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There is something about the way Will acts that is just incredibly off to Hannibal. He can’t place why exactly this is, but he knows it has to do with the level of kindness Will has offered him in these past few months. It’s to a degree Hannibal’s never known, not from Will, not from anybody, and due to that, he reasons that it simply isn’t real.
There’s a gentleness cut through their usual violence, the offering of Francis Dolarhyde on the altar of this–whatever this is–has softened Will, maybe. Although, that doesn’t exactly satisfy. It’s more, or different, he can’t decide yet. However, this isn’t right. It wasn’t what he imagined their lives would be like once they were together, and that has set him on edge.
On edge like he’s expecting Jack Crawford to come knocking any day now. For Will to hold the knife, cutting his soft underbelly, gripping his hair and watching him die, watching him get arrested again and returning to the loving arms of his wife. The wife he wanted more than Hannibal’s full acceptance.
It seems like the most likely outcome. He wishes it didn’t, he wishes he could believe any of this was sincere, but Will has played innocent, he’s played sincere, and each time Hannibal has been left altered in ways he could never have seen coming. The thumb of god crushing him like clay, and giving him a new more vulnerable form.
If this were real, he thinks he would know. At least, that’s what he convinces himself of. He’s never been able to predict Will but love… love is special. Especially for people like them. He doubts Will would flounder at the thought, after everything. If he truly loves Hannibal, he would just confess it.
“Need any help?” Will asks, coming through the back of the house from his little workshop. He left his shoes by the door so as not to track mud across the floor and carpet, a habit he’s trying to convince Hannibal of. He dips his hands under the spray of the sink so he can scrub off the sweat and grime from his supposed woodworking. “It smells delicious.”
Hannibal glances over his shoulder, it comes off nonchalant, comfortable, but it’s a paranoid movement. Constantly watching Will when they happen to be in the kitchen together, just in case.
(Hannibal makes it a point to rarely be together in the kitchen. Another anxious thing. So much violence between them has taken place in places like this, he often dreams that Will takes his revenge in a similar room.)
“Would you set the table?” He asks, wanting him out of the kitchen as quickly as possible. “Everything is on the counter.”
Will dries his hands, and smiles. He’s always smiling, pleased with himself, Hannibal thinks. Happy that he thinks his plan is working – it’s not. His lips twitch up, a little crooked from the scar, but still perfectly attractive.
“Of course,” he takes the silverware and glasses and brings them to the dining room.
Without his shoes, it’s hard to hear Will’s footsteps through the house. Cushioned by his socks, it’s another thing Hannibal doesn’t like about this entire situation. Every little thing Will tries to convince him to do feels like a moving piece in a game of chess and Hannibal can’t see any of Will’s pieces, unsure of when they’ll take his own. When they’ll be at checkmate.
It’s infuriating. This disguise of domesticity. He’s wanted it so badly, wanted Will so badly, and now it feels like a lie. Too good to be true, nothing has ever come easy to him, and he knows. How he knows that this isn’t really for him either. He can never have anything good.
Hannibal turns his attention back to the veal, taking it from the pan to rest and moving on to the salad. He listens intently to the sound of Will setting up, the soft clink of the glasses, of the forks and knives. There’s something strictly mundane about how they’ve been living, and these little noises fit in perfectly with it. Distant.
God, he hates it. He’s wanted Will for so long, he wanted to kill and then come home and wash dishes together. He wanted to know everything about him, to listen to him talk about what he knew of his mother, for Hannibal to share the same. He wanted to know what it’s like to hold and be held by someone who loves him. These aren’t things he has though, not really.
He’s too suspicious to give Will any of that, to accept it. They have their things, rituals that he participates in so Will doesn’t know he’s on to him, but he never lets it move further than that. He can’t, it wouldn’t be… genuine. It would hurt, like nails in his wrists, and he can’t be crucified for Will again.
A few seconds pass and Will reappears in the kitchen. He’s standing close to Hannibal, nearly touching, and Hannibal thinks that if Will did touch him, he might break. “What’s on the menu?”
He moves over, just to get away from the heat of his body, slightly enough that Will wouldn’t be able to tell unless he was trying. “Veal with potato fondant and an arugula salad,” Hannibal answers, trying to keep himself steady.
“Wine?” Will asks, already making his way to the wine cellar, and when he passes him, he places his hand on the small of his back.
Hannibal stares at the meat on the counter, both wishing that Will would touch him again and that he would just get this over with. Momentarily fantasizing about breaking his wrist for touching him, for pretending to care, and then about leaning into the gentleness of it and just letting whatever happens, happens.
“Chianti, it’s one of my favorites to have with veal.” Hannibal swallows down what was bubbling up. No point in letting it fester, two realities that won’t be. “It shouldn't be too far back.”
