Chapter Text
Hannibal is in the kitchen when he sees the small calico cat leap up on the windowsill behind the sink. She makes eye contact with him for a solid thirty seconds and then curls up to take a nap. She’s still there, fur pressed flat against the glass, when he finishes his cleaning and leaves for another part of the house, but gone by the time he comes back to make dinner.
He doesn’t tell Will, though he isn’t sure why; they haven’t had a lot of excitement in the few weeks they’ve been here, and while Will has found work at the local boatyard Hannibal still cannot manage a full day of activity without needing to rest. He is not as young as he once was, and the gunshot wound in his abdomen was no minor injury, especially not combined with the damage he sustained in the fall from the cliff. He knows his recovery will take time.
It’s left him with a dearth of conversational topics, however. He spends his days in their home, and each has been much the same as the last. Will takes their dog, Kirk, to work with him, and comes home with stories of the boats he’s worked on and the people he’s observed. He likes mechanic work, and Hannibal can see why it suits him—he uses his hands, not his mind, and does not have to feign sociability. He can observe without truly being seen himself, as has always been his preference.
Will had also lived a life for the three years that Hannibal was in prison, and while he is hesitant to tell stories of his wife and son, he has many anecdotes about the dogs and the weather in Maine. Hannibal spent those years in his mind palace, and is loath to discuss what things he dwelled on there.
He had assumed he was simply waiting for an interesting thing to happen, and yet. Perhaps the appearance of a cat is not remarkable enough to merit sharing.
“This is the third time Mrs. Pritchers has called me out to work on one of her boats, and there wasn’t anything wrong with it! This time it started first try, had gas and everything!” Will is saying as they eat dinner.
“Perhaps it isn’t her boat motor that she wants to be seeing you for,” Hannibal says with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah, because we all know I’m such great company.” Will rolls his eyes. “I imagine she’s just lonely. She’s been all alone out there since her husband died and I’m the only one new and foolish enough to still make the drive every time she calls.”
“We should invite her to dinner,” Hannibal suggests.
Will looks suspicious. “This isn’t some paranoia thing, is it? You’re not suggesting we kill an old woman just because she’s taken an interest in me?”
“I’m genuinely suggesting we have her over socially. You say she’s lonely; I could use an excuse to do something different for dinner. Although I admit to some concern, my intention is merely to gain information and extend hospitality.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” Will still seems uncertain.
Hannibal has to work to keep his frustration in check. “My stamina is improving daily. I’m confident I can manage a few hours of social contact, Will.”
“Okay,” Will says. Hannibal can’t read his tone. “I’ll call her tomorrow, then. I’m sure she’d love to meet my elusive husband.”
Hannibal keeps himself from sighing. Husband, indeed. Will barely allows Hannibal to touch him to do physical therapy on his shoulder. “Invite her on Friday, if she’s available. I’ll need a few days to prepare.”
“Sure,” Will says, and then gives a little half smile. “Maybe it’ll be good for you to have company.”
“Perhaps so,” Hannibal says, and tries to avoid thinking about how badly he wants it, and what it means that Will seems to know anyway.
He spends the next two days cleaning and straightening and rearranging everything in the areas of the house their guest is likely to visit. It should only have taken a few hours at most, and he is, once again, frustrated by his limitations. Part way through he realizes that he needs to move the dining table a foot to the left to have the centerpiece catch the light correctly, and that it is far too heavy for his torn abdominal muscles to tolerate him even attempting such a thing.
He’ll have to get Will to help him. He hates having to need anything at all, and has been doing his best to be as little a burden as possible to Will, but he can’t do this and it needs to be done.
Will agrees readily enough once he gets home, but Hannibal has had to waste most of the last three hours waiting for him, and he’s done enough that he’s in a considerable amount of pain.
“I really think it would have been fine where it was,” Will says as he carefully shoves the table into position. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
Hannibal is struck with a sudden and overwhelming urge to burst into tears like a frustrated child, or scream. He takes a second to tamp it down before he speaks. “I would like our home to meet certain standards before having guests. You know how important hospitality is to me, and many of these are things I’ve been meaning to get to regardless.”
“Well, let me know if you need any other help, I guess. Do you want me to pick up anything tomorrow?”
“Only our guest,” Hannibal says. “I am capable of going grocery shopping on my own.”
“I know you are, I just don’t want you to set yourself back by overexerting.” Will sounds concerned, and it grates.
“I’ll manage, thank you.”
Will sighs heavily. “Okay. Is there anything else you need right now?”
“I believe this was everything.”
Will sighs again, and then leaves Hannibal alone. Hannibal could almost pretend he was pleased by it.
The grocery shopping isn’t entirely a disaster, but it’s a near miss. The gunshot wound he sustained penetrated his lower intestine, and as a result he has continued to have gastrointestinal issues even though the perforation itself has healed. Today he’s been having unpleasant cramps in his guts all morning, which culminate in an abrupt and urgent bout of diarrhea that has him abandoning his shopping basket and running across the store to the restroom. He barely makes it; his pants are clean, but his underwear isn’t salvageable.
