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Chapter Text

Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs had the same mother, whose choice to leave Mr Graham for Mr Hobbs turned out to be the worst she ever made.

Of course, she wasn't around anymore to talk about it, and the only reminder of Garett Jacob Hobbs the children were left with was an ugly scar on Abigail's neck that, even though she was now seventeen, had never entirely faded.

After the death of Mrs Hobbs, both kids were given in custody to Mr Graham, who had in the meantime remarried to one wealthy Mrs Lecter.

Eventually, after a few years of a peaceful familial life, Mrs Lecter got bored of the country and left everyone for the city and a grand career as an opera singer, leaving behind her own two children, Hannibal and little Mischa Lecter.

Mr Graham would have taken care of the Graham-Hobbs-Lecter tribe had he not be too depressed and drunk to ever leave his mechanics shop near the port.

Lucky enough for them, the older of the kids, twenty-five year old Hannibal, was strong minded enough to support the others.

“And that's why you're going to be a good girl and eat whatever Papanibal cooked for us this time, okay?” Abigail concluded as she was trying to coerce little Mischa into finishing dinner.

“I told you not to call me that” Hannibal reminded her, annoyed. “She will eventually believe it.”

“Papanibal” the five year old repeated mischievously, understanding there was a prank there she could work somehow in the discussion.

Hannibal sighed and leant over the table to wipe his little sister's dirty mouth.

“I think it's cute” Will said as he was engulfing his delicious, even though frugal, breakfast. “I think it suits you.”

Hannibal frowned, and both Abigail and Will laughed at him. “Why so serious?” Abigail said. “Will isn't against being called Diddy-Daddy.”

“William isn't actually Mischa's brother. If she grows up believing I am her father, she might get confused.”

“Ooooooooh” both siblings answered at his use of Will's full name. “Papa's angry!...”

They giggled, and Hannibal took the empty plates to put them in the sink. “You're both going to be late” he pointed out. “Abigail, take your umbrella with you today; it's raining.”

“I know daddy” she answered, jumping off her sit to put on her shoes and raincoat. “Will you be home late again?”

“I have work to do.”

She pouted, then started dressing little Mischa to take her to school.

Will finished cleaning the table and brought the dirty plates to Hannibal, who was already meticulously washing the dishes. “Why do you have to stay out so late?” he asked in a low, concerned voice. “We barely see you anymore.”

“I would remind you taking care of a family is costly, Will” Hannibal answered casually. “And, since I'm set on finishing my studies to become a surgeon, I had to take this job. Do we have to discuss it again?”

Will cringed, then slid his arms around the other's waist, putting his chin on Hannibal's shoulder. “But I miss you” he murmured. “And I don't even have the pleasure of sharing a bed with you, like Mischa does, so I only get to see you in the morning.”

Hannibal carefully wiped and put away the clean dishes. “Perhaps it is for the best” he told Will as he pushed him away. “Now, get ready. I won't wait for you.”

As Abigail took Mischa to their school, carrying her on a baby backpack as she was riding her bike, Will and Hannibal headed to Baltimore on the latter's motorcycle.

Technically it was Mr Graham's; but as the man barely showed up Hannibal had put it back together and used it daily. Will would come back on the bus.

Hannibal started his days by dropping Will off at the university, where the twenty year old had been offered a grant to take profiling classes. As the FBI office wasn't far away from the establishment, some people said it kept a close watch on Baltimore's pupils. Will hoped to be allowed to join it someday.

“Would you hurry up, William?” Hannibal told him as the young man was taking his time to get off the motorcycle.

Will would not. He missed the other already.

“Tell me you'll be back by eleven at least” Will said, taking off his helmet.

“I will be late now. Get off.”

“So will I, and Mrs Burgundy is not the funniest teacher when it comes to lateness. Seriously, when will you be back?”

“It depends of the dissections I will have to prepare for tomorrow. It is out of my hands.”

“I'll make rice with fish” Will told him, knowing Hannibal had a weak spot for food. “With fresh herbs. Won't you come back early?”

The other shrugged him off, and Will almost lost his balance. “You don't have to throw me off the bike” he protested.

“Given the time, it seems like it is exactly what I had to do. Have a good day, Will.”

The bike started immediately after that, and Hannibal took off, leaving him behind at the door of his university.

*

Will loved his classes. He had a good memory, and found it easy to identify with the people they studied as psychology exercises to understand the causes of their actions.

However, he had had increasing trouble to concentrate lately.

More accurately, since Mrs Lecter had left a couple of years ago, leaving Hannibal in charge of their little family. Truth is, they hadn't even really had time to bond as siblings before that –neither Will nor Abigail thought of Hannibal as their brother– though they were starting to talk of Mischa as their sister (or, the little darling).

At first, it had been quite awkward. Hannibal hadn't mentioned it, but Abigail and Will had grown closer when Mrs Lecter got with Will's father. Before the family collapsing, they used to meet in the back garden and whisper about that weird Hannibal person –so freakishly neat, with that impenetrable gaze of his– and ponder about Mischa's overwhelming dynamism. Now that Mr Graham was away, they shared a single room and talked about their lives at night. Abigail whispered how scared she was of Hannibal at first –that odd boy who might turn out to be a crazy psycho like her own fath... like Hobbs. Will promised he would protect her.

Now, he was the one looking for help, and Abigail reassuring him Hannibal was a good person, someone who would hear him out, someone who would care for his feelings.

Lately, she had started calling him her other brother. She had only said it once or twice, but Will knew she meant it.

He couldn't think of Hannibal that way. Even though legally, on paper, they were related, Hannibal would always be Hannibal to him. That older boy who cooked.

Will had been as troubled as the rest of them by the changes in their life: with no working adult to properly provide for them (even though Mr Graham and Mrs Lecter still sent them some money), cash was hard to come by, and they were regularly visited by someone who could very well decide the children weren't taken care of properly and break their family apart.

Hannibal took on the role of a parent as if it were nothing, but Will could sense he had been irritated to be forced to do so. He dreamt of becoming a surgeon and, with the pricy fee of Baltimore's university, he had had to take a job on top of caring for the family and pursuing difficult studies.

Abigail endured pretty well. Of course, her former father had murdered her mum and tried to kill her afterwards, so she probably saw this new familial arrangement as pretty sane and comfortable in comparison.

Mischa was five, so as long as she was fed, cosy and loved, she probably didn't care.

The radical change in his life had troubled Will so much Hannibal had decided to take him to the same psychiatry office that helped Abigail –which cost a lot of money they couldn't afford to spend. And the sessions had stopped truly helping some time ago, when Will had decided to keep some secrets for himself.

Namely, that he–

“Mr. Graham, could you repeat what I just said?”

Will startled, and blinked in confusion as the stern face of Mrs Burgundy stared at him.

“I, uh.”

“I don't see why you keep coming, Mr Graham” she said. She then went back to her lecture –she was strict, not a sadist.

Will bit his lower lip, and watched through the window. They were motorcycles parked along with bikes outside, and he imagined Hannibal coming to fetch him after school in the leather jacket he wore to protect himself in case of a fall. He would park his motorcycle carefully, then run fingers through his ashen hair, raise his eyes in the general direction of Will's classroom, meet his gaze, smile. He didn't smile to him anymore.

Will wanted to skip the rest of his classes and go to the medical university, but it would both be foolish –as he loved psychology and dearly wanted to pass– that and the fact that Hannibal would get mad at him.

He would be right to; university cost a lot of money. Will had said he was fine with being a mechanic –Hannibal had insisted that he was to study and work as he wanted.

“Stupid man” Will muttered, going back to listening to the lecture. “Stupid, stupid man.”

*

Back home, Will cooked dinner while Abigail finished her homework. Mischa would play around happily, singing like a joyful bird. They would eat, clean around a bit –Hannibal was very strict about hygiene. Around ten, as Mischa was already asleep in the double bed of the former parental room, Abigail would go to hers and Will's own bedroom to read.