“I’ve got it.” Will excuses himself down to the wine cellar, making his way through the house like he’s comfortable in it.
When his footsteps disappear, Hannibal grips the counter and takes a breath in an attempt to center himself. The feeling of Will’s hand is still there, warm as ever, demanding. It makes him feel marked, in the way a kin killer might be.
A few more quick breaths and he’s plating their food, in need of a distraction. Every little thing that happens, every little thing Will does, it feels like it’s piling up, ready to overtake him like weeds. The anxiety of it is ridiculous, it makes him feel small and childish, but it’s rooted in something tangible, something he’s lived before. What’s different about this time? Absolutely nothing. It’s just one more trick, one more display that tells Hannibal that Will won’t forgive him, and that he wants him to suffer.
It’s cruel, but he respects it in a strange way. This dedication. Using someone’s love against them is a smart move, manipulative by all means, but smart. Something Hannibal would probably do too, so in a sick way he’s proud of Will. He’s stepped into his becoming, and he’d be happy to be a victim of it, if he was a victim in any other way.
The plates are set by the time Will returns with the wine. He takes it upon himself to fill their glasses before he sits down, happy with what’s in front of him.
“Thank you,” he says and cuts into the tender meat. It’s medium rare, spilling red across the plate, into the potatoes. The first bite is the most important, and Will never sells short. His eyes flutter, smiling. “This is great.”
Hannibal then cuts a piece, delighted with himself, even if his heart races with the thought that this could be their last meal together. “I’m pleased that you think so.”
Neither of them speaks again for a few long minutes, partially enjoying the meal, and partially in an awkward in between state. It’s like this nearly every meal, and more often than not, Will is left scrambling to fill in the empty space where Hannibal has stopped.
It’s strange that he does this. Silence seems like something that would comfort him, but it doesn’t. Or at least, it doesn’t in this situation. Something about any sort of silence between them makes Will seem unsettled, almost like he’s assumed he’s done something wrong and needs to smooth it over. Hannibal can tell by the way his throat catches and his accent bleeds in, talking just a bit too fast, that it makes him nervous.
It’s endearing, it makes Hannibal’s stomach flip in a good way. He could still listen to Will talk for hours and often thinks that he should since this will likely be taken from him sooner rather than later. Even if this is a horrible deception, he’d like for the rooms of his Memory Palace to be filled with the sound of Will’s sweet southern accent. The way he laughs awkwardly when he makes a bad joke that Hannibal doesn’t quite get.
“I applied to work up at the boatyard in town.” Will says, taking a sip of his wine, “just something to do. It makes us seem normal, it might keep people from becoming too interested.”
Hannibal blinks, fork set down for a moment. Will’s avoiding his eye, hiding behind a glass of wine he’s finishing a bit too fast. Everything’s cold for a moment and he feels this tight sensation around his throat.
He’s right, Hannibal knows it. Their mere existence in this town has caused a good bit of curiosity, people whispering about who must have moved into that house up on the hill. Where they might be from, what they might be like. All little towns are like this, and Digby is no different.
Even though they technically live outside of town, people were quick to notice the house was occupied when it had sat empty since Hannibal originally bought it 15 years ago. The car and truck in the driveway, the cut grass, the fixed gate up front. It must have been a spectacle.
Worse than that, Will’s come home with stories about people trying to find out information about him. People talking to him in an attempt to be neighborly, or to gain some gossip. Asking him who he was and if he lives alone, did he own the house, was he renting, how long did he plan on staying?
None of it matters, he guesses. Will could tell them anything and it wouldn’t matter, not in the end. He obviously has a certain plan he wants to stick to, place them right here in Canada, and refuse to move again.
Hannibal chews on that for a moment, trying to weigh his options. He picks up his glass of wine and tastes it, mirroring Will’s own need to hide. “It would give us more of a life here.”
“I like it here,” Will counters but there’s not much bite to his words. “It’s–nice. Small, fewer people to recognize us.”
Of course, he likes it here. It’s easy and not too deep into Canada. It must feel safe, like he could get away if he needed to. Take the boat and disappear. It wouldn’t require him to update the FBI on their location either–why doesn’t he just go ahead? Why play this game again?
Hannibal hums, unconvinced and he takes another swallow of his wine. “And what will you say when people ask questions?”
“People already have.” Will reminds him. “I’ve got it worked out, actually.”
Hannibal’s lips tug downward. “Oh?”
Will takes another bite of his food, a sip of his wine, and then hums in acknowledgment. “When I applied they had questions, I figured I couldn’t avoid it forever so I just told them me and my husband bought the place.”
