s veneer of calm, “you don’t even fucking want her, Hannibal,” and in a burst of Will’s trademark intuition he asked, brow furrowed, ”were you picturing me the whole time?”

Hannibal couldn’t find it in himself to lie. But that didn’t mean he had to admit it. He met the inquiry with silence. 

And Will’s expression dissolved into frustration, his eyes catching Hannibal’s, “why are you denying this when we both know what you want?“

Hannibal felt a sting of embarrassment at hearing Will reference his feelings explicitly and lashed out accordingly, “self-denial is the righteous path when the alternative is self-destructive.”

Will’s expression shuttered as all softness fled his face, ”that’s some high-handed talk for someone who’s sucking me off every night,” and the heat of those words licked at Hannibal like a flame, ”whatever bullshit line that you drew in the sand washed away weeks ago, Hannibal. You’ll touch me, hurt me until I’m begging and trembling, night after night, and you think you’re holding yourself apart somehow? It’s changing you just like it’s changing me. You’re a participant. You’re complicit,” Will threw out each charge against Hannibal like a fresh blow.

And Hannibal knew it was true. Far from maintaining distance, each night reinforced Will’s hold on Hannibal. If he’d happened upon the scene in the garden with Ronaldo now, there was no question in his mind he would have killed the man heedless of the consequences. 

”Do you just want to hurt me? Is that why?“ And Will’s frown of concentration reminded Hannibal of their sessions, when Will would weave his scattered threads insight into a portrait of a killer. 

Hannibal considered his question. It would be much easier if it were punishment. Then there would be a goal, an end in sight. 

“It’s not.“

Will just stared at him for what had to have been a full minute and Hannibal allowed it, already dreading whatever truths Will would lay bare next. “You want me. You… you love me,” and Hannibal’s stomach bottomed out hearing those words leave Will’s lips. But Will said it uncertainly, his eyes immediately jumping to Hannibal’s seeking confirmation. And whatever he saw in them had him taking an audible, stuttering breath, “do you just hate me for it?” 

“I doubt very much that I could hate you for anything, Will,” Hannibal responded immediately, honestly.

Will’s frown deepened, narrowed eyes never leaving Hannibal’s, “you resent me then.”

That was closer to the truth. He resented the loss of control more than he could express. Still. 

“I don’t.” 

 Will said nothing for a long moment, then with a thoughtful expression on his face,  he walked towards Hannibal until there were mere inches between them. Again, Hannibal pictured Will withdrawing a knife, sinking it into his chest, watching steely eyed as the blood pooled at his feet, but that vague fantasy was cut short when Will pulled Hannibal into an embrace. It was unprecedented between them, to be touched by Will, held, for comfort’s sake alone. It undid him more than any of their previous intimacies, and he found his eyes shutting, certain his expression was more revealing now than it had ever been. And when Will pulled back, Hannibal’s eyes stayed closed, clinging to the warmth of the moment for as long as was reasonable. When his eyes finally reopened, Will was watching him with unimaginable tenderness. He lifted his hand to Hannibal’s face, cupping his jaw, pushing back Hannibal’s hair so gently it made Hannibal ache. Hannibal leaned helplessly into the touch, greedily collecting every scrap of this new and unexpected affection. And Will’s face collapsed into something heartbroken, “we could have this,” he said, voice faint, but insistent, holding Hannibal’s eyes for a moment. Then he rested his forehead against Hannibal’s, “please, Hannibal, just let us have this.” 

Hannibal pushed back against Will’s head as if he could burrow inside, merge them into one. No part of Hannibal wanted to hurt Will anymore. He no longer took any pleasure from the idea of vengeance or retribution. But he knew with equal certainty that he could never bring himself to be intimate in the way Will needed; would never bear his underbelly without expecting the knife. Hannibal briefly considered pretending, but Will would know. He would always know. He pressed his head against Will’s to the point of pain, briefly, almost as an apology, then extracted himself from his hold entirely. And he could see the tentative hope in Will’s expression withering as he watched Hannibal pull away. This had the potential to shatter everything between them, he knew, but it was still kinder than the cruelty of wasted hope, “I will never be capable of giving us this, Will.”

Hannibal had never actually torn a beating heart from a chest with his hands alone, but the look on Will’s face was precisely the expression he would have expected if he had. Will looked as though he were barely holding himself together and Will’s anguish was contagious, constricting Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal understood as he looked on helplessly while Will fell apart, that he would offer up anything he was capable of giving; anything else at all if Will asked it of him, even his own destruction. 

“I can’t live the lie when we both know that’s what it is,” Will whispered, face drained of color.

“There’s honesty between us now,” Hannibal stressed through a surge of panic. Then, allowing some of his own vulnerability to bleed into his words, “whatever else you are, you are essential to me, Will.“ 

Will scoffed, and paced away, rubbing roughly at damp eyes, ”no. I’m not. I’m a bad habit you can’t seem to kick.” 

That description wound itself around Hannibal’s chest and squeezed, “I have no intention of abstaining from you, Will.“ 

“Well maybe you should,” and those words landed between them with a deafening thud. Will turned to him, his eyes narrowed in question, “how long do you realistically think you can make a place for a fox in the henhouse before you grow tired of always keeping one eye open.” 

Never. He’d never grow tired of any part of Will, or any sacrifices it took to keep him close. Hannibal took a steadying breath. “You’d be surprised at my persistence.”

“How long do you expect me to endure being watched?” Will asked, his voice gruff with misery. 

Hannibal felt the ground beneath grow shaky, “that's for you to say, Will.”

Will gave no response to that, simply looked at him for a moment more before turning and retreating down the hall, his door slamming home with alarming finality. 

*************

The next day, Will couldn’t find it in him to leave bed; he was certain he’d hardly slept. He just tossed and turned, hiding from the reality outside his door. Around four p.m., he heard a faint knock on the door and the sound of a tray tapping onto the hardwood. And he could see it clearly in his mind’s eye — a beautifully plated, heavy dinner to make up for a day of missed meals. Likely a stew or some other comfort food. Feeding him up, Hannibal’s signature brand of caretaking. But the thought of eating anything, particularly something prepared by Hannibal’s hand, had nausea churning in his stomach.

Hannibal could not allow Will to have him, as much as he wanted to, because of Will’s own carelessness, his refusal to see Hannibal’s love for the singular gift it was until it was far too late to claim it. And Will’s regret now felt fathomless. And excruciating. 

On the second day, Will actually gave thought to what it would look like to leave. He wouldn’t go back to the U.S. Couldn’t. And without Hannibal’s resources, he didn’t like his odds for how long it would take for him to get caught, but he could go somewhere quiet. Beautiful. Couldn’t get a dog, that wouldn’t be fair, but he could fish. Have some moments of peace and solitude before the world came crashing down around him. The only problem was the ache he felt at the thought of not seeing Hannibal again. Even the idea of it made it hard to breathe. Had him sitting up in bed in a cold sweat. And Will began to comprehend how trapped he truly was. 

The third day, Hannibal had to go to work in the city. Will waited until he heard his car make its way down the drive before he left his room. The house was pristine, Hannibal obviously using housework as a distraction. And when Will pulled open the fridge, he found several marked glass containers filled with leftovers, obviously prepared with Will in mind. Even though the sight made Will feel ill, two days without a full meal left Will hungry enough to push aside his angst. He heated up some soup, made himself a cup of coffee, and settled into his armchair with a lit fire.  

Then Will heard a car approaching along the gravel drive. When he peered out the window expecting Hannibal — irritated that he’d trick Will just to force a confrontation — he saw an unfamiliar, but obviously expensive car. His stomach sank as he considered who might be coming to visit on a day when Hannibal was known to be out of the house. Will briefly considered pretending he was out as well, but his car was in the drive and smoke was billowing out of the chimney. With a sigh, he went to the entryway and waited, pleased at least, to finally have the chance to give Ronaldo a piece of his mind unfiltered. When the bell rang and Will cracked it open, he found Ronaldo Garcia as expected, fidgeting nervously. And beside him was Jack Crawford. 

Will felt as though he were lifting out of his body, unable to make sense of what he was seeing. Or rather, refusing to accept it. His mind wasn’t clear enough to log all the implications of Jack’s presence there, but the first coherent thought that pierced the numbness was gratitude that Hannibal wasn’t there. Until it occurred to him that it was by design. 

“Jack,” Will said, shocked to find his voice as normal as it sounded. 