He’s had to start keeping a change of clothes in his car in case of incidents like this—this wasn’t even a particularly bad one, although it’s more than enough to leave him feeling completely disgusting.
It’s nearly unbearable to have such a lack of control over his body, but no amount of willpower can overcome the reflexes of his extremely irritated bowels. He’d thought he was past the point of feeling shame about anything—and that’s perhaps not entirely the right word for the feeling this inspires in him—but it is an aggressive and exceedingly unpleasant reminder that his body is just as mortal and fallible as anyone else’s. He’s only had one full on public accident, but that was sufficiently mortifying that he very nearly decided never to go back to the store it happened in. He can’t stand the helplessness and vulnerability of it.
But shopping for their meals has been his one small freedom in the weeks they’ve been here—it’s a small enough task that he’s capable of doing it without noticing his fatigue and lack of strength, most of the time his guts don’t cause him problems, and it’s the only time he really gets out of their home and around other living beings. That’s precious enough to him these days that in the end it’s not worth giving up, even to save his pride.
He never would have expected isolation to be so distressing to him, but it makes sense: the combination of years isolated in the BSHCI and being unable to pursue many of his favored pastimes due to something as banal as physical illness was bound to leave him desperate for any stimulating outlet he can find.
Will seems content enough. He has his work five days a week and goes fishing on the weekends. It seems that everyone here has a boat and that someone always needs something; Will comes home tired, but he always speaks about his day with a satisfying sense of accomplishment. He eats dinner with Hannibal, takes the dog for a walk, lets Hannibal manipulate his shoulder, and then retires to his room for the evening. In the morning he wakes up, thanks Hannibal for making coffee, and heads out the door with at most a slice of toast. Hannibal has offered to pack him lunches, but Will says he generally isn’t that hungry, and if he is he’ll get something while he’s out.
Hannibal hasn’t pressed because he isn’t entirely sure he would be allowed. He isn’t sure exactly what he’s allowed at all. They have spoken, of course, about all manner of things, but while Will seems to largely have forgiven him, there’s still a barrier between them. Things are cordial, but the closeness they’d had is missing, more now even than when they first arrived. Will has his routine and it mostly doesn’t include Hannibal. And Hannibal has an empty house, gastrointestinal distress, and this terrible, persistent fatigue.
He hates it. He feels like a housewife waiting at home for his absent spouse, just counting the hours until he sees Will again—and he doesn’t even get the benefits. He sees Will for a few hours a day at most, and half the time Will decides to go to his room and tie flies rather than spend one moment longer than necessary in Hannibal’s company.
The worst part is that he understands. Will has every reason to be distant and every reason to want to avoid him. He has no leg to stand on to ask Will for anything; Will has already given him so much. Will is there with him, sharing his home, building a life as Hannibal’s husband. Hannibal could not bear him leaving again, and so he will be content with what he has. He must.
He can’t say that he’s actually looking forward to having Mrs. Pritchers over, but he will admit that once he starts cooking he feels the scream that has been building in his ribcage a little bit less. His guts seem to have settled, and he’s always enjoyed cooking for new people. It’s nice to see the home looking put together as well, and he’s glad he went to the trouble.
He’s putting the finishing touches on a sauce to go with the meat he has roasting in the oven when he sees the cat again. There’s a flicker of orange in the corner of his eye, and when he looks up she’s curled on the windowsill again, back crushed against the window. The window faces southwest, and the last light of the day catches on her colorful fur, leaving an odd-shaped shadow. Hannibal finds himself smiling as he finishes preparing the meal.
She leaps down abruptly the instant Will’s car can be heard coming up the drive. Hannibal washes his hands and puts on his jacket before going to greet them at the door.
Will smiles when he sees him, a little too wide to be entirely real. “Mrs. Pritchers, I’d like you to meet my husband, François. François, this is Mrs. Pritchers.”
The widow Pritchers is a small, round woman, with lines on her face that speak of more smiles than frowns. Hannibal reaches for her hand and she clutches at it rather than shaking. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Pritchers. John’s told me a lot about you.”
“Oh, please, call me Emilia, dear. I must have told your husband that a thousand times.” She allows Will to take her coat, and continues, “I must say I was surprised to be invited into your home. John’s been very firm about how much you value your privacy.”
Hannibal files that away for later and pastes on a friendly smile. “My health is not what it once was, I’m afraid, but I have always loved cooking for company. My husband worries too much about me.”
Emilia’s smile widens. “They’ll do that, husbands.” She follows him to the dining room, and looks pleased when he pulls out her chair for her. “John told me something about your accident, what a terrible thing. It was a drunk driver that took my son from me, you know.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hannibal tells her, and then excuses himself to retrieve the meal.
The dinner is going as smoothly as Hannibal could have hoped. Emilia Pritchers is a talkative woman, and despite the banality of the conversation it is at least a change of pace. She has a certain kind of intelligence and flawless manners that Hannibal can appreciate, and she makes Will smile more than Hannibal has seen in years. The smile is different now, twisted by the scar on his cheek, but it is still Will’s smile, and Hannibal has missed it.