He makes it a point not to physically react to this information, even though his throat tightens up. The fake passports Will found for them in the cliff house have the same last name. A dream from a different life that wasn’t meant to be, he supposes. It’s brutal, he thinks, for him to use that ruse, but it’s an easy one.
Another problem with it, though, is it almost gives him hope that this is real. Maybe it’s meant to. If he lies and says that they’re together, married, living here like that then maybe Hannibal will lower his guard. It’ll get him comfortable and then Will can strike.
Hannibal looks at him finally, really looks at him. His face is scrunched up, deep in thought. “What do they say about that?”
“They seem pleased with it. I’m sure it’ll satiate something in the people here to know.” Will gentles his voice, “I don’t expect we’ll live here forever, but it’s good. A good place to start. We still have some healing to do.”
“Yes, I agree. It is a good place to start.” Hannibal gives him a vague smile. “I support your search for happiness.”
He absolutely does not support his search for happiness, but there’s no point in crossing hairs over it. Will’s search for happiness has led him into the arms of another, with a child and the house and the dogs. He’s got the American Dream and Hannibal is… from a bygone era. Something he has to entertain, but never really was willing to commit to.
Will looks down at his food, and Hannibal observes him from the corner of his eye. He looks like he’s trying to say something, his tongue coming out to wet his lips and his eyebrows together. It reminds him of when he so easily gave him to the FBI, his phone call, that horrible tremble in his voice. He wonders how long it will be this time until he confesses – if he ever does.
The rest of the meal is silent, and Hannibal is happy about it. For years he’s felt attached to Will, like their souls had been knit together, and if he can, for any reason, keep himself at a remove from him, he thinks this betrayal won’t hurt as badly. Or at least, he tells himself that. In reality, it’ll feel like a knife shoved between his ribs, cracking his chest open like an oyster, but it’ll be easier to hide the pain of it.
The lack of control has started to unravel him, though. Each day of this, this little dance between them, it’s rubbing under his skin like salt. With it, he looks away from Will and finishes his meal.
After the dishes are placed in the sink and Will has poured them both a second glass, they sit in the living room. This is something they started doing post meals once Hannibal was healthy enough to walk without assistance. It was something he gave Will so he’d think he was convinced they were fine, and Will seems to believe it.
However, it’s ruined him. They sit so close, Will’s body heat radiating off of him, his occasional comments about whatever he’s ready or watching, the way he seems to inch just a little bit closer each night. In a perfect world he would lean into this feeling. It would be his greatest comfort to know that Will is beside him, sharing this moment of calm silence, with no expectations.
Now that he’s established this lie to the people in the town that they’re husbands, it makes Hannibal want to even more. What would it hurt, besides himself, if he just leaned into Will this once?
Will is reading, he’s taken it up as his current favorite pastime, and his tongue sticks out, pressed to his upper lip whenever he gets really into it. His eyes scan the page faster than Hannibal’s ever seen someone read, rivaling himself, even.
Hannibal sketches too, his hands have a slight shake to them these days but sketching has greatly improved the tremors and now he’s nearly back to where he was before in terms of artistic ability. It makes him happy, filling sketchbooks with pictures that only he gets to see. The landscape around them, the water, Will.
This is when they feel the most normal, and he thinks this is when Will must forget why he’s here. Whatever deal he’s struck, because he looks at peace, comfortable. There’s nothing weighing him down.
It gives Hannibal more time to think about what’s happening, too. What he should do, how long any of this might last. Every night he realizes he’s getting more anxious, more reactive, but this time, this time is theirs. He’s built up a nice room in his Memory Palace with just their living room, somewhere he’s sure he’ll escape to if he doesn’t escape before Will ultimately decides it’s time.
Will flips a page, making a soft noise as his eyes scan over the words. “You’re Lord Henry,” he muses, “and I’m Dorian Gray.”
Hannibal shades in the corner of Will’s face against his sketching paper. He doesn’t look up from his work, trying to be certain he’s gotten the shadows right. “Do you find us there?”
Will looks over at him, obvious that he wants Hannibal to look at him and only seems minutely crestfallen when he doesn’t give in. He’s serious when he speaks. “I find us in everything. I know you do, too. How’s your sketch?”
Hannibal pauses, looking at the whole of the picture. He’s always enjoyed drawing Will, and now is no different. He thought he perfected him while in prison, but being so close to him as taught him he forgot how exactly his hair curls, which corner of his mouth is fuller than the other.
He clears his throat. “It’s coming along nicely.”
Will leans over a little, his arm brushing against Hannibal’s, the heat of his body making him bite his tongue. “Can I see?”
Hannibal turns the sketch pad away from him, feeling suddenly childish for the action but not enough to show him. “No,” he looks away, nearly embarrassed. “It isn’t complete yet.”