“Will. I’ve been looking for you.”

”You found me.” And Will was still blocking the doorway as if he could stop any of this happening if he just didn’t let them pass.

Rubbing his hands together in contrived coldness, Jack said, ”Mind if we come inside?” And for a minute, Will considered just refusing. But he shook that useless thought away almost immediately and moved aside, letting Jack and Ronaldo follow him in. 

Will led them to the living room, balking at the idea of Jack in an area as intimate as the bedrooms or kitchen, but when he reached it, he immediately regretted the decision. It painted a vivid picture. Hannibal’s unfinished composition was strewn across the harpsichord, a sharpened pencil there just waiting for him to continue. Will’s dog-eared book was resting on the side table by his armchair, a half drunk cup of coffee steaming as the fireplace popped and cracked cheerfully. There were two throw blankets on the twin armchairs, a concession to the colder nights when the fire alone was insufficient — Hannibal’s precisely folded and draped elegantly as a still from a magazine, and Will’s haphazardly thrown over the top of the other chair. And the chairs were side by side facing the flames, tilted towards each other, calling to mind an image of shared confidences by the firelight. The room told a very clear story about the contentment Will had found in this life with Hannibal — a story too precious to share with Jack or Ronaldo. And as perceptive as Jack was, Will didn’t want to imagine what conclusions he was drawing from every little detail.

Will took a seat in his armchair, leaving Jack and Ronaldo to the couch. Jack was still glancing around with poorly concealed curiosity, whereas Ronaldo looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Will’s gaze settled on Ronaldo and the man actually startled. The twitchy, sweating person before him bore almost no resemblance to the arrogant prick who’d brazenly tried to seduce Will in the garden. Will wondered how much Jack had told him. If he regretted treating a man that had killed two men — who‘d mutilated and staged a body like a grotesque modern art piece — as some coquettish ingenue he could overpower with his wealth and suggestive come-ons. He wondered if Ronaldo had looked up photos, and that brought a cruel smirk to his face that actually made Ronaldo flinch. Will’s smile grew teeth. “I’m surprised to see you here, Ronaldo. Didn’t think you had the stomach to be an FBI informant,” and Ronaldo looked away from Will’s eyes like a mouse hoping a cat will continue on by if he doesn’t look at him directly. And there was something so satisfying about not having to bother with any semblance of civility anymore. 

Jack smoothly intervened, “he doesn’t. He’s a friend of Mason Verger’s.”

Will blinked, “Mason Verger?”

”Yeah I think you remember him. The man who Hannibal induced to eat his own face? He’s got more than a bone to pick.”

”The FBI is working with Mason Verger?” Will said, the words helping to extinguish any lingering loyalty Will felt to that institution.

“Not the FBI, just me.”

And Will took that in as he scanned Jack with fresh eyes. He looked rough, like he’d aged ten years in the past couple of months. And rudderless, a shadow of his former self. Will had no doubt this version of Jack would be willing to do almost anything to bag the man responsible for his precipitous fall from grace.

Jack continued, “he was curious about your relationship with Hannibal and made inquiries among his connections in the meat industry. Which brought him to Mason.”

And Will’s stomach clenched so violently he thought he might be sick. In the end it had been his little tantrum at the party that had brought their past to their doorstep. Will was responsible for this. And Will turned to Ronaldo with such hatred then that Ronaldo seemed to give melting into his seat the old college try. Will had no doubt if he’d been alone with Ronaldo, he would have killed him with his bare hands. 

And Jack seemed to pick up on the shift in Will, as he continued, tone conciliatory, “Will, he didn’t even want to be involved in this after he learned the truth. But Mason can be very persuasive. As can I.”

Will grit his teeth, “Mason’s a psychopath, Jack.“ 

Jack shrugged as he continued wandering around the room, “maybe Freddie was right. Maybe it takes one to catch one. In this case we have a highly motivated one.”

”You’re coloring so far outside of the lines now, Jack, you can’t even see the picture anymore,” Will replied, barely keeping a lid on his anger, “You can’t actually think he’s going to hand Hannibal over to authorities. You’re in bed with the devil.”

That seemed to have struck a nerve, “From what I hear, you’re not in any position to be criticizing bedfellows, Will,” and Jack placed only the slightest emphasis on the word “bed.”

Will could feel a violent flush rise from his chest to the roots of his hair. He took a steadying breath before replying, “That’s a cover.”

Jack’s eyes softened with sympathy that was unbearable. Will looked away and forced his voice to sound as neutral as possible, “any plan involving Mason Verger is going to involve Hannibal’s slow torture and death. Are you comfortable being party to that, Jack?”

Jack’s face was grim and he looked as though he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, “my comfort is not my principal concern.”

Will scanned Jack rapidly as he took that in. The past few months must have been worse than Will imagined for Jack to have entirely abandoned his moral compass. “Where does that leave us then?” Will asked, unsure why he was getting a preview of whatever plot they were planning to spring.

Jack’s voice was irritatingly gentle again when he spoke, “I’m here for Hannibal, Will. But I’m also here for you. I put you out there, let you contort yourself into the perfect lure to hook a killer, and I could see you losing yourself in it, but I didn’t stop. I’m not going to cut bait now and leave you bobbing in rough currents.”

Will looked up at Jack with an incredulous frown, “I assisted in the escape of a serial killer, Jack. For all you know I’ve been killing people with him for months.”

Ronaldo paled noticeably at that, but Jack just barreled on, his voice rising, “I don’t want to hear anything about what you’ve gotten up to here, Will, and you don’t want to tell me,” he quieted again, “as far as I’m concerned everything you’ve done has been to maintain your deep cover. And the U.S. government happens to agree with me.” Jack unhooked the latch of his suitcase and pulled out a crisp stack of notarized papers, crossing to Will to place them in his hands. It was an immunity agreement. Will ran his fingers over the U.S. government seal absently. “And there’s one for local authorities too.”

Will stared dumbstruck at the pages, his voice soft and distant when he asked, “I thought you and the FBI were on the outs.”

Jack nodded faintly, “we are, resources have been diverted to terrorism, trying to put the Bureau’s public humiliation around Lecter behind them.”

”Your humiliation,” Will said, not even looking up. 

Jack paused, then said calmly, “Yes. My humiliation. But I still have a few friends in the prosecutor’s office, and they’re as hungry for Lecter as I am. It’s absolute immunity, Will, if you assist in the apprehension of Hannibal Lecter. The story will be that everything you did, you did at the behest of the U.S. government. You’re deserving of a hero’s welcome home,” Jack finished, sarcastically. 

A bitter laugh erupted from Will’s chest as he looked up. ”This is a new level of bullshit, Jack.”

Jack looked at Will carefully then, “is it? Can you say with absolute certainty that everything you’ve done with Lecter was of your own volition. That he hasn’t taken advantage of your empathy and vulnerability to persuasion to get exactly what he wanted from you?” And something about the way he said vulnerability had Will’s mind flashing to the last time Hannibal had touched him, how he used his hands to force Will to put words to things he never planned on admitting. 

Jack was watching Will closely and he clearly understood that his words had hit home, but he said nothing. 

”So Mason provides the muscle and the U.S. Attorney swoops in once you’re back on American soil to bring Hannibal Lecter to justice, is that right? And you think Mason will just do the right thing and hand him over? Didn’t think you bought into fairytale endings, Jack.”

Jack’s face shifted a touch graver, “I need an ending, Will. And if I can’t have the one I’d prefer, I’ll accept whatever’s on offer. Whether Lecter’s prosecuted or dead doesn’t make a whole lot of difference to me. Probably not to the U.S. Attorney either.” Will’s stomach tightened at that, his heart racing. And something must have shown on his face because Jack sighed, “alright, Will. If it’s a dealbreaker otherwise, it’ll take some doing, but I’m sure I can persuade Argentinian authorities to hold him until we can transfer him to U.S. custody through formal channels. Mason won’t have a chance to get his hands on him,” and Jack’s eyes were running rapidly over Will’s face now, assessing, “no one will hurt him. I swear,” he said with sincerity.

Will gave no response, ”where’s your muscle now?” 

“Mr. Garcia shared Hannibal’s work schedule. And I didn’t figure I’d need protection detail to have a conversation with you, Will. Was I wrong?” and he said it with such confidence it put Will’s teeth on edge. Will knew Jack already knew the answer. Jack thought the idea that Will could hurt him was laughable. And Will could understand why. This whole conversation, it had never once crossed his mind to try to kill or incapacitate Jack. 