Hannibal has to be careful about what he eats—his gastrointestinal issues have been helped slightly to be on a more limited diet—so his plate is missing a few of the components he prepared for the others. It’s for the best, regardless, since whenever he eats too much these days he struggles with extreme nausea, and it’s bad enough to have to run from the table to vomit with only Will there. It’s yet another thing that chafes: Hannibal has long felt comforted by feeling full, and he hates losing food, and now he has a choice between one and the other. He tries to put it out of his mind, and focuses on enjoying the foods he is allowed.
Emilia is too caught up in her own food to notice anything odd about his plate in any case. It’s always gratifying to see someone taste his cooking for the first time, and the look of rapture on her face as she bites into dessert is a balm to his spirits.
“I can’t believe you get to eat like this every night,” Emilia is telling Will. “I can see why you married him.”
Will laughs, and meets Hannibal’s eyes. There’s an intensity there that he doesn’t know how to read. “He’s more than just an amazing cook, although I will admit his food was a big draw, at least at first.”
“At first?” Emilia asks, sensing a story.
Hannibal considers cutting in, but Will answers her smoothly. “I told you we met at work, right? Well the next week we both had to go to a conference, and he knocked on my hotel room door with breakfast. He probably could’ve invited me to bed right then and I’d have gone.”
“He forgets the part of the story where he answered the door in his underwear,” Hannibal says, to cover his surprise.
Will, to his delight, blushes. “It was early! I wasn’t awake yet!”
Emilia laughs. “That sounds lovely! It took my Lloyd ages to work up the courage to bring me flowers, much less ask me out.”
“Oh, he fed me for a long time before he worked up the nerve to ask me out,” Will says, and there’s a hint of irony in his eyes as he looks at Hannibal. “I was almost worried we were never going to get there. But I’m glad, I think, that we had a chance to be friends first.”
Hannibal has no idea where this conversation is going or how much of it is just for Emilia’s benefit, but his heart is doing something funny in his chest. “I wouldn’t give up my friendship with you for the world,” he agrees.
“Oh, absolutely,” Emilia says. “Your husband should be your best friend. You have to have more than just lust if you want something that lasts through the hard times, and it’s clear as day that you two have it. It’s something a lot of us heterosexuals miss, I think, in a rush to find someone to have babies with.”
“We’ve certainly had our share of hard times,” Will says soberly. “But we’ve made it here, and I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
“Nor I,” Hannibal agrees. He wonders, again, how much of this Will means. “I don’t know where I’d be without him.”
Will reaches for his hand, and Hannibal is so surprised he almost doesn’t recognize the gesture for what it is. He catches himself before he can flinch, turning his palm up to hold Will’s hand properly. He feels as though his hand is stuck in an electric socket; his brain so attuned to the sensation of Will’s hand in his that it seems so much more than a simple gesture. He’s gone far too long without any kind of affectionate touch.
Emilia smiles at their joined hands. “I’m certainly pleased to have met you both. I wouldn’t have expected such handsome young men to take such an interest in little old me.”
Emilia is, at most, twenty-five years Hannibal’s senior, but he appreciates the sentiment for what it is and smiles at her. “I admit I was curious to meet the woman who convinced my husband to take house calls.”
“It didn’t take a lot of convincing,” she says, smiling at Will. “I called him up and told him I didn’t have a car any longer and he was happy to come out. You’ll have to come see the lake sometime, dear.”
“It’s beautiful,” Will agrees. “And I hardly mind the drive for such lovely company.”
They talk a little longer, and then Emilia suggests that it’s getting late and she’d best be getting home. Hannibal misses the feeling of Will’s hand in his immediately when he lets go to stand.
Emilia excuses herself to the restroom as they clear the table, leaving Hannibal unexpectedly alone with Will’s too-observant gaze.
“If you’re tired, I can do the dishes when I get home from taking her back,” Will offers gently. “I know this was a lot.”
The scream is abruptly back, pressing at Hannibal’s throat. “I’m fine,” he manages, after slightly too long of a pause.
Will’s face shutters. “Okay.” He sighs. “Thank you for playing nice tonight.”
“Thank you for suggesting it.”
Will cocks his head. “I don’t think I did.”
Hannibal just looks at him. “Didn’t you?”
Their eyes meet, and Hannibal can see Will trying to find the words to say something. Before he does they both hear a toilet flush, and Will sags, turning and heading to the door instead. Hannibal follows a half step behind.
Emilia hugs him before she leaves, and he finds himself pleased. She smells like apples and coconut oil and the dinner they’d just eaten.
Will just clasps his arm and says, “I should be home in less than an hour.”
Hannibal does the dishes, and feeds Kirk. He considers taking the dog on his evening walk, but Will will be home soon and Hannibal is tired. He’s done too much, and he knows he should have accepted Will’s offer of help, knows Will knows this and will be displeased, and suddenly he can’t bear the idea of having to see the look that he knows Will will give him. Instead he goes upstairs and shuts himself in his bedroom. He means to read or sketch, as it’s only nine, but in the end his eyes are heavy and he just goes to bed. He’s asleep before Will gets back.