Will bristles but doesn’t say anything more about it, instead he pulls back and relaxes into the couch. Hannibal’s stomach drops at the loss of contact, lips quivering. He doesn’t see that though, he’s looking back to his book and reading much slower than before.
Hannibal schools his face back to neutral, but he’s tormented by Will. By the very notion that this isn’t real, that it’s some sort of experiment, that he’s been touching him, deft and warm, and that he’ll be taking it away again.
He makes it a point to finish his wine quicker than usual. Unmoored by just the slightest of touches, he needs time to himself, time to think. He gets up and smooths his shirt down. His fingers are stained with charcoal and he unknowingly smears it next to his buttons, his chest is tight, and he hardly spares Will a second glance.
“Goodnight,” he says as he turns to make his way to the stairs.
Will looks up from his book, almost meek. Hannibal doesn’t have to look at him to see it, it’s plaguing his voice. “Goodnight, Han.”
He pauses, nearly looks back at him, but ultimately leaves without another word.
Going through his nightly routine once he’s up the stairs and in the safety of his bedroom, he finds that his fingers keep brushing over his arm where Will had pressed into him. The heat of it is gone, but he’s solidified the feeling into memory. Something to keep for when this inevitably falls apart, no matter where he might end up.
He’s given himself a headache from thinking about it, his right eye twitches uncomfortably. He takes a washcloth and runs it under the faucet, bringing it with him when he lays down so he can place it on his forehead and hopefully quell the ache.
It doesn’t, he finds and eventually he puts the cloth on his nightstand and tosses and turns. Rolling from one side to the other. Sleep doesn’t come easy anymore anyway so he’s not surprised that tonight is any different. In the beginning, it was the pain, shooting up through every part of him, but now his mind won’t give him peace. Another thing Will has taken from him, he supposes.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Hannibal tries to piece things together. It’s all he does anymore.
He just doesn’t know what switched in Will, what happened. He was unconscious most of the time they were on the boat, or fever delirious, so all of this hardly makes sense. It felt like days, but he knows it was weeks. From what he remembers, Will despaired at the idea of them being alive, he hardly spoke to Hannibal, would ignore him if he reached out, spent all his time on the deck and then it was like something in him just clicked. Will was gentle and caring. He was whispering to him so softly, promising him everything was going to be okay and he was going to take them somewhere safe.
The flip in behavior didn’t make sense, it’s why he knows there has to be something else happening. It was too sudden, like someone told him to sell it. That’s why Hannibal considers this to be a calculated move. The behavioral shift doesn’t correlate with how Will felt, not on that cliff, not on that boat. The little nickname and the way he wants to help and the fact that when he passes Hannibal he always finds an excuse to touch him, it doesn’t add up, and from past experiences, it’s just too good to be true.
He doesn’t remember what happened after they hit the ocean, really. How Will patched him up. He doesn’t know if Will made contact with Jack, but he knows he must have. Jack and Alana and god knows who else has put together some horrible experiment, monitoring them probably, and Will has given himself to it. Put his life on pause to… torture Hannibal? Always the sadist, at least when it comes to Hannibal.
He rolls over again, face pressed into one of his pillows. Sometimes he worries about what’s to come; he won’t go to prison again, at least not so willingly, but he doesn’t know if that means he’ll have to kill Will or if maybe at the last minute, Will might let him go. The latter seems the most plausible, historically speaking, and Hannibal doesn’t want to kill Will. At least, not in a real tangible way. It’s crossed his mind before, kill him quickly and eat him and then leave. Take something of Will’s, enshrine him, make him some sort of saint.
He’s never gotten close to doing it, just another passing fantasy. Like breaking his wrist. Like curling into his touch.
Sometime later he hears the floor creak and the sound of Will’s bedroom door opening and shutting. The way his bed shifts, and when some time has passed and there’s no more movement he finally attempts to sleep, feeling safe enough to do so.
He wakes up later than expected the next morning, half past ten and plagued with dreams about the ocean swallowing him up, and when he gets up the coffee is already made and waiting for him. However, Will’s keys and boots are gone from the house and there’s a plate in the sink from his breakfast. He’s left a note, very nicely stuck to the front of the fridge that says he’s going into town and should be back around dinner time.
Crumpling it, Hannibal pours himself a cup of coffee and nurses it while he thinks. For months he’s lived in this little dance with Will. He’s hiding something and Hannibal is sure he knows what it is. The only thing he isn’t sure of is where the pieces are now. When is Will going to call Checkmate?
It hits him that he could just beat him to it. Usually not his forte, but he doesn’t want this life. This fake life. As bad as it feels to give up what he has, to shorten his time with Will, he knows that he can never be truly happy with it. The constant feeling that someone is watching him, that they’re all laughing at him. He refuses to be anyone’s joke.