“I could warn him. We could run.” Will said, just to see what Jack would say. 

And frustratingly, Jack just sighed. “It was a risk, but a calculated one. Abigail Hobbs shared some very helpful information about Hannibal’s properties and resources. Apparently Lecter sometimes left her conscious and alone when he took her to some other house he has on a cliff somewhere. We haven’t found the house yet, but he had paper files and laptops and I’ll hand it to her, the Hobbs girl’s clever. She could remember the town names for a lot of them. Didn’t remember bank account numbers, but could recall a lot of the banks. Gave us the names of at least five different cover identities. It’s enough that if he moves somewhere else, there’s a good chance we‘ll be able to find him quickly.”

Will suddenly found it hard to swallow, “but she didn’t know this place,” he rasped.

Jack nodded, conceding the point, ”no. She didn’t. We don’t know what we don’t know, but running again to any place he had before would be a risk. And if we can crack down on those banks, we can freeze his assets.”

Will took a second to absorb the full gravity of their situation. Abigail, Jack, probably Alana, even Mason fucking Verger were all working in tandem, hunting them. And he couldn’t believe he ever thought it would be so simple to leave it all behind. The peace they’d found here was an illusion. Staying with Hannibal meant running forever, always looking over his shoulder. He closed his eyes as that realization settled in his chest. 

And Jack, as intuitive as he was, played to Will’s panic. “Lecter’s done, Will. That doesn’t mean you need to be. You got lost,” Jack paused, swallowed, “I let you get lost. Again. But I won’t leave you out there alone this time.”

Will felt a swell of sadness at the genuine concern in Jack’s eyes. It was easy to ignore everything that came before when he and Hannibal were locked alone together in their little house, but he felt the pain of all he’d abandoned more acutely in this moment than he ever had. And inevitably, the agony of the past few days rose up in Will’s mind with brutal clarity. For all Hannibal’s protests, the uneasy connection they now shared had to have an expiration date. Will could have a half-life with Hannibal for a season or he could let this dream go and wake up. 

”If it makes a difference, Alana still has Winston,” and Will who’d been staring numbly into the middle distance turned back sharply at that. 

“What?”

Jack’s smile grew as he watched Will softly, “most of the dogs went to the dog sanctuary as requested, but she kept Winston. A lot of people thought she was crazy, don’t get me wrong,” he sighed deeply, “I might have been one of those people,” he said with a self-deprecating little grimace, but then his expression turned serious, and some emotion entered his voice, “I didn’t think I’d get a chance to have this talk with you, Will. I thought” he slid his hand down his face as he shook his head at the floor, “I thought you might be beyond reach,” he looked back up. “I lost the faith, but Alana never did. And I’m damn glad she didn’t.”

Will resented the warmth he felt growing in his chest. Despite Will’s resistance, Jack’s words were filling the fissures in his relationship with Hannibal that had formed over the past few days like water in the cracks of a sidewalk. He briefly allowed himself to imagine it, going back to his house in Wolf Trap, maybe getting some of the other dogs back from their new owners. He could still work with his hands, but he would do it from the familiarity of his old barn. Fix boat engines. Maybe plant a garden. 

Will was staring down at his hands and he could see Jack messing with something in his bag out of the corner of his eye. When Will looked up, he saw Jack was pulling out a pen and uncapping it, crossing to Will. “All you have to do is sign and all of this goes away.”

”As simple as that?” Will said absently.

”As simple as that,” Jack said, placing the pen in Will’s hand. 

Will turned to the signature page and stared down at it, the out-of-body sensation from earlier returning. After what must have been at least a minute of Will looking blankly at the paper in his hand, Jack spoke again, voice soft so as not to spook him, “I know the reality of this life with him isn’t everything you thought it would be.”

And Will wondered then what Ronaldo had shared about what he witnessed at his dinner party. Will could hardly remember anything about how they left the house after he saw Hannibal with Daniela. He recalled whispers and glances as he stalked through the drawing room, Hannibal pressing Will’s coat into his arms, holding the front door open for him. Will was sure now that they’d only been invited to give Ronaldo an opportunity to pressure test Will and Hannibal’s relationship. And the results spoke for themselves. Jack was here. A couple of the tears he’d kept at bay finally broke free and Will scrubbed roughly at his face. 

Jack was crouching now, meeting Will‘s eyes in that mix of sympathy and pity he always seemed to have when he looked at Will. “Don’t let Hannibal Lecter make you forget who you are, Will,” he said with his typical bullish tone, ”this has never been you. You don’t need to be confused about which way’s up.”

Will looked up at Jack then, mercifully the tears had stopped, but his voice still sounded ragged when he said, ”I haven’t been a lure, Jack, floating along on the river as the fish circled. I’ve been…at sea, being buffeted around and consumed by the waves,” he glanced back down at the paper, rubbing it between finger and thumb, ”and I‘m a long way from shore.” 

Jack put a heavy hand on Will’s shoulder and nodded again to the paper, “then take the buoy I’m tossing you, Will.”

Will looked back down at the thick paper used for official documents, and recalled Hannibal’s face as he turned Will away that final time. For all Hannibal’s careful control, his expression then had been a mirror of Will’s own anguish, cut through with resignation, as though Hannibal knew with certainty that Will could never be trusted with something as sacred as Hannibal’s heart. He thought about Jack coming here, tipping his hand, confident enough that he could persuade Will around to risk what could end up being their only shot at Hannibal. Alana keeping Winston for Will. Everyone who knew him at all was so certain that this flirtation with the darker side of his nature was a passing fancy. Will felt like a dice roll that hadn’t landed. And for the first time, Will understood with absolute clarity why Hannibal was so determinedly resisting him, why he couldn’t find it in himself to trust Will, for all that he so desperately wanted to. Will was straddling two worlds still, though he’d been unaware of it. Hannibal would never blind himself to Will’s instability, would never share himself entirely with a kite drifting, tetherless, changing direction with every shift in the wind. And knowing that made it easier to do what he needed to do. He signed the papers. 

Chapter Text

In the weeks following that night, Hannibal felt more powerless than he’d ever believed possible. There was no anger to respond to. Nothing to solve. Will wasn’t cold or standoffish after the first few days of avoidance. In fact, he was maddeningly polite. He simply wasn’t fully there. And while Hannibal couldn’t fault himself for being honest with Will, it was agonizing to see how diminished Will was as a result. More than that, while the bleakness of what lay before them wouldn’t persuade Hannibal to leave Will’s side, he had no such assurances from Will. And as he observed the sadness and resignation weigh Will down, Hannibal grew worried. 

He took to searching Will’s room on the rare occasion he was out of the house, making note of the number of shirts, pants, just to reassure himself that Will wasn’t covertly packing. He rummaged through his side table looking for plane tickets, checked every corner of his closet for a go-bag. Hannibal started locking the doors at night, despite their isolation, trusting that the clank of the ancient lock turning would be enough to wake him if Will tried to flee in cover of darkness. He worked in the city only when absolutely necessary, and when one day he arrived home to an empty house, he spent the two hours it took for Will to return paralyzed by panic, thinking through how he could track Will down, and imagining what he could possibly say when he found him to convince Will to come back.  

Hannibal’s only consolation was that his careful observation turned up nothing. There was no sign that Will was seeking an escape. Or so Hannibal thought. It was almost a month to the day after that night when Hannibal finally learned of Will’s plans for them. They were cooking dinner together, when Hannibal heard a soft rumble like a car driving nearby, a car that had no reason to be there, and one obviously taking the uneven road leading to their home slowly so as not to alert anyone to its presence. It was faint enough, he considered the possibility that it was some trick of the wind. But when he turned to Will to see if he’d heard anything, Will had paused in his chopping and was not so subtly leaning his head as if he were straining to hear as well. And then, abruptly, Will continued slicing carrots more loudly than before, head dipped down pointedly, trying a shade too hard to prove nothing was amiss. And Hannibal knew. 

The grief was significant, but when he reached for the fury he expected to feel, the urge to exact vengeance, he found his fingers grasping air. It simply wasn’t in him to hate Will for this anymore. The unfamiliar ache that filled his chest was purely sorrow, untainted by rage. It was strange to finally have confirmation of the lengths he’d go to for Will, but as he watched Will lean over the counter to reach for a bunch of celery, he knew with absolute clarity that if Will wanted to bring about Hannibal’s downfall, Hannibal would allow it. Hannibal felt oddly at peace when he heard someone trying to surreptitiously make their way across the driveway, inevitably disturbing the gravel with each step. Without saying anything to Will, Hannibal walked to the front door and opened it just as Jack Crawford reached their front porch. 