Will was left with some homework, possibly a book. When he had time, he prepared lures for his weekly fishing trips on Fridays –the perfect occasion to fill up the fridge with fresh food.

This once he waited until half past midnight; but Hannibal came home increasingly late since he'd taken this job at the school's morgue. Preparing human dissections for classes and drawing the results was probably very helpful to his studies, but Will couldn't help but resent him a little.

At a quarter to one he resolved to go to bed, sliding silently into the small room where Abigail was already asleep. He was sitting on his narrow mattress, changing into his pyjamas, when he heard the sound of the main door creaking.

Hannibal parked his motorcycle in the garage, but pushed it in from the main road on instead of driving in to avoid waking them up. He then came in silently but for the sound of getting off his jacket and hanging it on the coat-peg. The sound of keys –some scratching.

Will listened in the dark, sat straight and focused on his little bed, like a cat.

Hannibal rumbled in the fridge, probably hungry, then went to the next room, where Mischa was asleep, to get his clothes for a shower. He went out again, and Will heard water running.

He rubbed his face with both hands, roughly.

“Hey” came a murmur.

Will startled. “I thought you were asleep.”

Abigail's eyes where like white embers. “You have to talk to him” she whispered.

“I can't.” He got up and cracked their door open, looking at the faint light outside that came from the shower.

“You barely sleep anymore, and your nightmares are getting on my nerves. Tell him.”

He hated that she was so perceptive.

“He knows already.”

“Of course. So talk to him. I'm getting sick of all the heart ache there. You tell him, he rejects you, we can all go on with our lives.”

Will's heart tightened. Abigail had never truly brushed the subject with him –though there had been insinuations, veiled advises and counselling. She knew –of course she knew– and she understood. He had insisted so much lately that he couldn't bring himself to see Hannibal as a brother –which he wasn't, they had lived so little together, even before their parents leaving, and with no blood bonds they...

“You have to do something about it” Abigail said.

“You don't think he'll accept me either” he murmured.

“You can always hope for a miracle.”

He looked at her –two pinpoints of light in the dark.

“I'm scared” he told her.

“He's not going to eat you. Just tell him. He'll understand, and you'll probably feel better afterwards.”

“Or empty and void” he muttered, but he got out of the room anyway.

He crept as silently as he could towards the tiny bathroom where the shower ran. The lock was broken, as for all their doors except the main and garage ones, so he slid in easily.

He could see it happen, him walking on the showering man, surprising him naked, pushing him harshly against the wall, hurting him. Hannibal, startled, would open wide, frightened eyes.

Will would kiss him. Grip his hair tight to never let him go. Push against him viciously, hear him gasp.

Bite him.

He took off his pyjama and piled it neatly over Hannibal's own little stack of clothes, then gently knocked on the shower's plastic door. Hannibal froze on the other side.

“Can I come in?” Will asked, a knot tightening in his throat. They didn't use to shower together anymore. Will suspected Hannibal had only allowed that in the first place because everyone would hop in when he was washing with Mischa, as he'd done since she was a baby and scared by the noisy fall of water. They would splash each other with cries of delight.

Will and Abigail's parents had never been prudes, and they were way more comfortable with nudity than the older boy was.

The shower door slid partly open. “You should be in bed, William.”

“I wanted to see you.”

Naked, Will was chilly. He rubbed his arms to chase the cold away. “Please?”

Hannibal pondered, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he turned away with a little inviting gesture of the head. Will hopped in.

“That's better” he sighed as the hot vapours of the shower warmed his body.

The shower was tiny, so they couldn't help but brush against each other. Hannibal gave him the soap and a bottle a shampoo.

So easy to pin him against that hard wall and ravage him.

Will rubbed shampoo into his dark locks. “How was your day?” he asked.

“Tiring” Hannibal answered. “Yours?”

“Same. Say, will you accompany us to the shrink tomorrow?”

“You know I cannot.”

“But there's a serial killer on the loose” Will pouted. “Don't you want to protect us, Papa?”

Hannibal slightly smiled. “I'm sure you are old enough to care for yourself.”

Will stuck his tongue out at him, then plunged his fingers in the ashen hair.

“Will.”

“I want to wash your hair. You're not doing it right. You're supposed to use shampoo and my hands for it.”

Hannibal' small smile was kind. He turned around to face Will, indulging his whim, and closed his eyes.

So easy to kiss him. Plant demanding lips on his wet mouth. Seize his wrists, press him against the tiles, ignoring his protests, plunge hard fingers into his flesh. Hear him gasp, choke on indignation, feel his hands pushing him away vainly. Unable to escape. Show him that; that he couldn't escape. That he wouldn't, anymore. That he was staying.

Ravish him.

“How are classes going?” Hannibal asked, his eyes still closed.

“Fine. I'm doing good, actually, though I have trouble focusing.”

The eyes opened, brown and somewhat red, like dark wine. “Are you still down because of Alana?”

Will swallowed, and looked away. “That was four months ago.”

“You had been together four years.”

Will took the shower head off its hanger and gently rinsed the foam off Hannibal's hair, pushing it away with a hand. “I broke it off.”

Hannibal didn't answer –not only because his mouth was under running water. He was listening.

“Actually, we both broke it off” Will corrected. “We knew that was it. Turn around, I'll scrub your back.”

“I think we have used enough water for tonight, Will” Hannibal answered, turning it off. “Remember I had trouble paying that last bill.”

He was sliding fingers in his light hair to get the water off. Will licked his lips nervously.

Hannibal looked at him tranquilly, getting out of the shower to take his towel and rub it against his naked body. His eyes glanced down for a second, then looked away; Will blushed.

He took his own towel to cover himself.

“You will find someone else” Hannibal told him. “Someone your own age.”

“We're only five years apart” Will told him.

Hannibal spared him a glance. “I was talking about Alana.”

“I know.”

The other started dressing, casually, as if he were not half stripped in front of a very visibly aroused, nude, wet Will.

“And you know I'm not interested in someone my own age” Will added, tightening the towel around himself.

“I am aware of your unfortunate romantic interest” Hannibal answered. “I also believe you will meet someone more in tune to your sentiments than I am.”

Fucking hit him on the head, give him a bloody concussion. Bruise him, kick him until he falls laying on the floor, disoriented and disabled. Terrified and pleading for reconciliation.

“I don't want someone else” Will wanted to say.

“I wish I didn’t feel this way” he said instead. “I... I know how uncomfortable it makes you.”

“I am merely saddened by the fact that I cannot return your affection as you wish I would” Hannibal replied calmly, finishing to button up his pyjama shirt.

Rip his clothes apart. Scratch his chest, nail carving red stripes all over his body. Tighten hands around his throat.

Will felt a tear slid on his cheek. Hannibal saw it, too, and Will wiped it away in anger.

“William” Hannibal murmured, taking gently the young man against him, cradling him, putting his cheek on the other's damp curls. “I do care for you deeply. I merely lack in desire. You would be most unhappy.”

Will gasped, almost choking on a sob. He gripped the other's clothes and buried his weeping in the strong shoulder.

“Now I am most unhappy” he wanted to say. “I don't care about sex, let's be together and never have it. Just love me, love me.”

“I love you most sincerely” Hannibal whispered. “I truly wish for your happiness. But I am not it.”

Will hiccuped in-between sobs.

Fuck him. Fuck him. Push him against the wall and–

“Can't you love me?” he stammered. “Can't you ever love me?”

“Please, calm down” Hannibal said gently, stroking his back gently to help him relax. “I understand this must be painful, but you mustn't hurt yourself so.”

Will rose his tear-covered face towards him –two blue, wet, bright eyes and rosy lips under dark curls. “Kiss me” he begged. “Please, please, please, kiss me.”

Hannibal inhaled sharply. “I do not think this would help you, William.”

“It would. It will. Please. Please.”

Hannibal hesitated, then gently pushed Will away. “It would only fuel your hunger.”

Will leaned against the cool, damp wall.