He dumps the last bit of coffee into the sink. The house is probably bugged, probably done while he was in and out of consciousness, and he takes that to heart. It starts with the kitchen, pulling open drawers, taking out silverware and pots and pans, digging through the cleaning supplies under the sink, feeling under every countertop. He moves the fridge, the stove, anything that can be.
Everything comes up empty, which stuns him for a moment but he easily moves on to the living room. Moving the furniture, digging through books, under the coffee table and the end tables and behind the television. Feeling for microphones, trying to find a lens.
When that comes up clean too, he goes through every other room in the house. Moving plants, feeling the walls, checking under furniture, digging his hands into smaller and smaller spaces for something, anything to verify this theory he’s come up with.
With each room, he becomes more agitated. There’s nothing, he can’t find anything to prove his suspicions. That should be enough to settle him, but it doesn’t. It makes him feel more erratic, more certain. There is something, there has to be.
Will has betrayed him before, denied him, sold him out for 30 silver coins and kissed his cheek. What’s to say this isn’t another betrayal? Another elaborate scheme? Why would this be any different?
If, by some dark miracle, this was genuine, it might mean that Will loves him. That maybe he always has, and that’s worse in a lot of ways. It’s a thought that he can’t quite stomach – he could believe it before, he thinks, but Will threw them into the ocean and that’s… it’s damning.
He goes to Will’s bedroom next and tells himself he’s not doing anything wrong when he starts looking through his stuff. This is an act of self preservation, after all, this is completely fine. If he doesn’t find anything, great, and if he does then he’ll have to deal with that.
He digs through his dresser, his nightstand, and lifts his mattress. His closet is ripped apart and the only thing of interest he finds is his gun, tucked away, and it has the safety on. The rest of his room is clean, even his bathroom. There are no signs of anything out of the ordinary, not even a journal. If anything the room seems like the room of someone who’s just passing through. He’s got a handful of shirts, pants, shorts. A pair of shoes. There’s nothing of importance, he hasn’t bought anything to keep in here. It’s impersonal, and that solidifies something in him.
Next is Will’s workshop. It’s immaculately kept, but Hannibal already assumed it would be. Everything is kept in order, there’s no build up of wood shavings, no tools thrown around, left out on tables. He opens different things, drawers filled with tools he can’t name, all kept in their little spots, perfectly lined up. He looks over the wall of things–this is what Will has bought himself–moving different tools and such but still comes up empty. He walks to the back and finds a table with his lure set up.
This makes him pause. Hannibal didn’t even know he had bought stuff to make lures again, he doesn’t know why it isn’t in the house, in his bedroom at least. It’s tucked away out of sight, like it doesn’t fit in. When he looks through this, he’s much more careful. Everything is delicate, he knows that, and it strikes him as something someone has when they feel at home somewhere.
Again, he finds nothing incriminating, but he sees why Will wants to stay here so horribly. He wonders if he’s buying all this stuff, making whatever he’s making, to make him stay. Force him to, so he doesn’t have to keep alerting the FBI. Or, if he just likes it here.
Hannibal knows enough about Will’s life, his chaotic childhood with a father who refused to stay anywhere and a dead mother who couldn’t force him, to know that Will craves stability, however he can get it. Putting roots down in Wolf Trap, having a family, someone permanent. These things have always driven Will, and it briefly passes over him that maybe he just wants to stay.
He doesn’t understand why this is happening though, why he wouldn’t just give him over. He tried to kill them both, after all, he wanted Hannibal dead and not in the way that Hannibal tried to kill him. There was no hesitation, no desire to consume. He wanted him erased from the world, body lost at sea, to be eaten by bottom dwellers.
Out of everything, Will craves stability, and this isn’t it. Leaving his family isn’t it. Not bringing home every stray on the street isn’t it. He even lives in the house like he’s expecting to go at any moment. The price must be good, it must set him up really nicely. The FBI and Alana with her Verger money, employing him to punish Hannibal? He isn’t sure, but it makes more sense to him than any of the alternatives.
Somewhere in his subconscious he knows that at least part of this is irrational. All of it can’t be true and he must be making things up, but it doesn’t matter because at least part of it has to be real. If he’s wrong about some little details, that’s fine, but he feels what he feels. At the end of the day there is no way that after everything, after Will threw them from a cliff, that he’s here because he wants to be.
Will must miss his family terribly, too. If he’s undercover then he can’t contact them and it’s been months. His wife and child are learning to live without him and Will is here, secretly angry and hoping this will end soon with the man who tried to have him killed. This must be eating him alive.