“Jack. Please, come in. I believe you’re expected.”

Jack startled, but mastered it impressively quickly. “Hello, Hannibal.“ And it was interesting to hear such contempt in Jack’s formerly pandering voice.

Hannibal returned to the kitchen, Jack in tow, and found Will standing with his hands hanging limply by his sides, his face a mask of stoicism, as he glanced back and forth between them. 

Hannibal crossed to his place at the counter and continued dicing onions. With his eyes on the cutting board he said, “it seems we’ve finally made it to our long-delayed dinner. Though I’m afraid we haven’t prepared a portion for you, Jack.“

Jack had been trying to share some silent communication with Will, but he turned back to Hannibal now, a wary frown on his face, “I’m not hungry.”

Hannibal finished dicing the onions and transferred them to the pan where they sizzled as Hannibal coated them in the hot butter, “I’m curious how long you’ve been planning this, Jack? Will?” He nodded in Will’s direction and Will twitched slightly at being included in the question.

Jack responded, “we found you with the help of Mason Verger.”

Hannibal nodded absently as he set the wooden spatula on the ceramic spoon rest; he should have foreseen that possibility. “The meat industry is rather insular. It was a risk.” He finished wiping his hands on his apron and looked back up, ”coming alone was brave, Jack.”

Jack smiled grimly, bearing his teeth, “I’m not alone. I have three men waiting with sniper rifles and glocks outside.”

“And you have Will inside,” Hannibal cast a sidelong glance in Will’s direction and found Will’s expression didn’t change at all this time. Hannibal turned back to Jack, “FBI or Argentinian authorities.”

“Neither.” 

And it took a moment for Hannibal to grasp the implications of that. “Ah, I’ll not be finding myself at the tender mercies of the BSHCI”

Jack’s mouth lifted in a ugly half-smile and he shrugged as he said, “my part in this is only to make a citizen‘s arrest.” 

“I see. Will, I’m curious, you were rather adamant that you had no interest in my death. Has that changed? Or perhaps it was never quite true. It is so difficult to tell with you.” He turned to Will, and looking at him, even as Will kept his eyes fixed on Jack, was gut-wrenching. But Hannibal was keenly aware these might be his last minutes in Will’s company for quite some time. So Hannibal took the opportunity to memorize all the intricacies of his scent, the ever fluctuating color of his eyes, how softly his hair fell in contrast to his gruff expression, the steady sound of his breath. All of this he soaked up like a flower in the sun. 

At Hannibal’s question, Jack turned to Will with a concerned look, “Mason Verger provided certain… resources for the operation. But,” and he sounded resigned as he said the rest, “Argentinian authorities have been notified. When we have you subdued, local law enforcement will intervene and you’ll be transferred to U.S. custody.”

Jack was speaking to Hannibal, but his eyes were on Will as if he were the one being reassured. Hannibal didn’t know whether he should be pleased that Will made his participation contingent on Hannibal’s survival, or whether he should feel heartbroken that Will had been involved enough in the planning of the operation to dictate terms. Both he decided, was a fair place to land. 

And Hannibal realized that Will’s eyes were running over his face now as if reading those thoughts right out of his head. There was more overlap in their minds now than there had ever been. Will’s own mind palace was growing, and it shared some rooms with Hannibal’s own. Eyes fixed just past Hannibal’s shoulder, Will said, “what we had was unsustainable. A decision had to be made.” It was regrettable that Will wouldn’t look at him. He wanted to look into those eyes one more time, but he had plenty of Will’s glances, his smiles, locked away in the halls of his memory. Enough to sustain him. 

“Was our life here really so miserable for you, Will?” And unfortunately, when Hannibal heard his own voice, it had none of the cool indifference he’d expected. He sounded wounded, his voice breaking embarrassingly. Even Jack looked taken aback by it.

Hannibal thought he saw Will‘s cold mask crack for an instant, but when Will’s eyes finally met Hannibal’s they were opaque, any softness that remained in him locked tightly away. Hannibal found, for once, he envied Will’s composure. 

“This life wasn’t what either of us wanted. It never could have been,” and the honesty in those words pierced Hannibal’s chest. Then Will’s face shifted into something unkind and the sting grew to an ache, ”What was that you said about Abigail? ‘What happened to her had to happen?’ The same is true here. There was no place for us in this world as you wanted us to be.” And there at last was some anger, resentment. It hurt to see that Will only allowed bitter emotion to break through, but Hannibal was nevertheless grateful that Will was looking at him at all. Perhaps one day Will would come to regret what was done here. Hannibal jealously hoped that this moment would prove to be an inflection point in his life. That the guilt of destroying something that loved him irrevocably would eat at Will until the day he died. That Will would become as incapable of moving on from Hannibal as Hannibal was from him.

”It seems I was wise not to offer more,” and Will flinched slightly, but noticeably. 

Jack was looking between them frowning, at last realizing that he didn’t have the full story. But Will’s speech had seemingly reassured him of Will’s commitment to the cause. 

Hannibal turned back to Jack, “I’m curious why you left your men outside. Did you believe I’d come relatively quietly?”

Jack regarded Hannibal for a moment, ”maybe I needed Will to be the one to take you down.” Jack said, a challenge in his eyes. And that was clearly the truth of it. 

“Ah.” Hannibal turned to Will who looked completely unsurprised. He’d expected Jack to ask this of him. Hannibal brought his wrists together in front of him, “are you going to do the honors?”

Will just stared at him, his brow furrowed in confusion. It took him a few seconds to form a response, “you expect either of us to believe you’re just going to let this happen without a fight?”

“You may believe what you wish, but if this is your choice for our future, Will, I’ll allow it,” and Will’s frown deepened, his eyes darting across Hannibal’s face trying to understand. After a moment, Hannibal caught Will’s shifting gaze, “for what it’s worth, Will, I am sorry that I couldn’t give you what you needed,” and he watched the bob of Will’s throat as he swallowed.  

Hannibal could see Will’s mind whirring, his expression still a touch incredulous. But then Will dropped his head, having come to some decision, and in the next moment he was moving towards Hannibal, tension in every step, as if poised for a fight. “Get your gun on him, Jack.” Will said, not moving his eyes off of Hannibal for a second as Jack complied, “and put your hands behind your back, Hannibal.” Will said firmly, but surprisingly softly. Hannibal wished the tone had been as cruel as the act. Still he obeyed Will in this as he did all things. 

He dropped to his knees, in supplication before Will at last, heart in hand. And now he knew precisely how callously Will would use it. He heard Will catch the handcuffs Jack threw him, then felt the cold metal wrap snugly around each wrist. He closed his eyes for a moment, not wanting to risk seeing Will’s face as he did this. 

Will stepped away from Hannibal immediately, going to stand beside Jack, as he’d apparently always been destined to. They were both looking down at Hannibal in different degrees of disbelief. Will turned slightly to Jack and lowered his voice, more to signal that the words weren’t for Hannibal’s ears than to actually prevent his hearing them. “Get your guys in here, Jack. Just because he’s playing docile now doesn’t mean he’s going to stay that way. And he doesn’t need his hands to kill either of us.”

Jack nodded and lifted his phone pressing a button, then seconds later three men in tactical gear burst through the door, all with rifles trained on Hannibal. Two stood before him, pointing them at his head, while the last kneed him in the back until Hannibal was belly down on the floor. 

Will pointed at the handgun in one of their belts, head turned to Jack, “do you mind? I’d feel a bit better about this armed,” he turned back to Mason’s men who were glaring at him, “no offense to you or your skills, but you have no idea what this man’s capable of.”

Jack watched Will for a second, then nodded, directing one of the men to hand Will his gun. Will immediately lifted it, cocked it, and pointed it at Hannibal’s head, backing away out of the line of fire of the other two men. 

Hannibal strained his neck to meet Will’s eyes from his position on the floor, his voice gravelly, “if it comes to it, Will, please don’t do anything as impersonal as shooting me. You know neither of us would find satisfaction in that end.”

“I’ll do what’s necessary,” was all Will said as Jack walked a few feet away to make a call.