“At least –don't come home so late –you're never h–here anymore” he stammered. “We're all a– alone.”

“I am not leaving you” Hannibal said.

Chain him to a wall. To a tree. To a tree in the forest, in a small hut. Where he'd belong only to Will.

“You've already left me” he cried, and a surge of dizziness had him slid against the wall, almost fall. He decided to sit.

Hannibal cautiously kneeled in front of him. “Your mother left, William. And your father. I did not. I will not. Consider that.”

Crush his skull. Bang his head against the floor until it cracks open, spilling red flowers.

Hannibal put his hands on either side of Will's face. “We are your family now” he said. “We are not leaving you behind.”

He pressed his lips against Will's.

Will gripped his hair, tight.

“You should go to bed” Hannibal murmured, stroking the inside of Will's wrists gently with his thumbs. “A long day awaits.”

“What did he said?” Abigail asked when she heard Will slid back into their room.

“He said no.”

“Oh. Sorry 'bout that” she yawned as she turned towards him. “You alright?”

“No” he replied. “But I'll manage.”

“Good luck with it.”

Will nodded, which she probably didn't see.

He slid under his covers and didn't sleep. He was far too busy pondering about ways to seduce Hannibal –and failing to find any.

His lips were tingling with the reminiscence of a soft, gentle kiss.

A kiss full of love, but not of the right kind.

Chapter Text

Will waited for Abigail sitting on stairs near the bike park. He was removed from others then, though he could still see them pass by, talk and gesture as they were leaving the premisses.

This girl, giggling even though she felt like crying, making a joke to her friends to look like she was alright.

This boy, eying a passing stranger, licking his lips, thinking about dark corridors and isolated, living sex toys.

This person, caught in-between a mess of genders, wishing there was room for them in that crowd of people.

Will curled on himself, crossed his arms in a mock-up hug.

Happy people, lonely persons, angry girls, saddened boys.

He breathed slowly and tried to think of something peaceful, as his therapist had advised him to.

But his mind was still troubled by the events of the former night. His lips still tingled slightly at the memory.

He didn't want to think about it at school, because it was worse than at home. At home, he could keep himself at bay, preserve himself as much as possible of other's influence.

Here, he bathed in foreign thoughts. His own got mixed with them, got tainted.

Here, he dreamt of either killing Hannibal or raping him on a daily basis. He hated that.

He couldn't even be sure there wasn't a part of him who truly wished for it –that it wasn't all due to others' violent influences.

And he couldn't tell Mr. Budge. What, really, saying to his therapist that he longed to hurt the person he loved most? That he thought about it constantly, scared that one day he wouldn't be able to restrain himself and act on it? No.

The familiar sound of a motor rumbled near him. It was Hannibal, in his black leather jacket and pants, parking his bike near the road. He removed his helmet, tidied up his hair, then waved at Will for him to come.

The young man was already trotting towards him when his brain registered the action.

“Where is Abbe?” Will asked, surprised to see only his sort-of brother.

“Already at Du Maurier's” Hannibal answered. “She asked me to take you to Budge's. How are you?”

“I'm fine” Will lied, taking the second helmet Hannibal was handing him. The older boy was also taking off his worn off leather jacket to give it to him, as he did when Will had nothing protective to drive around in.

“I don't want it” Will said. “Why would you be the one to get hurt if we have an accident?”

“Because I'm the one driving and would be responsible for it” Hannibal replied. “Put it on, please.”

Will reluctantly accepted. Reluctantly, because he could feel Hannibal's warmth and smell clinging to the jacket, and it would feel so painfully good to bath in it.

“I don't want to go to the shrink” Will said as he was sitting on the motorbike besides Hannibal. “Can't we go to the morgue? I'll tag along while you're working.”

“You don't need more nightmares” the other answered. “And I need to talk to your therapist.”

Will's heart tightened. “About what?”

“You know.”

Will slid his arms around Hannibal's waist, feeling kind of frozen. “Don't tell him.”

“I cannot deal with this on my own. I will ask him what to do. You have been hurt enough by your close ones; I will not be one of them.”

But Will knew what Mr Budge would say. “What if he tells you to put me in a boarding school? What if he says I should be treated, or–”

“Shhh, Will, calm down.”

“I can't calm down! You're treating this like a disease!”

Hannibal was about to start his engine, but he thought better about it and took his helmet back off.

“I am not questioning your feelings” he said, turning around to look at Will. “And I will not ask him to specifically find a solution that benefits me.”

“But–”

“What I want is to know how to help you with it. I read essays on the subject, and I came up with various solutions– but I want professional advise.”

“You read essays– on love?” Will snarled, taking off his own helmet. “What did you think you would find? A cure?”

Hannibal tilted his head. “You know this is partly due to your fear of abandonment. Yes?”

Will could feel his heart beat faster. “So?”

“So that is an issue. If your attachment to me comes from fear, it will only hurt you.”

“You're such a moron” Will snapped, putting his helmet on.

From fear.

Hannibal practically showered him in caring gestures and loving words. He cooked for him, took care of him when he felt sick or down, tucked him into bed with a goodnight kiss, picked him up at the university even when his schedule didn't allow it. And the guy had the guts to believe Will would love him –out of fear?

What a douche.

He leaned on him as the motorcycle was starting, and closed his eyes.

Hannibal requested to talk to Budge first, so Will had to stay in the waiting room, anxiously biting his nails –although he never did that.

What if Hannibal was right? What if Budge thought he was, at least?

When the door finally opened, Will practically jumped out of his skin.

Hannibal seemed shaken. He walked out as collected as ever, but Will could see the small tell-tale signs of worry on his face. Mr Budge's eyes lingered on him.

Will approached them nervously.

“I'll wait for you here” Hannibal said, avoiding his eyes. There was merely half of Will's hour left.

“Will, if you would” Budge invited him in.

As Will was going through the door of his office, he noticed the long, covetous glance the tall man was sending Hannibal.

“You never told me how smart your older brother is” the therapist said as he was sitting in his chair.

“Stay away from him” Will half growled, unnerved by the other's interest in Hannibal. “And he's not my brother.”

“Legally, he is.”

“I've only known him for four years, and we're not related by blood. You're not going to convince me to let go with this argument.”

“I'm not trying to convince you” Budge answered, leaning in towards him. “But you have to know the only way for you to preserve stability is to part from him, at least for the time being.”

“You didn't tell him that, did you?” Will gasped, alarmed.

“He came to that conclusion by himself” the man replied.

Will jumped out his chair, almost running to the door. Hannibal sent him a surprised look from his sit in the waiting room.

“He is not going” Budge told Will, getting up to close the door. “He believes it would be even more detrimental to your well-being. But we have talked, and established a list of rules to be followed. It would be good that you would do the same.”

“To what goal?” Will asked, defensive. “Ripping that love out of my heart?”

“Helping you to live with it until you can make saner, safer attachment.”

“I love him” Will blurted out. “Love is not sane, and it's very seldom safe. What I want is for him to love me back.”

“What if he can't?”

Will swallowed. “Then I wish he'd let me care for him. He's so caring, and I feel like I can't reach back. I want to.”

“I'm afraid he's not very comfortable with the situation” Budge replied. “But I have made an appointment with him, and we shall discuss that further later. Now is your time. What would you want to discuss more particularly?”

“What are you going to tell him?” Will blurted out nervously.

“I am afraid that would breach confidentiality” his therapist answered.

“Don't tell him to push me away. He's already very good at it.”

Budge leaned in slightly. “Yet he seems to care a lot about you.”

Will scoffed. “He's embarrassed I love him.”

The other man didn't answer, then leaned back into his seat. “What makes you feel that way?”

“It's not the way I feel, okay” Will retorted, looking at the floor with frowned brows. “He's still nice, but he doesn't... act the same. I can just feel it. He's slipping away.”

“Have you considered the possibility that you might be the one who's holding on too tight?”

There. That was why Will hated therapists.