He brews on it for the rest of the day. Pacing around like a caged dog, like man stuck in the garden. He needs answers, and he needs them now. It’s snapped, whatever was keeping him in place, he needs to know what’s going on, what he’s hiding. He found nothing all day, he moves more stuff, things that never even occurred to him and he finds more of the same, enraging him.
It isn’t necessarily thought out when goes into Will’s bedroom as the afternoon sets in (Not that anything he does on emotion ever is). All he knows is there’s a knife in the nightstand and his hands are itchy to take it. Flipping it open and looking at the blade, it looks like something he might take with him out when he fishes. Sturdy, but not too big. There’s a clip on it to carry it in his pocket.
The blade is a black sort of color, the handle is thick and well made. It hasn’t been used for anything, still clean and perfect like it just came out of the box. He flips it around in his hand, putting his thumb against the tip to test how sharp it is and then licking the blood that beads there.
When Hannibal hears the truck pull in, he makes his way into the living room. He doesn’t check the blinds, but he listens as Will walks up the porch, the sound of his keys jingling as he unlocks the front door. There’s something about the way he walks that’s off, the way he fumbles with the keys.
His hands are trembling, gripping the handle on the knife so hard his knuckles have bleached. It’s anger, yes, but also a deep sadness that he’s become accustomed to feeling where Will is involved.
Will’s talking as soon as his foot is in the doorway, his tone laced with anxious excitement. He struggles with the key and then softly shuts the door. “Hey, Han, I did somethin’ kind of spur of the moment and I–“
He wasn’t exactly thinking about it, not really, but there’s a blade against Will’s throat, holding him right where he is. Will doesn’t react poorly to this, not physically, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells him this isn’t exactly what he was expecting to come home to. A sort of sadness, not unlike Hannibal’s own.
Hannibal wets his lips, keeping the knife light. A part of him likes to think that if Will is just honest, he won’t hurt him. He doesn’t want to, not really but he wants answers, and – he might hurt Will. He isn’t sure. His mind bounces back and forth between the two possibilities. “What is this?”
Will’s mouth opens, letting out a shaky breath. “What is what, Hannibal?”
Hannibal looks between Will’s eyes. They’re bluer than usual, not afraid per se, but something akin to it. “Every time, there is something. A betrayal, a trap, something hidden. What is it?”
Will’s hand comes up to Hannibal’s wrist in a weak attempt to move the knife away. No, not weak, gentle, and this upsets him more. He hates the gentleness, the care, how happy he is to help him, to sit with him like they’re in a domestic partnership. Hannibal presses the blade against his cold skin, hard enough now that Will’s throat jumps and fear does pass over his face. Good. He should be afraid.
“What is it?” He repeats, edging on desperate now.
“Flowers,” Will says, one hand gesturing outside like his life depends on it–it does. “In the truck. I have flowers for you.”
Hannibal blinks, eyebrows furrowing. That isn’t the answer he was expecting, and it visibly startled him. Trying to piece it together like a puzzle. “There are flowers in the truck.”
Will swallows, the blade moving with his throat. He isn’t looking him in the eyes. There’s fear there, yes, but that isn’t why he isn’t looking at him he thinks. It’s something more than that, something animalistic. “Yes. Nothing crazy.”
The air in the house is cold, colder than it was a minute ago. Will isn’t pushing away, he isn’t fighting him, he isn’t demanding. He’s standing there with his one hand open and at his sides, the other holding his wrist, and his eyes looking past him. A shiver runs through both of them, and Will waits for him to speak again.
It takes him longer than it should to come up with something, and he can’t think of anything more to say than the obvious. “Why?”
“Because they looked nice and I figured you’d want a new centerpiece.” Will murmurs. “There’s a florist in town, and I’ve been seeing the building when I go into town, when I’m on the way home. I just… wanted to get you something. I’m sorry I’m late.”
There’s a moment where Hannibal thinks maybe Will has no clue what he’s talking about. That he’s mad he’s later than he said he’d be and that this is… this is a valid response to that. Like he deserves this, somehow, for what? Being thirty minutes later than expected?
Hannibal’s chest tightens at the thought, squeezing him like ropes to a pyre. He hesitates, wondering if he’s miscalculated, if all these months of suspicion have been misplaced. If he’s just paranoid from a life of betrayal, of biting back, or nothing being real.
“Will, don’t do this with me.” He whispers, “Not again.”
Will’s eyes move over the room, intentionally slow. Real fear is settling in, and he’s looking for a way out. A moment where he can push him away, make a run for it. Will’s fear is bitter, like lemon, and it bleeds into everything. “Hannibal, I’m not doing anything.”
Hannibal’s jaw sets, but even that doesn’t dull how horrible he sounds. “Does Jack Crawford know where we are?”