And Hannibal saw the opening to escape. The man behind him was likely clutching the trigger of his gun, overeager. If Hannibal kicked out his legs, the man’s shot would go wide, and there would be a moment of panic from the others. Hannibal could likely rip out the throats of the other two before they got a shot off, and long before Jack could rally a response. The only wildcard was Will. He still doubted that Will was capable of killing him by his own hand after everything they’d shared. But it would be a gamble. And then there was the larger issue: what would be the point? If Will meant to betray him, leave him. If he wanted him dead or imprisoned, the thought of fighting his way out just to leave Will behind held little appeal. And if he were transferred to the BSHCI, escape was always viable, and if not, perhaps Will would come back to him some day. It would buy them time. Ironically, there was finality in escaping, possibility in capture. He let himself go lax and gave in to this, the best of all options. 

But then three shots rang out in rapid succession, and he saw blood splash on the floor before him. It took Hannibal an uncharacteristically long time to realize he was not the one hit. The bodies of Mason’s men slumped to the floor before him, holes cleanly through the back of each of their heads and he heard the man behind him drop to the floor with a thump as well. Hannibal lifted back up onto his knees and found Jack with a cell phone hanging limply from one hand, his arms raised in surrender. Will’s gun was trained on his head. 

“End the call, Jack.”

”Will. Don’t do this.” He was on the edge of shouting, that domineering tone he often used to bowl over Will, but Will was unbowed this time. 

“Hang up the phone. Drop it to the floor and kick it to Hannibal.”

Jack just stared at him for a second, seething, but then he did as Will asked. The phone skidded and hit Hannibal’s knee, and he looked up at Will, taking far longer than usual to process what was happening. 

“One of your cuffs is undone, Hannibal,” he said with unexpected gentleness, ”you should be able to shake out of it and then pull the other open.” And after a beat, Hannibal tried it and found the left cuff just shy of clicked in place. 

“Go through his phone and find Abigail’s number, please.”

”Will,” Jack warned. 

Hannibal did as Will asked, then looked up, helpless to do anything, but follow Will’s direction. 

“Dial the number and put it on speaker.”

Hannibal did and the phone rang twice before Abigail’s cautious voice sounded across the line, “Hi, Agent Crawford.”

”Abigail. It’s Will.”

There was a long pause then, Abigail’s sharp mind assessing the situation. “Hello, Will,” a pause, “is Jack alive?”

”Not for long.”

And for once Jack and Hannibal were on exactly the same page, shooting Will twin expressions of astonishment.  

“Will, please,” Jack said gravely, and Hannibal was pleased to see that all Jack’s bluster had vanished. 

”I want you to understand something, Abigail. Hannibal would have slit your throat before we left Baltimore if I hadn’t stayed his hand. And you used my mercy to harm us. I won’t let my weakness endanger us again.”

”Will, I —” and Hannibal could hear her voice softening, affecting fragility to manipulate Will as she often did. Hannibal wondered idly if it would still work, and got his answer when Will spoke over her. 

“Jack shared all the information you gave them.”

Jack’s brow furrowed in confusion at that. Will looked him in the eye, “he wasn’t always aware that he was sharing it. You shouldn’t leave sensitive paperwork just lying around your hotel room, Jack.” And that had Jack closing his eyes, his lip curling in self-reproach at his naivety.

“I also know you’re smart enough to keep the best stuff back as insurance and to make yourself indispensable should the need arise.” Will took a deep breath, ”if you share anything else with the FBI, I’ll help Hannibal kill you. Or I’ll do it myself.”

There was no equivocation in those words. It was a promise Will meant to keep. And Abigail could clearly hear the determination and sincerity in his voice.

After a moment she responded, ”I understand.”

Then, at last, some of Will’s affection for Abigail resurfaced however briefly as he pleaded, “please don’t put me in that position, Abigail.”

There was a longer silence on the other end of the line, “I won’t. Goodbye, Will.” 

And then the call rang off. No one moved or spoke for a long moment. Then, shaking himself slightly, Will met Jack’s eyes and took a deep breath as he lined up his shot. “Will,” Jack said in the precise voice he used to placate volatile suspects, “think clearly about this. You know everything the U.S. government knows about Hannibal Lecter now. And Abigail is smart. She won’t double cross you. Let me go and you two can leave the country. Disappear.”

Will was silent for a long moment and Hannibal truly couldn’t guess what Will would do. “I’m sorry, Jack,” and it was clear Will really was sorry. “You’ll never stop hunting us. You’ll keep the case alive, even when the Bureau wants to bury it and forget. We’ll never find peace. I can’t allow that.”

”The peace to kill with impunity you mean?” Will flinched and Jack saw and exploited the opening, his voice growing plaintive, “come on Will. That is not you. You aren’t the Chesapeake Ripper. You aren’t a murderer. You just had yourself playing one. Don’t get lost in the game and forget who you really are.”

Will’s eyes sharpened, and Jack realized he’d misplayed his hand, “I‘m not lost. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” Will said with more conviction than he’d had in their exchange so far. And he started taking aim again, as Jack’s eyes widened.

”Will, wait. Please. I’m your friend. I care about you.” Hannibal could see Jack’s mind scrambling for anything to say. Eventually, voice raised as he pointed at Hannibal’s kneeling form, he said, “this is the man who had you falsely imprisoned.”

Will tilted his head in acknowledgement, ”and technically the man who freed me,”

”He killed Beverly, Will.” Jack said softly. 

And Will’s steady hold on the gun faltered for a moment. Hannibal felt the sting of that accusation more sharply than any other. He would never have chosen to kill Beverly Katz if Will hadn’t forced his hand. He’d liked her, as he knew Will had. And although Will would never admit it to himself, Hannibal suspected that deep down, Will understood that he shared part of the blame for her loss.

”I know he did,” Will said, voice faint, then he went on with more strength, “I haven’t forgotten a single thing he’s done. It just doesn’t matter”

”How can slaughtering dozens of people and eating them at dinner parties not matter to you, Will?” And Jack was forgetting his bid for calm, falling back on his usual browbeating.

“Because I’m in love with him, Jack.”

And there was a sudden ringing in Hannibal’s ears at hearing Will confess that so simply. Although Hannibal’s body had remained relatively unaffected thus far, his heart was pounding now. Hannibal saw Jack’s face fall as the inevitability of his situation dawned on him with Will’s words. He gave up trying to bully Will into submission. He was no longer negotiating. This was begging. 

“Please, Will. Please don’t do this. I swear I won’t—”

”Stop talking, Jack. There’s nothing you could say.”

”Bella, Will. Please don’t do this to her.”

And Will closed his eyes briefly again, that emotional appeal resonating. But only for a second. There was an apology plain in Will’s eyes when they opened again, but no hesitation. 

“I really am sorry,” and with a deep breath, Will pulled the trigger, the bullet landing squarely between Jack’s eyes, killing him instantly. 

In the silent moments after the shot rang out, Will stood there, staring at Jack’s body as if still trying to comprehend what he’d done. And as minutes passed, Hannibal feared this kill may have pushed an already fragile Will to the very edge of what his mind could survive. 

“Will?” he tried softly.

As soon as those words broke the silence, Will shook off the fugue, and turned to Hannibal. He searched Hannibal’s face for a moment, then crossed to kneel beside him, scanning him for injuries, seemingly indifferent to how his pant legs immediately soaked through with blood, “did they hurt you?” 

“I’m fine,” Will quirked his eyebrow skeptically at that, and somehow that small expression, that was so quintessentially Will, brought the reality of the situation home for Hannibal. The door to the past had been open, and Will had every reason to walk through it, but still Will had not betrayed him. More than that, he’d shed blood, the blood of someone important to him, to preserve this life with Hannibal. Because he loved Hannibal. The truth of those words was still finding its footing in Hannibal’s mind and heart. But some unyielding heaviness that Hannibal had been carrying, the doubt incessantly pressing down on his chest, had lifted in the face of Will’s decisive act of loyalty.

Will was still searching Hannibal’s face and there was an apology in his voice when he finally said, “we have to go. Jack did notify the Argentinian national police and if they don’t hear from him, they’ll come here. They know our cover identities.”

”I see.” Hannibal’s mind felt lethargic as he tried to think of a plan, strained by the whiplash of too many turnabouts. “I have another set of identification papers that we can use. If those identities haven’t already been burned by Abigail.”

”We have no choice, we’ll have to try it even if they are. I’ve packed for us, but you might want to pack more. If you grab the papers, we should be able to get out of here in fifteen minutes.”