“Of course I have” he replied with irritation. “I know I'm being pushy, and clingy, even childish. I know I'm acting like a brat. I just want to be sure he'll stay, and I don't know how to convey that. I'm stupidly scared, because, well, he's not going. He's not going anywhere.”

Yet he still felt panic crawl up on him at the thought.

“I'm asking for too much” Will added, looking at the tip of his worn out shoes. “I'm pushing to see if it'll break. I'm acting stupid.”

Budge didn't correct his misuse of the word. He could have said that he was being irrational and impulsive. He could have pointed out this was a natural reaction to being abandoned by both your parents, and to questioning your own worth in a world where, apparently, most people were jerks who never thought about others. Hannibal would have mentioned it.

Hell, Abigail would have said as much.

Sometimes, Will felt that his therapist wasn't as recommendable as the Institute Of Therapeutic Psychology pretended.

Or that Will could make a better job than the man, but that's the irritation speaking.

“I wish he'd love me” Will sighed, warily. “Is there... is there a way to achieve that?”

“Having him love you back?” Budge answered quietly, expressionless to most people but clearly judgmental, even condescending, to Will's more acute senses.

“I at least'd like to know what he actually feels for me.”

Being tucked into bed. Gently kissed on the brow. “Goodnight, Will.”

Will wanted to have Hannibal ride behind him on the motorcycle. He wanted to peel an apple for him. Poke him on the cheek for fun, then tickle him until he'd crack an actual smile.

“I don't even know if he's truly happy” he whispered, lost in thoughts.

“He seems very unique” Budge said –something in his tone didn't ring quite right to Will. “Tell me more about him.”

No “would you”, “do you want to”, “it could be beneficial that”; just, a straight order.

Will didn't want to talk about Hannibal.

“He's an horrible cook” he replied instantly. “He always burns the food. And he's not doing that well at school. He didn't tell us, but I found his grades once. He's failing.”

He wasn't sure why he'd felt the need to lie. It seemed like Budge was too interested in Hannibal. Will felt compelled to protect him.

“People think he's very clever because he can act quite charming” he added, not entirely sure Budge was buying it.

“Then why do you love him?” the man asked. Will cringed.

“He's caring” he said, giving as little as he could. “He's very nice to me. To all of us. He makes me feel safe, and wanted.”

He almost kicked himself when the latter words came out of his mouth. They hit a little too close to home, and he knew what Budge was going to ask next.

“And his rejection means you are not wanted?”

Fucking therapist. Trying to have an affirmative sentence pass as a interrogative one –was he just bad with words, or was he doing that on purpose? Will worried about his other patients, the ones who wouldn't be able to decipher this kind of phrasing. The ones who would feel guilty and inadequate because of them. Or was Will the only one they affected?

“I'm wanted alright” he retorted, digging his fingers into the arms of his chair, looking at the clock on the wall to see how much time was left.

“If that were true, you wouldn't feel that way” Budge replied, crossing his legs, joining his fingers.

Had he just implied Hannibal didn't want him?

“He kissed me” he let out aggressively –and as soon as he'd said it, when he saw that undecipherable light of interest pop into Budge's eyes– he knew it had been a mistake.

“Tell me about it” the other said, in a way he probably thought looked masterfully composed.

“He wanted to comfort me, and I'd asked him to” Will replied quickly, trying to minimise the matter. “It was just a peck, really.” He rose his head with gritted teeth. “But you can't tell me he doesn't want me, because he wouldn't have done it if he didn't care.”

“I never said anything about his wanting you or not” Budge remarked.

Oh. Alright. Was Will doing that thing again, where he over-interpretated everything others were saying? Normal people were complicated that way, they implied things they didn't actually mean.

Hannibal wasn't like that. Abigail wasn't like that. They both knew how to convey the right words and feelings. They both knew how to sound clear to Will, and even their lies didn't have an edge like Budge's words had.

That man confused him.

“However, it would be better for both of you that you started to respect sibling boundaries” Budge said.

“He's not my brother!” Will exclaimed in exasperation.

“The State considers you both as such.”

“The State can go fuck himself” Will muttered. “It's not because two grown-ups decide to put out and marry that their kids should pay the price. I've never seen Hannibal as my brother. The closest to that I ever felt was when, in the beginning, I thought of him a as very weird nanny.”

Budge's fingers were tapping the side of his armchair in irritation. “Do you realise your attachment to him is borderline obsessive?”

Will glanced at the man. What was he trying to achieve?

“I'm not stupid” he answered.

“Then you know it'd be best that you started keeping some distance” his therapist answered. “Keep him at bay.”

Yeah, like Will was going to do that. Budge cocked his head.

“Your brother might not be as ideal as you're thinking. He is but human; he has flaws.”

Great. Now they were going to speak about the imago and how love was but a state of mind.

“I'm not getting away from him” Will stated. “Nothing you say is going to change that. He's the best thing that ever happened to me, and a therapist isn't getting in the way.”

Budge's irritated tapping seemed to increase in intensity. “If you don't leave him some space to breathe, he might choose to take it himself” he remarked.

Will started to have trouble breathing. An invisible hand was constricting his lungs.

“He's not leaving” he retorted stubbornly, fighting to keep his breath even and calm. “And I'm not leaving. The only person who wants us apart is you”.

“For your own good, William.”

Will cringed. Only Hannibal got to call him that.

“Have you ever considered that taking care of your family might be restraining to him?” Budge said. “He is a very clever boy, with a lot of potential. Where would he be right now if he didn't have a family to care after?”

Will wasn't a professional, but he wasn't sure Budge's approach was a very smart one. For one, it only increased the weight of panic that was building on him.

“He might be much happier if he had a proper parental figure to teach him about the world instead of playing one himself” Budge said. “What do you think your neurotic attachment is doing to him?”

Will got up. “You're an horrible therapist” he said.

“I am trying to help you see eye to eye with the situation” Budge answered calmly. “Is what I just said utterly wrong?”

Will felt his lover lip tremble, so he tightened his mouth. “He doesn't have parents” he replied in a low voice. “And I'm just a tiny issue comparing to everything that happened to us.”

“Aren't tiny issues at the core of the big ones?” Budge asked tranquilly.

Will looked at the time. There were seven minutes left.

“I don't think being that blunt about the situation is helping” he stated.

Then he turned away and went out to Hannibal, who put down the magazine he was reading. “You are done early” he remarked.

“It's not going anywhere” Will told him, twitching. He fidgeted with his vest nervously, hoping Hannibal would get the hint and hug him better.

The boy got up indeed, but simply stroked the side of his cheek. “What's wrong?” he asked.

“He wants me to get away from you” Will said, and as he said it he heard it as it must had sounded like to Hannibal. “It's not that I don't want to give you space” he added. “But I don't want us to grow apart.”

Hannibal leaned in, probably to kiss his hair as he often did, but thought better of it and gently stroked the side of Will's arm instead.

“Don't” Will said, the blue of his eyes trembling in the dim lights.

“I am afraid this shall prove more difficult than we thought” the voice of Tobias Budge said behind them. “He is, to put it kindly, fixating on you as an a parental figure. If you don't manage to set up boundaries, he might develop an obsession that will hurt both of you.”

Will froze. Wasn't that?...

“... a breach in patient-doctor confidentiality” Hannibal was saying. “I know how to deal with my younger sibling, Mr Budge. And I would rather you don't say anything armful in front of him.”

“I'm not your brother” Will protested automatically, wrapping an arm around Hannibal's neck, the other circling around his torso. “I'm not your brother, I don't love you that way.”

Instead of pushing him away, Hannibal gently hugged him back.

“It is my duty to warn you that this relationship isn't healthy and could result in Will getting severely hurt” Budge replied calmly. “You should look for healthier attachment –for people like you.”

“I know what I have to do” Hannibal answered coldly, tightening his hug around Will. “Goodbye Mr Budge.”

“Until next time, Hannibal.”