In an instant, Will’s eyes are back to Hannibal. His face hardens with a mix of confusion and shock, and mostly upset. He could slit his throat right now and he doesn’t think Will’s face would look nearly as hurt. “How would he know? We’re presumed dead.”
His lips part, but it takes him a second to collect his thoughts. This isn’t at all how he imagined this altercation would go, and it’s ruining his drive. “Isn’t it all just a ruse, Will? Hasn’t it always been one?”
Gawking, Will tightens his grip on his wrist. “Is that what you think this is? Some fucking game?”
Bitterly laughing, Hannibal has all but become unanchored. None of this makes sense to him, and then it does, too. He’s thriving off of paranoia, a mix of reality and fiction, and he knows that’s what it is but even then, the longer he stands here and realizes what it is, the less he can hold onto rationality.
“Peter denied Christ–“
Will cuts him off, squeezing his wrist again, thumb rubbing over where the bone is. “You’re not Jesus and I’m not Peter. You’re Samuel, and I’m Lilith. I’m not denying you, I’m right here. I live in sin alongside you,” he takes a breath, “can’t you see that?”
“It’s been everything before, Will. Why would this time be different? Why are you here?” He feels himself becoming hopeless in a bad way. In a way that spills over and makes him uncontrollable, anguished with a need to be right and a need to be comforted.
Will’s hand on his wrist is comforting, and he hates it. He wants it to stop. He wants him to never let go. The hand on his wrist is the only thing keeping him grounded, it’s what he’s beginning to focus on more than anything else.
“Maybe because I hauled your ass out of the ocean and nursed you back to health. Maybe because I left my whole life to be with you. Maybe because despite everything that happened, you’re the only person who ever really mattered to me. The only person whose soul was knit to mine, bonded together. No one else sees me.” Will swallows. “If I was going to kill you, I’d have already done it, if I wanted you imprisoned, you already would be.”
Will tries to jerk Hannibal’s wrist back but is thrown back against the door, sputtering for a moment and gasping for air. The blade doesn’t pierce his skin, but it’s a near thing.
“I love you,” he chokes out like he believes it will be the last thing he ever says.
Hannibal’s eyes narrow, his heart beating against his ribs until it hurts. “You’re lying.”
Will gasps for air again, the blade presses harder but he persists. “I love you.”
“I know how this works, Will. You plan to make me comfortable, lower my guard? Then you do it. You always do.” His hand is shaking, his voice, the whole of him. “Please don’t lie to me.”
A few seconds pass, Will swallowing down air and Hannibal keeping him pressed against the door like his life depends on it. They’re at a standstill.
“Hannibal, I love you.” Will touches his face when he’s able to speak without choking, when his throat stops hurting. There’s a debate behind his eyes, but he gives in. “Everything’s okay now, you don’t have to keep fighting.”
Will takes hold of his wrist again and this time, gentle as ever, moves the blade from his throat. Just a little movement, slowly, until there’s no threat and they’re looking at each other.
“You wanted me dead.” Hannibal accuses but there’s nothing left. It comes out like sand between clasped hands. “You…”
Will moves the blade away fully then, and steps close to Hannibal, wrapping him in an embrace before either of them can think better of it. His hands smooth down his back, trying to soothe him.
“I wanted us to be together.” Which is one and the same.
Even in death, like they’re married, like that was a vow they were making in the ocean. Baptized and reborn as one.
Hannibal white knuckles Will’s shirt, not being able to help but to melt into the embrace that he’s offered. He’s wanted it and now he has it, and his mind is scrambling to put the pieces together. The paranoia, the truth, the irrationality trying to pick Will’s words apart but none of that matters, it’s tucked away as Hannibal gives into Will’s embrace.
If he wanted to kill him now, he could, a hand in his hair, the other around his middle, but instead he holds him.
The knife clatters to the ground and Will lets out a relieved breath, kicking it off far to the side. They stand like this, clinging until their legs are tired and their muscles ache from the hold they have. God knows how long they’re like this, but in this embrace, there’s no threat to fall.
When they pull apart, Will immediately cups his face and kisses him, an unsure thing at first, and then desperate, demanding, claiming. Pushing every doubt Hannibal could have far away.
The feeling of Will’s fingers, moving from the side of his face to his hair forces out a strangled moan that Will takes and uses to sweep his tongue into his mouth, tasting him. His other hand grabs Hannibal by the hip, pulling him flush against his body and making him groan.
They half trip over themselves, Will pushing Hannibal down on the couch while trying to keep him pressed against him, and Hannibal grabbing for him like he’s scared to lose the contact.