”I — alright, Will.”

Will was already standing, heading for his room, giving Jack’s body a wide berth, when he called back to Hannibal, ”and we should take their van.”

Ten minutes later, they were gone, and the gray smoke rising from the hastily doused fireplace was the only sign of life remaining in their little farmhouse

*********** 

As it turned out, the identities Hannibal had ready to go didn’t set off any alarm bells so they were able to exit the country without fanfare. Still, in an abundance of caution, when they reached Cairo, they had a talented forger Hannibal had worked with in the past create new identities for them. Those weeks were the most exhausting in Will’s memory. They never stayed in any one place for longer than a handful of days. It was a blur of red-eye flights and shitty hotel rooms as they crisscrossed the globe, muddying their trail as best they could. Eventually they boarded the flight to their final destination, and when they reached the little cabin in the Swedish countryside that they would be calling home for the foreseeable future, Will was almost too rundown to appreciate how idyllic it was. 

They collapsed into their beds minutes after they walked through the front door and Will slept for fourteen hours straight.  

The next day, Will woke to find his lunch warming in the oven, Hannibal already in the thick of preparations for what looked to be an elaborate dinner. Christening their new home, he said. They hadn’t had much opportunity to discuss what happened with Jack — their lives since then had been frenetic and at the mercy of flight schedules. And Will was more than okay with that. Those first couple of weeks on the run, what little sleep Will managed to eke out was regularly interrupted by nightmares of Jack’s eyes just before he pulled the trigger. His corpse lying still as blood pooled around him. Or worse, memories of laughter shared over meals or in those quiet moments between cases. And while Will wouldn’t change it, he appreciated the reprieve from being asked to talk about it. 

For more or less the same reason, Will hadn’t seen any of the media coverage of their escape. No interviews. No articles. He blocked the tattlecrime website from searches so he wouldn’t accidentally catch a headline. At some point he realized that he’d followed their coverage so religiously last time just to maintain some link to that life, however tenuous. But there wasn’t any reason to look back anymore.

Hannibal tended to imbue certain meals with almost ritualistic significance. They were waypoints for him, between past and future, and as Will watched Hannibal massage the meat for what promised to be several courses of meticulously prepared fare, Will sensed this dinner would have that resonance. And he was proven right when, later that evening, midway through the entree course, Hannibal finally asked a question he’d no doubt been holding onto for weeks, ”how long were you working with Jack, Will?”

Will swallowed his bite before answering, ”about three weeks. He only approached me after — well, after Ronaldo’s dinner party.”

Hannibal nodded looking down at his plate, “what did he offer for your assistance with my capture?”

”Full immunity. My job and house, restored. And Winston, apparently. Hitting the reset button.”

Hannibal glanced up at Will’s face, ”were you tempted?”

Will frowned, “would you have been?” 

Hannibal tilted his head to the side, conceding the point, “you could have killed Jack at any time. You could have warned me. But you chose to allow the situation to unfold organically, to guarantee a dramatic denouement. I’m curious why.” And Will knew that this was the question Hannibal had been itching to ask since they left Argentina. Will could have given a lot of reasons. There were practical and logistical considerations that entered into the timing of things. But that wouldn’t have been the truth. 

”I needed you to bear witness. To see me make the choice and have no doubts about why I was making it.” And Hannibal’s expression stuttered for a moment as they both remembered exactly what Will had said to Jack about why he did what he did. Will’s admission about his feelings had, thus far, gone completely ignored by Hannibal and Will had no idea what to make of the lack of response. 

Sensing the lull in Hannibal’s interrogation, Will took the opportunity to ask the question that had been plaguing him since that night. “Why didn’t you fight? I’d been counting on your help incapacitating Jack. I had to improvise once you decided to play the submissive captive.”

Hannibal had been staring absently into the distance, but he glanced back at Will as he considered the question, “I’m afraid I fully believed your performance, Will, and assumed my surrender was what you wanted.”

Will had expected that response. Still it hurt to hear it confirmed. “It really never occurred to you that I’d protect what we had?” 

Hannibal met his eyes, and there was an apology in them, “at that point, no. Though I do regret my flawed perception of you.”

Will watched him, something else still bothering him, “even if you thought I was against you, why didn’t you fight back?” 

Hannibal looked down again, cutting his steak with excessive care, ”I made my peace with whatever fate you chose for us, Will. Even if that was my demise or incarceration.”

Hannibal managed to say that casually, like it wasn’t a seismic declaration. 

Will took a moment to steady himself in the wake of it, “you would have let me kill you?” 

A pause, then quietly, eyes on his wine glass as he lifted it to his lips, ”I would have.”

Will swallowed, ”would you still?”

Hannibal met Will’s eyes, ”do you want to?”

And Will shuddered at the mere thought. Hannibal raised his glass in a gesture that said, “you see?” And Will allowed the topic to drop, even though Hannibal hadn’t answered the question at all. 

*************

Early on in the days after their escape from Argentina, Will considered going to Hannibal in the night. But every time he made it to his own bedroom door, he’d find himself dithering at the threshold, some bizzare insecurity or fear getting in the way. Will was sitting up in bed reading, wondering absently if he’d find the strength to seek out Hannibal now that they were more or less settled again, but his musings were cut short by Hannibal appearing in his bedroom doorway.

Hannibal’s face was unreadable as usual and he stood stock still, taking Will in, eyes lingering on Will’s bare chest. Something about Hannibal’s scrutiny and stoicism had a prickle of anxiety building in Will’s chest, and he had to break the silence. “Hi,” was all he could think to say, and he immediately felt like an idiot. Until Hannibal smirked at him and some tension seemed to drain from Hannibal’s frame. “Hello, Will.”

Will gave him a tentative smile in return, ”something you need?”

And the intensity in Hannibal’s eyes then was unnerving, as it often was. 

Hannibal walked towards Will —  or stalked rather — eyes scanning Will from his head to his duvet-covered toes, and the effect was so predatory, Will wondered if Hannibal was even capable of a different mode at this point. When he reached Will, he sat heavily on the bed beside him, eyes never leaving his face. They remained like that long enough that Will was about to say something more, when Hannibal finally took Will’s face in hand and pressed a kiss to his lips. 

It wasn’t the teasing thing from before. There was intent here, something unrestrained in how Hannibal consumed Will’s mouth. And Will already felt himself drifting; wanted nothing more than to melt into it. But he couldn’t do this without understanding what Hannibal meant by it. He pulled back, keeping his forehead pressed to Hannibal’s to show it wasn’t a rejection, “what are you looking for from this?” he asked and Hannibal didn’t respond right away, his slightly labored breath tickling Will’s lips. Will continued, “I can’t do what we were doing before. Not anymore.” It was only as Will spoke the words that he realized how true they were. 

Hannibal pulled back and held Will’s eyes. There was still a dark kind of arousal swimming in his gaze, but his expression was otherwise inscrutable, “you killed Jack Crawford to save me. Even when you believed we’d never have the connection you craved.”

Hearing what he’d done to Jack spoken out loud was harder than Will expected. His eyes closed as he involuntarily recalled the disappointment and regret in Jack’s face right before Will pulled the trigger. “Yes,” Will answered, his voice small. 

Hannibal brought his hand to the back of Will’s head, running fingers through his hair in an uncharacteristic gesture of comfort, “and you did this because you’re in love with me.”

It was almost embarrassing hearing Hannibal say it, but Will opened his eyes and met Hannibal’s, needing him to understand the truth of it, “yes.”

Their eyes held for a moment before Hannibal spoke, ”I believe you, Will.” The swell of relief Will felt then was staggering. For the first time, there was nothing at all tentative about the hope coursing through him. 

Still holding Hannibal’s eyes, Will pressed, “so, what are you here for then, Hannibal?”

Hannibal pushed aside a stray curl that was tickling Will’s eyelash and tucked it somewhat ineffectively behind his ear, “I’m here to make love to you, if you’ll have me.” Despite his gentle tone, those words slammed into Will’s chest like a freight train, and Will’s arousal surged to life. 

“Please, Hannibal. Please,” Will rasped, and that was all the invitation Hannibal needed apparently. Hannibal was pressing Will back gently against the bed, biting and licking at Will’s lips, tasting them. After a moment, Hannibal brought his mouth to Will’s throat, leaving sucking kisses as he went. When he reached the pulse point, he pulled the tender skin between his teeth sharply, then mouthed at the spot, sucking hard enough to bruise. When Will realized that Hannibal was intentionally leaving a mark, he couldn’t help groaning. He felt Hannibal smile into Will’s neck, and Will knew whatever Hannibal did next would be unfairly mind-blowing, as it always was. But Will couldn’t allow it yet.