Will shivered at his use of the name. He shouldn't have brought Hannibal here. It felt like they were in danger somehow –maybe Budge had realised how special Hannibal was. Maybe he wanted to take him away from Will.

Like Will was going to let him do that.

Chapter Text

Hannibal came home late, as usual. Will heard him open the fridge –he sometimes had time to do the groceries, which most often meant getting unsold meat a nice butcher (that somehow Will had never managed to find himself) agreed to give away.

As Will silently crept out into the living-room, he noticed Hannibal also carried a newspapers, which headline talked, again, about Baltimore as “The Two Serial Killers Town”.

“Did you have a good day?” Will asked as Hannibal closed the fridge. “Mischa cried again because you weren't home to tuck her into bed.”

Hannibal looked tired, as if he'd run a marathon. A lock of his hair was stuck together by some reddish, sticky substance.

“You have something in your hair” Will said, rising a hand to take it away –Hannibal avoided it.

“Probably formalin from the morgue” he answered. “I will rinse it off.”

He went to the bathroom, and Will could hear water running.

He took the newspapers and read the main article, which spoke of how the FBI was looking for two nasty murderers in Baltimore, one nicknamed the Chesapeake Ripper and the other The Musician. The Ripper displayed vicious kills in a very elaborate manner –Will suspected that served to distract the police from his main goal. He couldn't be sure, but he thought it had to do with the systematic removal of body parts and organs.

The Musician was a tricky one. He'd only killed once, but the police thought it not the work of an amateur. Will had seen a picture of his murder, taken by the vulgar yet astute reporter of Tattlecrime.com. It felt like a performance –as if The Musician had been trying to call out to someone. Serenading, maybe. Perhaps to the Ripper. After all, his crime had followed closely the Ripper's third kill, and Will thought this was some sort of answer.

He wished he would have been in more advanced classes on criminology, where his opinion on the subject may have mattered and helped.

He sighed and shook his head to get rid of nasty thoughts. To that effect, he opened the fridge and took out a neat tupperware he had prepared earlier. When Hannibal came back from the bathroom, some of his hair wet, he gave it to him.

“You should eat something” he told him. “I'm sure you haven't.”

Hannibal took the tupperware and gently run a hand in Will's hair, kissed him on the temple as a thank you –then froze.

“Ah” he said. “This is exactly the kind of things Mr Budge wouldn't have me do.”

“Mr Budge is an idiot” Will retorted, his blood boiling hot at the thought of the man. “You can kiss me all you want.”

Hannibal got his hand off Will. “This is not about what I like or want” he reminded him. “Are those scrambled eggs?”

“With fish” Will told him. “It's cold now, but it should still be good.”

He sat at their small table and waited for Hannibal to do the same.

“It's late, Will. You should go to bed.”

“I'm only five years younger than you are. Don't pretend you can resist sleep much better than I.”

A small smile on the other's lips. He went to the sink to take a fork and knife and came back to sit in front of Will. “How was your day?”

“The classes are awesome” Will replied. “I can't wait to become an actual profiler. I hope I can make it.”

“Baltimore would certainly appreciate the help” Hannibal said, pointing at the newspaper.

“How are your lessons going? Still set on becoming an amazing surgeon?”

“I wouldn't go as far as amazing” Hannibal answered. “Efficient would suffice.”

Will smiled. “What if I took a job?” he offered. “At least to cover the cost of my own therapy sessions.”

Hannibal pondered. “Maybe” he said. “By the way, I would rather you change of therapist. Mr Budge is... he doesn't agree with me.”

Will's eyebrows rose –not that he was surprised. But maybe he would be able to discover what Budge had told Hannibal earlier on that had shaken him so. “He's the only one who can have me at the same time Abigail goes to Mrs Du Maurier” he said as casually as he could. “Why don't you like him?”

“He strikes me as... very cold.”

“You're very distant to people.”

Hannibal nodded. “I won't force you to anything. I was merely giving my point of view.”

“He said you had an appointment with him, though” Will remarked, fishing for information. “So, you're going to see him, right?”

Hannibal seemed surprised. “An appointment? Nothing of the sort; he invited me over dinner, and I denied him. What else did he tell you?”

A firm knock on the door.

Will grumbled, irritated to be interrupted in such a place, but got up nonetheless to open the door.

Three police officers were standing there, their car not far off on the road.

“It's really late” Will remarked out loud. He realised how rude he may have sounded and coughed. “I mean, how can I help you?”

“We're looking for a man on bike or motorcycle, something of the sort. You may have heard him drive by?” the lead woman said.

“We're in the country” Will pointed out. “Everyone has either of those things. We have one of each, actually.”

Hannibal had stood up to come to the door. “Good evening, officers. Isn't it a bit late for house calls?” he asked tranquilly.

“You just came home?” the policewoman asked, noticing the leftovers of dinner on the nearby table.

“He got peckish” Will answered, sliding a hand on Hannibal's back in a familiar, intimate way.

His gut instinct told him those officers were looking for someone in particular, and he didn't like the idea of them investigating Hannibal right now. Not when he'd formol on his air and smelled of very dead corpses.

Something was tickling his mind.

“Is there any danger?” Hannibal asked. “Should we be wary of anything?”

The woman pondered. “Do you know any doctor around here?” she asked. “Retired, maybe? Or a surgeon?”

“I study medicine, if that helps” Hannibal replied casually. “What does it have to do with a late night cyclist?”

“You study medicine” the woman said. “And you drive a bike?”

“A motorcycle, more often.”

Will noticed how the three officers slightly tensed up, one of them quietly reaching for his gun.

“I wouldn't say drive” Will said impulsively. “He went to fetch me at the university with it today, and almost slipped on the mud. I guess 'slides' is much more accurate.”

The police officers seemed to relax a little. Hannibal was looking at him with pondering eyes.

“When was that?” the woman asked.

“Err, I don't know. Around six?” Will said, trying to remember his actual schedule.

“And he was with you for the rest of the evening?”

Will shook his head. “He went to check on our nets” he told them, talking about his own agenda. “I stayed here to cook”.

The trio went back to wary, but Hannibal suddenly allowed himself a small smile. “We caught only a carp this once” he said.

“He had his disappointed face on” Will told the officers in a joking manner. “He didn't dare come back because he'd been done so quickly!”

“How quickly?” one of the officers said.

“I don't know, fifteen, twenty minutes?” Will said, hoping that wouldn't be too much.

“May I inquire why is our, well, my schedule so important to you, officers?” Hannibal asked calmly.

The lead woman studied them for a moment. Then, she seemed to decide he wasn't their guy.

“We're looking for a very dangerous man, and we believe he may have taken this road.”

Will didn't know what actually made the pieces of the puzzle fit in his head. Maybe it was the word “dangerous”. Maybe the poised way Hannibal was listening to all this.

He felt the truth creep into his mind like a black spider, spreading webs of darkness everywhere, yet he stayed impassible and tried his best to look like he was listening to the woman.

“Should we take particular precautions?” Hannibal was asking, tranquil.

Will tightened his fist in the back of the other's shirt.

“Call us if you notice anything” the woman told them. “Lock your doors and windows. Don't get out at night. Hopefully, we'll have caught him by morning.”

“Why a doctor?” Will asked, hoping the slight strain in his voice would pass for tiredness. “I get the bike –here, most people are poor and roads aren't always fit for a car– but why a doctor?”

“I'm afraid I can't answer that” the woman said. “Well, sorry to have bothered you. Call us if you witness anything odd.”

They bid them goodnight and went back to their car. As soon as they'd turned around a bunch of trees, Will let the painful control he'd maintained oven his expressions falter and roughly pulled Hannibal in the house to close the door behind them.

Hannibal was looking at him with curiosity.

Curiosity .

Will closed his eyes, rubbed his face with trembling fingers, and leaned on the wall.

“What the hell” he muttered. “What the hell.”

“Why did you lie to them?” Hannibal eventually asked matter-of-factly.