Will settles between his thighs, pulling back as he pushes him to lay flat on his back. His hands move up Hannibal's thighs, over his half hard cock, and he squeezes it, causing his eyes to flutter at the pressure.
Every place Will’s hand's touch burns like fire, his fingers come up under his shirt, nails digging into the soft skin of his hips. Marking him as a piece of him, as his own.
“You think I saved your life just to hate you,” he asks, voice gentle despite his harsh words, “that I’ve done all this as some sick joke? Is that the kind of man you take me for?”
Will’s quick, undresses them both, and in turn, getting Hannibal to help. They’re in front of each other not long after, nude, goosebumps forming across heated skin, and taking the other in.
It hardly feels real, Hannibal wants to touch Will, across every inch of him. Dip his fingers into his scars, into the cracks of his body, to taste every piece of his skin.
Hannibal’s bottom lip quivers and his tongue presses against it to try and stiffen it. “You have before. You enjoy your patterns, your routine.”
“I had everything I thought I wanted and it still wasn’t it, it still wasn’t you,” Will wraps his arms around Hannibal, sinking into him, their bodies coming together like they were made for one another. “You’re all I’ve thought about, for years. All I’ve wanted. You think I’d give that up right when I finally have it? I love you, even if it doesn’t make sense to either of us.”
“I love you too, I have loved you, I’ll continue to love you.” Hannibal breaks off into moans, tucking his face into Will’s neck. Thoughts melting away, body relaxing. “That’s all I’ve wanted to hear. To know.”
The living room is warm, their broken moans filling the space as they move against each other, whispering soft words and gentle pleas into each other’s skin.
Will’s lips press to Hannibal’s face, the corner of his eye, his lips, catching on his cheek. A sort of promise, a covenant, like he’s making up for lost time.
Hannibal’s legs bracket Will’s hips, pulling him closer. One of his hands finds his hair, the other is splayed between his shoulders, and when he bites into Will’s shoulder, eyes closed tightly, pushing the other man over the edge as well.
They lay like that for a few minutes after, holding onto each other like a tether, Will kissing skin and Hannibal trying to piece himself back together in any way he can manage.
Will kisses him as tenderly as he can manage once he’s willing to move, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth but not adding any pressure to it. “You’ve thought this was some game this entire time?”
Hannibal looks up at him through lidded eyes, trying to still remember himself. “At no point could I accept that you love me. It felt like something too distant for me to hope for. Still, this doesn’t feel real. I may wake up tomorrow and misremember it as a dream.”
“I’ll remind you, then.” Will kisses him again for his troubles, and then once more. “I love you, I’ve been trying to figure it all out myself. I’ve known I wanted you, but I didn’t want to move into everything without understanding my feelings fully. It would be wrong for both of us if I had.”
“Do you understand your feelings now?” Hannibal asks, “or did I force the decision?”
“I’ve known for a while, I’ve just been trying to figure out the right way to tell you. You’ve been so distant, I didn’t know if I was too late. I bought you flowers because of it. I was worried you might find it too feminine though.” Will rolls off of him, grabbing his pants and yanking them up quickly. “Which reminds me I have to get them.”
Hannibal grabs his hand before he can go, he wants to pull him back down, but he doesn’t. “Anything from you is a welcome gift.”
Will squeezes his hand and goes back outside, only to return with the flowers, an arrangement of alstroemeria, something he likely had to order days in advance instead of the florist having in hand given where they live like he’d have Hannibal believe. He sets them down on the coffee table and leaves again, returning with a warm washcloth of a glass of water. He comes to sit beside Hannibal’s laying form, offering him the glass and then cleaning him.
“You went through my things?” Will asks, nodding his head towards the knife on the floor. “Find what you were looking for?”
“I’d apologize but I doubt you’d believe me.” Hannibal offers, eyes closed as he relaxes into Will’s soft touches. It’s like a dream, something he’d make up while in prison to soothe the ache in his soul. “I was looking for evidence. I found none.”
Will hums and leans down to kiss him, like now that he’s started he can’t fathom stopping. “I should’ve known.” He laughs, “you’re like a stray.”
Hannibal peaks out at him, stealing a look at the fond smile on Will’s face. The warmth in his cheeks. “You have always had a soft spot for strays.”
“I do,” Will rubs his hand down his side one last time before he stands.
He takes the glass back to the kitchen and the washcloth to the laundry room. Hannibal lies there, looking at the ceiling until Will returns to sit beside him. Will’s hands are on his body, his lips against the seams of him, and they’re good. They’re fine. The paranoia is still there, but so is Will, and he’s far more demanding. Far more distracting.
Will’s facial hair tickles Hannibal’s skin when he presses a kiss against his neck, and when he moves, the other man laughs warmly, taking both his hands and kissing either wrist.