“Stop.” Will said softly, and Hannibal was up and off Will so fast it left Will blinking in surprise. Hannibal was sitting back on his heels, searching Will’s face with a thread of worry. 

Will hurried to reassure him, “that felt amazing.”

Hannibal said nothing, just continued listening. 

“But I need to touch you, Hannibal.”

And Will saw some emotion cross Hannibal’s face then — yearning tempered by a sliver of anxiety. Will forcibly quashed the hurt he felt at Hannibal’s reaction. 

“If you still don’t — look if you don’t want that, we can keep doing this. This is enough.” It took effort to push those words past his lips. Will made himself mean them. 

Hannibal searched Will’s face, something thoughtful in his expression. Then his hand gripped Will’s jaw firmly, holding his eyes. “I do trust you, Will. In this and in all things.” Hannibal’s speech had the cadence of a vow, and to hear him take back the words that had nearly broken them only weeks earlier left Will reeling.

”I believe I’ve held the reins long enough. What would you like to do, Will?” Hannibal said with a slight smile as he released Will’s chin. And Will knew exactly what he needed from Hannibal, “I want to touch you. And I want you to fuck me.”

Hannibal’s eyes shut instantly, as if he were bringing himself under control. “Yes,” he said, eyes still closed, and when they reopened and met Will’s, they were inky with a mixture of yearning and desire that bordered on obsession. Will suspected his own expression was similar.

Will kissed Hannibal roughly, running hands through his chest hair, gripping his ass, touching everywhere he could reach, any shyness at his inexperience vanishing as months of longing came to a head. When he bit Hannibal’s lip hard enough that he tasted the metallic tang of Hannibal’s blood on his tongue, Hannibal groaned, pressing his body almost painfully against Will’s. The taste of Hannibal, the feel of him, and the unabashed sounds he was making had Will groaning in response. Then Will slid his hand down Hannibal’s body and finally took his cock in hand. It was thicker than Will’s, silky, and at the first touch, Hannibal’s eyes shut tight as his face contorted into a pained grimace. Will could see him biting his lip fiercely to keep the noises down. That wouldn’t do.

“Let me hear you.” And Hannibal hesitated for a moment before he nodded slightly, and the next time Will stroked slowly, firmly, down Hannibal’s cock, Hannibal let out a groan that Will felt in his toes. 

Will started stroking more quickly, needing to draw out more sounds. ”I don’t want you holding anything back,” he said, eyes fixed on Hannibal’s face. And Hannibal didn’t. It turned out an uninhibited Hannibal was very vocal and deliciously responsive, reacting to the twists of Will’s hand or tongue with a symphony of needy little moans that Will was certain Hannibal never intended for anyone to hear. Will realized that he was finally witnessing the naked vulnerability Hannibal had hidden so thoroughly from Will. And as he took in every groan and grunt, watched how Hannibal’s body moved instinctively, helplessly, to meet every stroke of Will’s hand, Will was immeasurably grateful that Hannibal didn’t give this away easily. The idea of anyone else ever seeing this, ever having seen it, made Will’s fist tighten around Hannibal in a way that should have been painful, but just made Hannibal moan more loudly, thrust harder. And Will smiled, making note of that reaction to rough treatment for further exploration another time.

And the realization that they would have a next time, and a time after that. A lifetime of next times had Will’s eyes growing hot. Will had to kiss him then. Not the biting, teasing, insistent kisses they’d been sharing as Will got Hannibal hard, but a soft promise, that his trust was not misplaced, that his love would be earned. And Hannibal obviously picked up on the difference in the tenor of the kiss, saw it for the oath that it was, because he stopped wriggling and bucking up, seeking Will’s hand, and fell totally still, meeting Will’s soft mouth with something sweet and heartbreakingly tender of his own. More than words and pledges of fidelity, this kiss felt like a seal on their new union. A door opening to something beautiful.

”Make love to me, Hannibal.” Will gasped when they pulled apart to catch their breath. And the expression on Hannibal’s face then was rapturous.

When they finally came together, it felt to Will as though their edges were eroding, blurring. And even after they’d both finished and were laying together, panting and still clinging to whatever skin they could reach of the other, Will felt the strangest sensation that they were truly of a piece now. There was a oneness that had not existed before. Separation would never be an option now. For either of them. Will took great comfort in it. 

“May I stay here tonight?” Hannibal asked quietly, stroking the curls at the back of Will’s head. 

Will could only chuckle drily, “I wouldn’t let you leave.”

Regret crossed Hannibal’s face briefly and Will knew he was recalling how many nights Will had made the solitary walk back to his room, crawled under cold sheets, sore and painfully alone. “Will. I’m sorry for —“

“I’m not,” Will interrupted, kissing Hannibal’s forehead as he turned and pulled Hannibal’s arms around his middle until his back was enveloped entirely in the warmth of Hannibal’s chest. He shut his eyes and found slumber easily with Hannibal’s soft breath in his ear. 

*********

Life was quieter here. There wasn’t a bustling social scene or an opera. There were a handful of mediocre museums in nearby cities. A venue that occasionally had community theater productions that felt very homegrown. Hannibal had a few work colleagues at the small medical practice he joined when they arrived; Will had a few colleagues from the docks as well, but they were decidedly not the dinner party type. It all suited Will just fine, but Will wondered sometimes if the monotony would eventually drive Hannibal mad. They were enjoying exploring every aspect of their new dynamic, which was now much more than bouts of enthusiastic, and occasionally quite athletic, sex. They had found a level of contentment together that gave every unremarkable moment of their daily lives a sprig of zest. 

They took walks together in the woods around their property. Took day trips to test out the restaurant scene in nearby cities and towns. Will even brought Hannibal ice fishing, an idea Hannibal loved in concept — for the skill involved and the opportunity to procure fresh protein — and hated in practice, after three hours of sitting in sub-zero temperatures with only four bony fish to show for it. But they both enjoyed warming Hannibal up afterwards, first by the fire with mugs of Mexican hot chocolate made from cacao that Hannibal processed himself, and then with Will’s hot mouth around Hannibal — something he’d picked up quickly and discovered he enjoyed more than almost any other sexual act. 

And six months into their peaceful life in Sweden, Hannibal interrupted their simple routine to take Will on a month-long trip to Florence. 

*********

At times, it felt to Hannibal as though he’d never left Florence. The winding cobblestone sidestreets, the family-owned boutiques and proprietors of Italian leather who’d been there for generations, the variety of urban scents all imprinted on his mind creating a sense memory that would remain with him always. Florence felt as close to a home as he had left in the world. And sharing this place with Will gave him immeasurable joy. Fortunately, Will was appropriately awed by all of it, from the masterpiece-laden galleries of the Uffizi to the majesty of the Duomo and the David. They’d been there for three weeks and Hannibal could easily have stayed for a year more, never tiring of watching Will tread the paths he’d walked in his youth. Since their arrival, Will had taken to sleeping in; he seemed less troubled here than Hannibal had ever seen him in his life, and it was a warming sight. Normally, Hannibal sat on the terrace of their apartment looking out on the river, drawing the cityscape from every angle until Will emerged, sleep rumpled and lovely. But he left Will behind today.

If Will asked, he’d tell him that he was out walking, assuage his curiosity with pastries from Will’s favorite bakery a few streets away. But that was not his real purpose. There was some discomfort at the idea of lying to Will, even in this, but it was necessary, at least for now. He selected a cafe on the Piazza Della Signoria at random, claimed a table for two, and ordered a cappuccino. It was only a matter of minutes before the seat across from him scraped back. 

Abigail looked different — older. There were only traces of the emotionally volatile teen he’d grown to know, tried to shape. The formidable young woman she was always destined to become sat in her place. 

She flagged down the server, ordering an espresso in crisp Italian, and turned to Hannibal, “I figured you two would show up eventually.”

Hannibal nodded, sipping from his cup, “what brings you to Florence, Abigail?”

“I’m in school here.”

”To study?” 

She tucked her hair behind her remaining ear. “Medicine actually. I figured it might be nice to learn how to heal things.”

Hannibal suspected she had an equal interest in learning the anatomy necessary to efficiently kill things, but he kept that observation to himself. And there was something almost sweet about Abigail following in his footsteps so closely. Her choice no doubt raised eyebrows back home.  