Will got his hands off his face and sent him a resenting look. “ Why did I lie to them? ” he snarled. “Hannibal, the question is why did I have to lie in the first place! ”

Hannibal tilted his head. Drinking in Will's reaction with interest.

That's when Will saw it. For the first time –oh, had he been blind.

“You're a sociopath” he murmured, realising how strangely calm Hannibal was about the whole ordeal.

“I wondered when you would notice” Hannibal answered quietly.

Will chuckled, the laugh of a mad man.

“You wondered when– Oh, dear.” He exhaled, looking up, trying to fight the tears that threatened to clog his throat and blurry his vision. “I can't believe I didn't see it.”

“It was but a matter of time” Hannibal remarked. “Given the nature of your studies.”

“And you didn't tell me, why?” Will snapped, irritated and lost by the revelation –by the feeling of betrayal ripping up his guts.

Ripping.

“Are you?...”

He swallowed, closing his eyes tight for a second.

“Were they looking for you?” he asked.

Hannibal was observing him calmly, visibly curious about his reaction. “I suppose so” he answered. “I cannot be sure. I thought I had no witnesses.”

Will looked away.

So many questions.Whats and where and whys and whom. Since when and for how long, what, why, why, why, why

“Are you” he started, but his voice broke in his throat. “Are you one of... those?”

He was pointing at the newspapers, and at its headlines that talked of bloody murders.

A dangerous man , he kept repeating himself. A dangerous man, probably not a murderer though, maybe not a killer; just a bike driver who practices medicine, like the Ripp–

“Do you truly wish to know?” Hannibal asked, curious. “Or would you rather stay in denial? It is still time to ignore the whole ordeal.”

Will gritted his teeth to avoid screaming at him.

“I am trying to become a FBI profiler, dickhead”he muttered angrily instead. “I am not ignoring this. What are you?”

Hannibal tilted his head.

“Are you a killer?” Will asked. He recalled the red substance in the other's hair. “I'll learn about it tomorrow anyway. I'll read all the papers.”

Unless.

Unless Hannibal killed him?

A cold sickness crept into Will's heart. “You're not going to hurt me, are you?” he asked before he could think about his words.

Hannibal lifted a hand, and Will tensed up, his back against the wall, almost ready for a hit.

The other gently stroked his cheek.

“I would never hurt you, William” he murmured gently. “As I hope you will not hurt me.”

Denounce me.

Will swallowed.

“I could turn you in to the police” he said, testing the waters.

“I know. Tell them what?”

Hannibal was so infuriatingly calm.

His fucking hand felt so good against Will's cheek.

“That you ride a bike, practice medicine and weren't home at the time of... of whatever happened today” Will said. “That you are a sociopath.”

“If you do that, I would take Mischa and leave” Hannibal answered tranquilly. “If they catch me, I expect you to bring my sister to prison so she can see me.”

Prison. Will felt nauseous.

“Why would you go to jail?” he asked automatically. “Only horrible criminals go to jail. You haven't done anything horrible. You're not an horrible person.”

Hannibal took one of Will's hand in his own, carefully unfolded it, pressed a tender kiss on its palm.

“Do you want to know what you will learn when you'll read the papers tomorrow?” he asked.

Will shook his head. “You've sold drugs” he said. “Or robbed a bank. You've stolen a police car. You've done nothing irreparable. Right?”

He knew that wasn't it. He knew it. He knew.

But it had to be.

“If you read the papers tomorrow, you will learn that I am the most wanted man of the Chesapeake bay” Hannibal told him simply.

The Chesapeake Ripper.

No flourish. No smugness. A simple fact and a certain amount of curiosity about how Will was to react.

“You're not” Will said. He took his hand out of Hannibal's and slid both his arms around the other's neck. “You're not. You're my brother. Sort of. You speak like an old book and you dress like a poor rich man, and you're too clever for your own good. You're not a killer. You're too nice to be one.”

“Killing has nothing to do with meanness” Hannibal answered.

Will shut him out with his mouth. If he kissed him, he thought, if he kissed him long enough, everything would be fixed, because he loved him so much nothing bad could ever happen to them.

Hannibal let him. He even kissed him back. And it was the fucking best kiss Will had ever shared.

Soft and tender and caring, and sort of desperate rather than passionate.

It was heartbreaking.

When they lips pulled away from the kiss, Will knew all was forever ruined between them.

He coughed, trying to keep tears in, to keep his voice from straining.

“Why do you do it?” he whispered, incapable of speaking up.

Hannibal was tilting his head again, like a bird in thoughts. “You are a brilliant analyst, William” he answered. “Tell me why I do it.”

Will frowned, and sent him an angry look. “You don't care about others” he spat, more hurt than angry.

“I do care about others. Just not all of them” Hannibal denied. “Anyway, this is incidental. What do I do?”

Will realised he was treating this as a mere exercise in criminology. A student's case.

He wanted to feel angry about it, but he felt relief instead. He could detach his mind from it if it was but an exercise.

“You remove organs” he said. “Pieces of meat.”

“That is what I do” Hannibal replied, satisfied with his pupil.

“What do you do with them? Do you sell them?” Will hissed, enraged anew by the situation. “Do you?...”

His eyes went to the fridge. The cuts of unsold meat a butcher supposedly gave away at the end of the day. He found his hand over his own mouth, gagging at the horror that was spreading through.

“I thought you would find my approach distasteful” Hannibal said casually. “I would have informed you otherwise.”

Will couldn't speak, but he would have probably uttered hurt nonsense if he had been able to.

Hannibal looked as collected as ever. He was putting away the unfinished tupperware, and went to the sink to silently clean his fork and knife, which he then dried with a neat hand-towel and put away.

Will was still standing with a hand on his mouth, horror and sorrow widening his beautiful eyes, unshed tears gathering at their corner.

Hannibal slowly went to him, pressed a gentle kiss on the dark brown curls on his forehead.

“Goodnight, Will.”

He took a few steps and, as if he were suddenly remembering something:

“On the positive side of things, we should not be concerned about your excessive appreciation of my person anymore.”

Chapter Text

“Will skipped classes today” Abigail told Hannibal has he was tucking her into bed that night, Mischa curled on his lap like a kitten. “One of his teachers told me. She was worried he was sick.”

“Did you see him?” Hannibal asked gently, arranging the sheets around the young girl.

“No. I called his phone, but he wouldn't answer. Do you think he's alright?”

“I think he is worried. But you shouldn't be. I will find him, and help him with what he is going through.”

Abigail rose a hand to her neck –a reflex she had when she got worried.

“I don't know if you can. He was scared. He spend last night crying and trashing in his bed” she said, distractedly rubbing at the large scar of her neck. “It sounded like he was going mad.”

“He is not” Hannibal reassured her, leaning in to kiss her brow tenderly. “I promise you I will bring him back and make it better.”

“You do?” she asked, flashing him a hopeful glance.

At seventeen, with that scar and her trust a wreck, she still came up with the occasional pining for miracles.

“I do” he answered, rubbing her cheek sweetly. “Now, hide under those sheets like the brilliant girl you are, and have a good night. I will put Mischa in Will's bed, so keep an eye on her while I'm out, alright?”

“Anniba!” Mischa protested from her side, pouting because she disliked sleeping without her brother.

“You have to be nice too” Hannibal told the little blond haired child as he was lifting her to carry her to Will's bed. “Abigail is sad tonight, so you will have to look after her, alright?”

“Yes” the little girl answered, giggling when he kissed her goodnight and buried her under a soft cover.

As soon as he was out, she slid out of her bed and ran to Abigail's, climbing in like a clever little monkey and hugging the older girl with tiny plump arms.

Abigail smiled, and hugged Mischa back.

Hannibal didn't ponder a lot before going out to look for Will. He knew he would find him near the pond, where he liked to fish.

He wouldn't have seen him if it had not been for the torchlight he was carrying; Will was sitting in a dark spot that looked like a patch of black sewed in the patterns of the night.

The young man looked away when he saw him arrive.

