What happens when a group of serial killers pick the absolute worst targets? Will is already having a pretty rough night, since Hannibal proposed to him and Will said ‘No’ for reasons he still hasn’t quite figured out yet. It’s not their fault – they couldn’t have known – but sometimes people have to learn lessons the hard way, and Will could definitely use some stress relief.
Pairing: Hannigram Setting: Post-TWoTL What: I wanted an outsider’s point of view on Hannibal and Will, and suddenly this happened CW: Past domestic abuse and alcoholism mentions
She’s only a little surprised when she finds the famous cannibal on her doorstep, his clothes caked in blood and his face pale and haunted. It’s not that his sudden arrival is anything less than shocking, but her capacity to feel it to its full breadth is somewhat diminished.
“We need your help,” says Hannibal Lecter. She looks past him to the driveway, where the dim shape of a man sits slumped inside some manner of boxy domestic vehicle. She thinks it’s probably that former FBI fellow who was always in the tabloids, but she can’t be certain from this distance.
“I could have sworn you were in prison,” she says.
“He set me free,” Hannibal says. “But he’s going to die. I might, too.”
She clucks her tongue in pity. "What a terribly dull end that would be after a thrilling prison break! I suppose you should both come in, then.“
She watches Hannibal limp back to the car to fetch his passenger. As they draw near the house again, she can see that it is, indeed, the former FBI fellow. Will Graham? Yes, that’s the name. He’s even bloodier than Hannibal, and paler. She remembers thinking he had a beautiful face when she saw it on the news. It looks like meat now.
“You can have the guest room,” she says, waving an arm towards the hall.
“Do you still have any of Dr. Komeda’s medical supplies?” Hannibal asks.
“Of course,” she says. “It would be just my luck to get rid of them and then he’d finally come home after all these years. What a fit he would throw!”
“I do recall he had a temper,” Hannibal says with a weary smile.
She excuses herself to Richard’s study and gathers everything she can think of. Scalpels… gauze… suture kits…an armful of things she doesn’t know the names of… The isopropyl alcohol has evaporated from the bottle, so she brings vodka.
When she returns to the guest room, Hannibal has arranged his friend on the bed. Despite his shallow breathing, the whole tableau has a funereal air about it, right down to Hannibal’s expression of reverence and despair. Unlike a funeral, however, there is also a note of hope that rings out so clearly she can nearly hear it.
“I know a thing or two about stitches,” she announces. “I can assist you.”
The newspaper is slammed onto the marble counter beside their
breakfast. Hannibal barely glances at it.
“What do you mean, Will?”
Will is spitting fury, eyes wild and raging.
“Look at the fucking paper, Hannibal.”
He does.
Ah.
“Front page. Front fucking
page.”
Hannibal raises an eyebrow at the headline, catching the
words MURDER and SHOCKING and paying little further
interest past his cursory scan.
Kimberley Stevenson.
So that was her name. Hannibal had never asked.
“Mm. How unfortunate.”
Will sweeps the paper to the floor and roughly turns
Hannibal in his chair to face him.
“One condition,” he says desperately, “we had one condition.”
“You had one condition,”
Hannibal says placidly, though underneath his anger is beginning to bubble.
Will shakes his head, drags a hand through his hair and
leaves the curls standing on end.
“Do you not understand how much danger you’ve put yourself
in?” He bends at the knee, meeting Hannibal’s eye as he sits, “How much you’ve
put us in?”
Hannibal stands, pushing the stool back behind him with one
long, graceful leg.
“What ‘us’?”
Will immediately turns pale. “Hannibal, don’t-”
“You offered to house me for one week. I have been here five days.
That does not constitute an ‘us’.”
“I – I asked you to stay.” Will’s voice starts to tremble
and he reaches forward and grips the back of Hannibal’s neck hard, pressing
their foreheads together. “Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what?” Hannibal asks, his anger beginning to fray
into something far more desperate and complicated. He tries to break free from
Will’s grip but finds himself unable – no, unwilling.
“You knew what I was when you pulled me from the street,” he
grits out, “what I am.”
Will shakes his head against him. “No,” he chokes out, “that’s
not who you are.”