“You’ll make a fine doctor,” and her pale skin reddened in a blush.

“I saw you here yesterday when I took Will to the Caravaggio Exhibition at the Uffizi. And a few days before that when we had lunch near the Piazza del Duomo. You’ve been following us.”  

She nodded, unashamed, but remained silent. Then she caught Hannibal’s eyes. “I needed to understand.”

Hannibal tilted his head, “and do you?”

Abigail frowned slightly, “I think so.” Looking up at Hannibal she asked, “it was always about him, wasn’t it? Everything you engineered with my dad. Saving me, killing me. Keeping me for him, gift wrapped,” and interestingly there was no anger in her voice. Just curiosity.

“It was. Though, I admit, I enjoyed our time together.” 

And her face pinkened again predictably, always so affected by even the slightest validation from Hannibal. She really was still so very young.

They sipped their drinks in companionable silence for a time, then Abigail asked, seemingly without any fear, “are you going to kill me?”

Hannibal didn’t look up from his cappuccino, “Will wouldn’t like it.” And that was answer enough these days. ”Do you plan to share what you’ve found with the FBI, or with Mason Verger?”

And her lip curled then, whether at the mention of Mason or the FBI, Hannibal couldn’t be sure. He amended, “or perhaps with Alana Bloom?” 

Abigail huffed in irritation, as if insulted by the question, “I’m not going to tell anyone anything,” but then her face softened, “I just want to put everything with you and Will and my dad behind me.” And for all that Hannibal knew that Abigail was duplicitous by nature and occasionally capricious, he believed her entirely. He could see why she’d be inclined to shed her former self. Abigail was flourishing here in the Tuscan sun, surrounded by strangers who knew nothing of her sordid history. She seemed comfortable in her own skin for the first time since he’d met the scared, traumatized girl in her hospital room. It was a new reality worth preserving. And a thought occurred to Hannibal then as he eyed her speculatively. 

“Will you help to keep us hidden then?”

Abigail looked up at him and the emotion in her eyes reminded him inescapably of Will. It was a shame that he would no longer be able to tolerate sharing any of Will’s affection, as Abigail truly was the perfect blend of them both. Their progeny already without any further influence from either of them. Will’s emotionality, his boundless capacity for rage and gentleness, and Hannibal’s calculation and appreciation for brutality. He would enjoy watching her blossom over the years, even though he had no intention of ever seeing her in person again. 

Abigail was still searching his face, but in the end she said, clear-eyed and solemn, “I will.” And Hannibal was surprised to find that her promise left him feeling a touch lighter. He had no doubt moral considerations would have no bearing on what she was willing to do to keep her word. 

“Thank you, my dear,” and the smile she gave him then made her positively glow.

”Would you like to see Will?” And he could see she hadn’t missed the significance of the offer — recognized the display of trust for what it was. 

“That’s ok. We’re having such a nice time. No need to ruin it by making you share.” She shot Hannibal a knowing smirk, and Hannibal smiled back, surprised at the satisfaction he felt at the understanding between them. Their bond was unique. She had seen him more clearly than anyone in his life, aside from Will, and Hannibal could admit to himself that he would miss Abigail. They passed the next half hour easily together, looking out across the piazza. And when their drinks were finished, the tourists already eying their table covetously, they met each other’s eyes and rose in unison. No more words of farewell passed between them. Abigail went left, making her way back to the Universita di Firenze and Hannibal went right, towards the river, where he knew he’d find Will, still wrapped up in blankets in their four poster bed. 

*************

Hannibal headed for the kitchen when he arrived home, plating the pastries he’d purchased for Will beside a freshly brewed cup of espresso, and setting them both on a tray, a small vase with a single, vibrant bloom of iris completing the effect

He pushed open the door and was greeted by Will’s bright smile, the new smile he’d been wearing since they finally consummated their bond. It was a guileless, incandescent thing, his joy on full display each time it broke across his face. Hannibal had expected the swoop in his stomach and the warmth in his chest that he felt when he first saw it to fade with time. He knew rationally that at some point they would, but nearly seven months on, they’d yet to diminish at all. Will looked younger these days for how carefree he seemed, even as Hannibal could see the marks of age that had accumulated over the years. He found the occasional strand of gray when he gripped Will’s hair as they made love or ruffled his curls lovingly in the aftermath. There were the faintest crows feet in the corners of his eyes, and they seemed to have grown more pronounced in a matter of months as Will laughed more. And Hannibal found Will favoring his left shoulder, stretching and shaking out his right arm when he thought Hannibal wasn’t around to see it. 

Hannibal smiled imagining all the ways Will would change over the years to come, all the new versions of Will he’d have the chance to map from head to toe as age and life wore on them both. But this picture of Will, sitting up in bed, his face half drenched in the warmth of the Italian sun, smiling at Hannibal as his eyes shone with contentment and love — Hannibal could see Will everyday for the rest of his life, and still he’d remember this time. He crossed to Will, whose smile had turned curious and playful as Hannibal stood frozen in the doorway, and placed the tray on the side table. Will set his book aside, “you took a while. Was there —“

And Hannibal captured Will’s lips in a fervent kiss that Will met with equal intensity, moaning immediately into Hannibal’s mouth. Their tongues tangled and pressed against one another for a minute before Hannibal pulled back, licking the traces of Will from his lips. Will looked slightly dazed, but pleased, as he met Hannibal’s eyes. 

“I love you, Will.” And Will’s face went blank in surprise for a moment before he visibly melted, eyes shining with emotion, as they always did when Hannibal said those words. 

“I love you too,” there was still some confusion in his voice mixing with his obvious joy. Hannibal left the unspoken question in Will’s eyes unanswered, reaching past him to tear off a piece of pastry and pop it in his mouth. 

Hannibal tangled his hand in Will’s hair absently as he watched Will dig into his breakfast, washing down a bite of croissant with a sip of espresso. Hannibal generally preferred to be touching Will whenever possible these days. Eventually he asked, “what would you say to staying in Italy for longer? Seeing more of the country?”

Will placed the small cup back on the tray carefully and met Hannibal’s eyes, his expression worried, “would that be wise?”

And Hannibal understood his hesitancy. They had everything to lose now and they’d been there a month already. It felt just shy of reckless. But his conversation with Abigail had given Hannibal some measure or reassurance that no one knew their current whereabouts. 

“I believe there’s little risk in taking the time now. More risk in leaving and attempting another border crossing in the future. And if this is to be our only time in Italy, I would see you experience all of it, Will.”

Will’s eyes were running over Hannibal’s face, but Hannibal already knew he’d give in, as he did to most of Hannibal’s suggestions these days. 

Eventually Will sighed, “if you’re sure it’s safe.”

”Do you think I would risk you, Will?” Hannibal asked, smiling teasingly. 

Will rolled his eyes, turning away to take another sip of espresso, “no, you really wouldn’t.”

After another bite of croissant, Will turned back to Hannibal, “since we apparently have all the time in the world now, anything in mind for today?”

”Later this evening, we have a reservation at one of the oldest restaurants in Florence. I want you to try rabbit as it’s meant to be tasted.”

”Alright, and until then?” Will said, taking another bite. 

“Until then, I thought you might take your time fucking me through the mattress.”

Will wheezed and coughed, buttery flakes shooting from his mouth as he choked on croissant, glaring up at Hannibal. Hannibal simply watched, a barely there grin on his face as Will regained his breath. 

“You are such an asshole,” Will said, still coughing, and taking an eager gulp of espresso.

When he was breathing normally again, he turned back to Hannibal, eyes suddenly serious. “That’s what you’d like to do?” He was watching Hannibal’s face closely as he tended to before they did this. They rarely made love this way as it wasn’t normally Hannibal’s preference. But, on occasion, Hannibal wanted to be filled by Will; enveloped by his love in the most literal sense. And it seemed fitting today. 

“That’s what I want. Whatever else you’d like to do to me, I leave up to you.”

And Will’s eyes darkened immediately. Will, given carte blanche over Hannibal’s body was always a thing to behold, and Hannibal felt himself stir in anticipation.  

The sun moved across the sky as Will and Hannibal spent hours in bed, and it was already brushing the horizon before Will was through with him. When they finally collapsed into the ruined sheets, exhausted, filthy, and pleasantly sore, Hannibal felt more content, more complete, than he had in his life.