Huge circles under his eyes. He was rocking back and forth, hugging himself with crossed arms.

“Will” Hannibal called from afar, knowing he wouldn't get much of the young man's attention right now. “You should come back. Abigail is worried.”

“Are you worried?” Will snarled, bitter and confused, looking every bit of the madman Abigail had described.

“Should I be?” Hannibal replied, tilting his head in ponder.

Will chuckled, sounding hurt.

“I wanted to work for the FBI” he giggled, his laugh like warm blood sprouting form a wound.

“You can still do that.”

“How could I?” Will exclaimed with anger. “My brother is some sort of... psychopath!”

“You could turn me in” Hannibal remarked –he sounded serious, like this was an actual option of Will's.

“Don't be stupid” the young man snarled. “Anyway, can you imagine what that would do to Abigail? Discovering her new Papa is also a killer? It would destroy her.”

“I would never hurt her.”

“How am I supposed to believe you, exactly?” Will shouted, standing up suddenly and stepping towards him. “You kill random strangers in the most gruesome way. Yesterday you... you hanged a man by his feet to a tree and decorated branches with his intestines as if it were Christmas!”

“I was recreating a chandelier” Hannibal corrected. “The man was not very bright in life, but he did shine in death.”

Will's words got caught in his mouth, tried to crawl out through a cough, crumbled out in laugher.

“A pun” he muttered. “You commit fucking murder and turn it into a joke. Only you. Only you.”

“I got a good price for his liver” Hannibal added. “It will pay for Abigail's therapy sessions of next month. Would you point out the irony of that too?”

Will bit his lips to avoid more nervous, horrified giggles from his part.

Crimes paying for the remission of one who had been wounded by crimes.

“Why do you do it?” he asked, half laughing half crying. “Aren't they other ways to find money?”

“I want to be a surgeon, and I want all of you to make the studies you wish for” Hannibal explained. “Abigail needs daily sessions of therapy, and you need one per week. Mother sends us enough money to survive, no more.”

“My father sends us money” Will retorted, wounded by this omission. The man may be a drunk, depressive mess, but he was still his father.

“He stopped” Hannibal stated. “He lost his job half a year ago. My guess is that he was too ashamed to come home and face us, so he disappeared.”

Will's throat tightened. “This still doesn't justify murder. Nor toying with your victims.”

“I enjoy the hunt” Hannibal answered tranquilly. “And the satisfaction of knowing there will be one less rude person in the world afterwards.”

“You kill them because they're rude?” Will stammered in disbelief.

“I kill them for a number of reasons. Mainly, because I can, and that it will help me feed my family.”

At the word “feed”, Will felt a surge of nausea hit his stomach and bent over to let out bile.

“The human brain is wonderful” Hannibal remarked, more likely to himself. “You did not mind my cooking before, but now, the mere idea of it makes you sick.”

“Shut up” Will uttered.

Hannibal cocked his head again.

“Would you come home? You could catch a cold here.”

Will glared at him resentfully.

“I am not asking this as a favour” Hannibal clarified, “even though it would please me. I am asking for the sake of your sister.”

Will gritted his teeth but took a few steps towards the house, doing his best to stand a good distance away from Hannibal.

“I will not harm you, if that is what you are scared about” the man told him. “I care for you too much.”

“I should hand you over to the police” Will retorted.

They spend the rest of the walk in silence.

Once in the house, Hannibal tranquilly went to his room. Will slid into his, noticing Abigail and Mischa were intertwined tightly in one of the narrow beds.

He didn't want to sleep here.

He didn't want to sleep anywhere, he was scared of the nightmares.

As he slid back out of the room, he bumped into Hannibal, who had already changed in his bathrobe. “You can have my bed” he said, noticing the young man's distress.

“I don't want your bed” Will growled, feeling like a cornered dog.

“You need to sleep, Will.”

“Yeah well, thanks to you, I'm never sleeping well again.”

Hannibal's gaze didn't falter. “I could give you a sleeping pill.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I'd like to wake up tomorrow morning.”

The other smiled a little. “Just because I kill some people doesn't mean I will harm you ” he stated.

“Why not?” Will retorted, feeling defensive.

“Because I care for you” the man answered.

He rose a hand and pressed it lightly to Will's arm. “I have been performing for about a year” he said. “Did I give you reasons to doubt me during this time?”

Will shuddered. He hated that hand on his skin. He pushed it off.

He didn't want to sleep with Abigail and Mischa, but he wasn't letting Hannibal do so either. And, knowing the man, he would not settle for anything less than a decent mattress if one was available.

“We're going to your room” Will decided, suddenly pushing Hannibal back –getting a frown out of the older boy. “If you so much as touch me, I'll hit you.”

Hannibal seemed to consider that was preposterous, but complied nonetheless.

Will settled at the extreme border of the mattress, wondering if going back to his own bed wasn't a better idea.

But he couldn't stand the thought of bringing this nightmare into Abigail's and Mischa's world.

“You'll have to go” Will realised.

From his side of the bed, Hannibal turned towards him. “Could you clarify your thought?”

“You have to get out this house” Will said. “Leave us alone, and don't come back.”

He could feel Hannibal think about it in the dark. “You wouldn't have enough to live decently.”

“I'll figure it out.”

“The family would be taken apart. Furthermore, I don't want to go.”

Will was about to reply all he had to do was tell Abigail, but then he realised that was the worst idea.

He couldn't leave her, or Mischa, alone with the man either.

“You can hate or despise me at your heart's content” Hannibal said in the dark. “It doesn't change the fact that I care for the three of you and will not voluntarily hurt you. Now, if you please. We need the rest.”

Will's throat tightened.

He wanted to say something, something clever, smart, poised, that would compel Hannibal to understand the situation.

But Hannibal understood perfectly. He just didn't want to leave.

He seemed so fucking collected too. As the blinds were broken and falling apart, a shy ray of moonlight glimmered in the room; Will could see the older boy laying next to him, watching him, observing his reaction like a scientist looks at the rat he's just injected with poison.

“How can you say you care for us” Will murmured. “You only care about yourself.”

Hannibal's gaze didn't falter, his expression blank as ever. Will stared at his face, avoiding the eyes, looking for a hint of emotion.

He couldn't find any, which made him angry.

He suddenly saw himself reaching out, circling Hannibal's neck with both hands, tightening his grip, chocking him.

He could do it. Tell the police it had been self-defence upon realising his legal brother was the Ripper. He already saw the colour leave Hannibal's face, his eyes closing to avoid showing pain.

How would Hannibal react? Would he kill him, perhaps?

Will saw himself sat on the other's body, strangling him, Hannibal fighting him off.

Would he get violent? Was he sincere when he said he wouldn't hurt any of them? Where did he drew the line?

Sat on him with both legs tight against his sides, Will would release his grip, ignore Hannibal's coughing. He'd plunge his nails in the boy's stomach, easily, like in strawberry pie, and dig in with clawed fingers, empty his body of red, bloody entrails.

He saw Hannibal trash in this dream, push his hips forward with a groan.

There would be blood everywhere. This was disgusting. This was horrible! Why was he imagining that?

Will snapped out his woken nightmare and turned away, shivering.

“You should try to sleep” Hannibal said in his usual caring manner.

“I can't.”

Hannibal sat up, and Will thought about screaming.

The other's hand gently pressed against Will's arm. Then, comforted by his lack of reaction, it slid lightly across his chest to pull him to his own.

Will let him. He didn't know what to do right now. He had no idea how to react.

Nobody tells us what to do when someone you know but is actually a serial killer tries to soothe you into sleeping for your own good.

Hannibal embraced him gently, and pulled the covers over their bodies. Will could feel his breath against his ear.

He wanted to pull away, jump off the bed yelling, hit that murderer.

But it was Hannibal. It was his gentle, caring sort-of brother, too.

His mind couldn't reconcile the two.

“Close your eyes, Will” Hannibal murmured softly, stroking Will's stomach with a soothing hand. “Concentrate on breathing. Slowly.”