Hannibal rips himself free with a cry that comes close to a
roar. For a moment – brief enough to flash past anyone’s reflexes except
Hannibal’s – Will looks frightened. That split second is all it takes for
Hannibal to make his decision.
“It is exactly who I am,” he says coolly, “that woman was
unbearably rude and so she met the consequences of her actions. I did not make
her suffer – much as I wished to – because I knew it would upset you, and yet
you still cast judgment upon me.”
Will raises his palms in supplication. “Hannibal, I-”
“No,” he says forcefully, “this charade has reached its conclusion.
Thank you for the opera. And the clothing. I hope you can find another boy with
measurements similar to mine.”
He walks calmly to the bedroom, ignoring Will’s
protestations as he follows. Quickly and efficiently, he packs the belongings
that were his when he arrived into his bag. There isn’t much.
“I must apologize,” Hannibal says almost to himself, “I did
not intend to encourage your emotions as clearly as I did. It will be best for
us both if I leave now.”
“Oh, fuck you!” Will yells, “you feel this just as much as I
do. I know you do.” He steps behind Hannibal, wrapping his arms around his waist
in a crushing grip. “If you’d just fucking listen-”
Hannibal wrenches himself free. “I have no time for your
judgments, Mr. Graham.” Will flinches at the formality. The rasp of the bag zipping
up echoes deafeningly in the room. It sounds like an ending. Will looks as
though he might cry.
“Goodbye,” Hannibal says quietly.
He slips the bag softly off the bed and walks down the hall.
“Hannibal,” Will reaches for him and grabs at air, “Hannibal,
no.”
He follows after him until they reach the door, making one
last-ditch effort to catch Hannibal’s shoulder before he turns the lock.
“Hannibal, I lo-”
The words cut off instantly as Hannibal spins and violently
slams him up against the door, twisting Will’s left arm behind his back and
pressing his own forearm over Will’s neck.
“Do not.”
Will’s eyes bulge out and he briefly sputters, but there is no fear there anymore. A
glimmer of surprise, and then weary acceptance. He closes his eyes. Hannibal
releases him instantly, resisting the impulse to cater to his shame and take
Will back into his arms.
They are quiet for a moment. Will takes in a fresh gulp of
air and rolls his shoulder. He starts to speak but then bows his head.
“You’ll be what you choose to be,” he says quietly, the
words cracked and ringing with pain, “I would have let you become so much more.”
The words break off a shard of Hannibal’s heart, piercing
through the carefully managed veil that Will had so selfishly tried to disrupt.
He breathes in sharply, tamping down the hurt that spins a knotted web inside
him.
Will untwists the lock and opens the door, refusing to look
anywhere but the cold hardwood beneath his feet.
Hannibal takes a step, then pauses.
“I let you kiss me,” he says quietly over his shoulder, and
then he is gone.
-x-
He spends three days shut up within the confines of his
dingy bachelor apartment.
He knows no one will come looking for him, he was as
meticulous in his clean-up as he always is, even more so knowing that Will
could now be traced back to him.
Will.
Will who had sheltered him and nurtured him and cared for
him and kissed him.
Will who had loved him, even if Hannibal hadn’t let him
speak it aloud.
Hannibal shakes his head. Foolish, foolish man. There is no
man who can love the monster inside of him without being burned to ash. No
matter how Will had tried to look past it, it remained. It will always be
there, lurking in the shadows and waiting. Really, Hannibal thinks, it would
have only been a matter of time before he had turned on Will too.
As quickly as the thought arrives it dissipates like smoke.
Hannibal knows better. He would let himself be dragged to hell before anyone
ever laid a hand on Will Graham, would drag the world to hell alongside him.
Of all the dangerous and reckless things Hannibal has done
in his relatively short life, the worst has certainly been to fall in –
Amami, Alfredo,
quant’io t’amo.
The strains of La Traviata filter through the air and
Hannibal blinks hard to clear his head. It isn’t the first time he’s heard
stray opera wander through the corridors of his memory palace. It’s certainly
not the first time it’s been an aria from their
opera.
No. Not theirs. He shakes away the cobwebs of sentiment and mutes
the record that loops agonizingly through his brain.
It doesn’t work. The music only grows louder.
Hannibal cocks his head.
Louder, louder still, until the sound is no longer a trick
of the mind, it’s real as the air escaping his lungs and clearly coming from
below his bedroom window.
Heart stuck in his throat, he throws the curtains open.
In the street below him a limousine pulls up. It sits quiet for
a moment before the sunroof rolls open. A familiar dark-haired head emerges as
the aria reaches a crescendo.
Hannibal gasps.
Will is covered in blood. And smiling.
He throws his arms open wide.
For the first time in his life, Hannibal is truly and
completely speechless.
He does the only logical thing he can think to do and climbs
right out the window. He bolts down the fire escape and by the time he has
reached the ground Will has stepped out of the car and stands before him in all
his ruined glory.
Hannibal runs his hands over Will’s face, streaking scarlet
everywhere. “What did you do?”
Will grins wickedly. “You remember Dr. Chilton? That
dreadful asshole from the opera who basically called you a whore to your face?”
Hannibal nods mutely, transfixed.
Will jerks his chin behind him. “He’s in the trunk.”
Hannibal looks agape at the trunk, at the man painted with
blood that doesn’t belong to him, eyes filled with fire and truth and above it
all love.
Will. His Will. So terribly beautiful.
And just like him.
Hannibal’s plaintive moan echoes into the empty street
around them and his fingers clutch forward, grasping for balance, for reason
and finding only the unyielding strength of Will offered up to him as
sacrament. Before he can stop himself he has catapulted his into his arms, clinging
to Will in disbelief.
Will chuckles, gently stroking his shoulders. “Hey, hey, it’s
okay, I’m here.” He pulls Hannibal gently free and smiles down at him.
“This is real.”
Will tucks a finger under his chin, the gesture wonderfully
and painfully familiar, brings Hannibal’s eyes to meet his own, liquid blue and
unrelenting.
Their mouths crush together in a kiss that bruises as much
as it heals.
“I never meant for you to stop,” Will says between kisses, “I
just wanted you to be careful.”
Hannibal laughs desperately against his mouth. “You call
this careful?”
“This isn’t my first rodeo, my darling,” Will murmurs
fondly, “besides, Anthony knows how to cover my tracks.” He smacks lightly on
the side of the limousine door. “Right, Anthony?”
An echoing smack as Anthony pounds the roof in reply, but
there is no further response.
Will looks up at the open window Hannibal left behind.
“Is there anything you need back there?”
They both already know the answer. Everything Hannibal needs
stands before him drenched in blood.
“No,” he says quietly, looking at Will with humbled
reverence, “this is all I ever wanted.”
Will pulls him into his arms. “For both of us,” he replies,
stroking reddened fingers through Hannibal’s hair. He kisses the side of his face,
his brow, his lips again, and neither care of how the blood, gone black in the
moonlight, stains them both.
Hannibal sags against him, the days of misery and hurt
draining out of him and replaced with sweet relief.
They are the same. Dear God, they are the same.
“I love you,” Hannibal says, quiet but clear, “madly, I love
you.”
Will smiles into his hair. “I know.”
He turns and opens the limousine door, sweeping an arm to
usher Hannibal inside, into a world of darkness that Hannibal had never before
allowed himself to even dream of.
It was early in the morning of Valentine’s day, early enough for Hannibal to be up and Will to still be sleeping. Until he heard the hushed, yet frantic voice of his mate trying to wake him up.
“Will! Will, wake up, this is an emergency!”
“Wha-what, what? What is happening?!” Will woke up with the dawning light softly illuminating the flustered contours of his mate, wide open eyes and his disarranged hair hanging loose over his forehead.
Person A is super sad and it’s super late so they call up their best
friend to tell them to meet person A in the park. When person A hears a car
pull up, they automatically assume that it’s their best friend, but in reality
ENTER PERSON B. Now person B is being tackled in the dark out of nowhere with
some random stranger crying into their chest about their latest existential
crisis. What happens next is up to u my friend.
Ella, for god’s sake, where are you? I’ve been messaging you for three bloody hours with no reply! I need to talk to you right now. Edgar – god, you won’t fucking believe the nonsense he’s up to now, I really think he’s lost it this time. You always know how I should handle him, just… look, I’m going to go wait in the park, you know where. Come and meet me when you can, please?
Char is drunk. Even by his own fairly high standards, developed during the never-ending galas and black-tie events his family forces him to attend, he is completely hammered. He started on the vodka sometime during the afternoon, after yet another disastrous audience with his snake of an uncle. Then, on his way to the park, he polished off an entire bottle of excellent champagne that he swiped from Edgar’s collection, and he is now halfway through the second, huddled on the steps of the bandstand and attempting not to hiccup. He is also muttering to himself, a continuous stream of angry whispers that occasionally develop into full-on drunken yelling (complete with effusive hand gestures).
It is not, he would have to admit himself, his best look.
That’s hardly important, though. It’s only Ella who’s going to see, given the cover of darkness in the deserted park, and they figured out years ago that their relationship was definitely more of the brother-and-sister variety. So he ignores his sloppy clothing (as sloppy as a bespoke suit can be, anyway, tie askew and tails untucked) and dishevelled curls, wraps his coat tighter around himself, and waits. And drinks. And, every few minutes, curses.
He’s not really sure how long he waits for Ella to turn up – time has taken on that slightly fluid quality that comes from drinking too much, too quickly – but finally he hears a car pull up nearby. It’s too far to see in detail, even under the car park’s bright lights, but it definitely looks like Ella’s bright orange SUV – The Pumpkin, as she insists on calling it – and who else would be parking here in the dead of night? Who else, for that matter, would drive a car that closely resembles a squash? To Char’s currently-addled brain, this spurious reasoning means that it must be her, and he wanders unsteadily towards the car as a figure emerges from it, and promptly flings himself into their arms.
“You’ve got those stupid heels on again, haven’t you? The ones that make you tower over me, I know you enjoy doing that, don’t pretend,” he slurs, the words running together. He feels Ella stiffen and start to pull away, but he could do with the support – standing is somewhat challenging at the moment – and besides it’s nice to be held, nobody ever seems to want to at home. Not very into displays of affection, his family. So he tightens his arms around her and pleads, “Could we just stay like this for a bit, feeling a bit fragile, you know?”
Ella says nothing in response but Char feels her relax, and her arms go up around him, pulling him in close. It occurs to Char that she feels a bit different than usual – her chest in particular seems to be less… forgiving than he remembers? But he chalks it up to a particularly sturdy bra and snuggles in.
“Describe the room you store our first kiss in,” Will asked as his fingers were tracing a path over Hannibal’s chest.
The sky was an annoying shade of orange and it was the only thing Hannibal could see out the window. The clock on the wall read just after two in the morning. Exactly how long had they been engaging in lovemaking that night? Hannibal remembered the dinner at seven, then the drinks at eight and some reading at nine. He remembered the howling of the wolves mere minutes before eleven and that was already after Will had managed to undress them both.
“Hannibal?” Will moved his hand to cup Hannibal’s face. It was easy to detect that the man was not asleep – the beating of his heart and the way he breathed indicated as much.
Describe the room you store our first kiss in. Well…
He’s had erotic dreams every night for a week and at first, they were kind of a welcome respite from the hellscape dreams about killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Who wouldn’t like to dream about getting a really nice, patiently paced blowjob and a little butthole tickle from some unseen and generous lover?
Now, though, they’re getting to be kind of a hassle. Whoever’s blowing him never actually gets him off and he ends up feeling sort of restlessly horny for the rest of the day even if he jerks off after he wakes up. It’s distracting as hell. In a lecture yesterday, he very nearly said “masturbate” instead of “manuscript.” He can’t figure out what’s changed in his life that he suddenly has more sex dreams in a week than he usually has in an entire year.
He’s just about to go take care of business when his phone buzzes beside him.
“I’m picking you up in a few minutes.” It’s Jack Crawford, sounding grim and authoritative as usual. “I’ve got Dr. Lecter with me. There’s a crime scene outside Bedford, Pennsylvania. Just a quick trip so we’re driving.”
Will rubs his boner through his shorts. “How many minutes is a few minutes?” he asks.
“We’re just turning onto the road to your house,” Jack says.
Hannibal speaks up in the background. “Tell him I’ve brought breakfast for him to eat in the car, and coffee, as well.”
Will is touched. More than a little annoyed at having to go, but definitely touched that Hannibal—and that’s how he already thinks of him, although he wouldn’t call him anything but Dr. Lecter out loud—would be so thoughtful towards him.
“Did you hear that?” Jack asks.
Will sighs. “Yeah, I heard.”
He manages to get dressed and have the dogs out for their morning constitutional, but there’s no time for anything else before Jack ushers him into the car. To his dismay, Hannibal gets into the back seat with him and starts unpacking breakfast. Will tries to sit in such a way that his persistent erection isn’t so obvious. If Hannibal notices, he’s at least polite enough not to mention it.
“It’s just leftovers heated up,” Hannibal says. “It was all I could pull off in the time allotted me.”
“You needn’t have gone through the trouble,” Will assures him. “Most mornings I just have coffee anyway.”
“Nonsense,” Hannibal says with a small huff. “Most important meal of the day and all that.”
“Just don’t spill any of it,” Jack says over his shoulder. “This is my car, not the Bureau’s.”
Will’s horror only grows when Hannibal unfurls a napkin and lays it over his lap. The tenting is not entirely subtle. He wonders if spilling blazing hot coffee on his groin would help any.
The continuing saga of a meet cute on a discussion forum. And (again) yes, there is at least one more chapter to come. Previous chapters can be found at this link and on ao3. Thank you for reading!
11:10 pm
The farmhouse sits like an island on a broad field. Light from the windows wards off the night.
“I know what you’re thinking.” They take the porch steps single file. Will slips a key in the door. “You’re thinking I planned this.”
They both know it was no accident that Will’s home was a short drive from the restaurant.
“And yet that hasn’t deterred me,” Hannibal replies after a pause.
“Your curiosity won’t let it.”
Anyone else might have been more diplomatic. Amused, Hannibal nods his agreement.
Past the threshold is a voyeur’s dream. Dog bed. Fishing gear. Worn books piled next to a cracked leather chair. Whatever Hannibal was expecting it wasn’t this.
Will heads for the kitchen. “I have bourbon and wine I can’t vouch for.”
“Bourbon will be fine.”
Glassware clinks while Hannibal pieces together a picture of Will’s life. He counts four chairs. No sofa. And one utilitarian bed.
“I like sleeping downstairs.” Will steps close and offers a glass.
“I hadn’t given it a thought.” As if he hadn’t just been staring.
Will blinks up at him. “It’s alright if you did.”
“I’m glad to have your permission.”
“There’s more where that came from.”
Hannibal deepens his gaze. “Feeling charitable?”
“I don’t think you need charity,” Will says in a secretive tone.
A lump jabs Hannibal’s throat. “What do I need, Will?”
“Come.” Will takes his wrist and leads him out to the porch.
Hannibal looks up at an inky sky. “Stargazing?”
Will takes a seat on a creaky rattan chair. “Not much to see tonight. That’s nice too sometimes.”
Hands on the railing, Hannibal breathes in the smell of an early Spring. “It’s very peaceful.”
A scratching sound breaks through the quiet. “Hey bud.” Will fingers the screen door open. An aging dog eyes Hannibal with a wary look.
“This must be Winston.”
“One and the same.” Will strokes his nose. The dog slinks out and plants his chin on Will’s knee.
Hannibal approaches slowly. “May I?”
“I think you’ll be fine.”
Crouching close. “I didn’t see him inside.”
“He’s not especially friendly with strangers.” Winston sniffs Hannibal’s palm cautiously. “I think he likes you though.”
“He’s an excellent judge of character.”
“I think I like you.”
“You haven’t exactly been shy about that.”
“No.” The change in Will’s voice makes Hannibal look up. “I mean – I like you.”
Hannibal’s heart thumps. “Will …”
“If I’m any kind of profiler at all, I’d say that you like me.”
“Is that so?”
Poised for a drink, Will peers over his glass. “Isn’t it?”
Hannibal watches Will’s throat move. His breath stumbles. “Perhaps you’ll let me answer that question inside.”
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