“I can't sleep” Will retorted nervously.

“You should at least rest a little” Hannibal answered, tightening his arms around him and kissing Will in the hair. “Try picturing yourself somewhere safe. Near that pond you like, for example.”

Will suddenly remembered how he used to envision Hannibal's arms as somewhere safe.

He twisted around and pushed him away.

“You can't turn this around” he stammered. “You can't pretend it's nothing and act as such.”

“I am not pretending” Hannibal replied. “I truly wish you would sleep tonight. You seem exhausted.”

“And whose fault is that!” Will shouted, sitting back up in desperate irritation.

Hannibal sat up too, but turned to his bedside table instead of Will to pour the contents of his bottle of water in a glass and take something in the small drawer.

“Here” he told Will, handing him the glass and a sleeping pill.

Will shook his head. “I'm not taking that.”

Hannibal observed him for a moment, then took the pill into his own mouth and swallowed it with a gulp of water. “What about now?” he asked, turning again to take another pill and give it to Will.

Will hesitated. He was exhausted.

His mind was racing, cutting like blades, screaming in hurt and despair. He wanted to sleep. Drink up a whole bottle of whisky and forget about it all.

Gingerly, he took the little white thing in-between fingers.

“You don't have to go to class tomorrow morning” Hannibal told him. “I will call the University if you want me to. Just rest in bed, take at least half a day off. Maybe fish a little. Alright?”

Will hesitated. He thought about Abigail and Mischa –but they would be at school, far away from Baltimore. And Hannibal would never hurt them, would he? He loved his little sister, and he'd always been so nice to Abigail. He wouldn't hurt them.

Will closed his eyes and threw the pill into his mouth, then drank water like a drowning man, trying his best not to register how much his action resembled suicide.

He gave Hannibal the glass and curled around in his sheets, waiting for sleep like one awaits death.

Hannibal put away the glass and, as Will had his back to him, took the sleeping pill he had pretended to ingest out of his mouth; he then slid it in the drawer he had left cracked open specifically for this.

Then he turned to press a gentle kiss to Will's brow, and pulled the covers over him lovingly.

“Sleep tight, William” he murmured, thinking how he'd have to wake up early.

Chapter Text

“Hi, bro! Feeling better today?” Abigail asked Will as he stumbled to the table.

“I feel like shit” he mumbled, still trying to shake off the effect of the sleeping pill Hannibal had given him.

“Then you should have a hearty breakfast, to get the day going” Hannibal told him, emptying the contents of a pan into Will's awaiting plate.

“I'm not hungry” Will replied automatically.

Hannibal paused. “Scrambled eggs, tomatoes and sausage, Will. You can start with the orange juice.”

“I am not hungry” Will repeated more firmly.

Hannibal backed off. “As you wish. I will put it away in a tupperware if you change your mind.”

“I don't want it.”

“Will!” Abigail exclaimed in irritation. “What the hell is on with you?”

He glared at her.

Hannibal put a light hand on Abigail's shoulder, smiling gently. “I am afraid William didn't sleep very well those last few days. We will have to be patient, Abigail.”

“I'm not being patient if he acts like an ass” she replied, pushing her chair away to pick the fork Mischa had just let slip. “There you go Mimi. Don't do that again.”

Hannibal smiled then kissed Abigail on the hair. “Will you be going to class, William?” he asked as he was already starting to clean the dishes.

“I'll take the bus” Will replied. “You go ahead.”

He noticed how Hannibal interrupted himself for a second, then resumed his cleaning of the dishes. “As you wish. I'll let you finish the tidying up as I'll be on my way.”

He put his leather jacket on the neat suit-like outfit he usually wore and slid on his driving gloves.

“How are you, little Mischa?” he asked his sister with a smile. “Ready for a good day of work?”

“No” she answered with a grin that made him smile. He came to hug her and give her a kiss.

“You be nice to your sister and brother, alright? I will be back tonight.”

She giggled and seized two locks of his hair in her little hands –he pulled a face. “I hope you will have a good day” he told Abigail, handing her his sister. “I will try to be home by ten.”

“Okay” Abigail answered. “Don't kill any patients! See ya!”

He smiled at her and got out. They could hear the garage door open after that.

“Right, so, what's gotten into you?” Abigail asked Will as he was eating his way around sausages. “Do you resent him that much you can't even be polite to him?”

Will stilled. “How do you know I resent him?” he asked.

Abigail rolled her eyes. “He rejected you and you're asking me why you'd resent him?”

Oh right. That.

How was he to work around that?

“Abbe, I have to tell you something” he started, hopping she wouldn't focus too much on his recent rejection. “About Hannibal.”

She sent him an intrigued look as she was helping Mischa off her sit. “Go put your jacket” she told the little girl. “What is it, Daddy?”

He bit his lip.

“I learnt something. About him. I can't tell you what but –it's huge. We can't stay with him anymore.”

“You're crazy” Abigail answered. She was putting her dishes away and going for her jacket. “He's been taking care of us since your father left. And he's like, the perfect caretaker. I'm not leaving.”

“Abbe.”

“What did he do? Iron your shirt the wrong way?”

“I can't tell” Will said, conscious he wasn't helping his case. “Can't you trust me?”

“If you want me to leave the one person who's been making me happy this last couple of years, you'll have to give me a damn good reason” Abigail replied. “Something that doesn't involve your penis.”

“It's not–!...” Will plunged his fingers in his hair. “I swear, it's not about that.”

“Then what?” she asked.

“He's not who you think he is” he dumbly tried to explained. “He's not the... nice Papa we thought we knew.”

Abigail lifted an eyebrow. “Is he like, what? Like my dad? A crazy, murdering psychopath ready to assassinate us because he can't let me go?”

Will bit his lip. “He's nothing like your dad.”

“Well then. Problem solved” she replied coldly, getting away from the table to help Mischa with her shoelaces.

“Abbe...”

“I don't care about anything he does!” she shouted, visibly hurt. “He's taking care of us. He's nice. He cooks for us and tucks us into bed, he reads bedtime stories to Mischa and he never gets angry, or violent! What else do you want from the guy? Oh, oh, wait –you'd like to bang him, too!”

She was fidgeting with the scarf that covered the scar on her neck.

Will swallowed. “I told you it's not about that.”

“Then tell me!” she cried, exasperated. “For gods' sake Will, you're speaking of leaving! What did he do that could negate all the good things he brings us?”

Will got up and went to his step-sister, raising a hand to put it on her arm in a soothing manner, awkwardly. He wasn't good with this as Hannibal was.

“He's... it's...” He closed his eyes. “He's a sociopath” he told her.

Abigail shook her head. “And what? Is it supposed to mean anything to me? You label him something from your psycho class and I'm supposed to care?”

“He doesn't care about social rules” Will blurted out. “He could do anything at all and not feel guilty about it. He's not afraid of anything. He's...” He interrupted himself. There were many aspects of Hannibal was that didn't fit the profile. He didn't reject responsibility on others. He was very empathetic –or at least, very good at reading others. He didn't kill –most probably didn't kill– out of impulsivity or frustrations, but he was violent, at his own, chosen time.

Even in this, he had his own take on the world.

Abigail was looking away, scratching at her scar, buttoning her jacket up nervously. “I don't care what stupid disorder you think he has. He's nice. He takes care of us. You're not taking that away.”

Will twitched, realising how heartless he must sound while leaving out the crucial information that Hannibal was a vicious murderer. “Right, alright” he said. “It's probably my frustration speaking. I'm probably focusing on negative aspects because I'm an ass. Don't read too much into it.”

She nodded nervously, her eyes slightly unfocused as when she had a panic attack.

“It was idiotic of me to bring it up” Will added. “You're right. He takes good care of us, and he would never hurt us. I'm just... I'm just hurt, that's all.”

Abigail nodded again. “So what if he's a bit odd at times?” she said. “I went to his 'generous butcher' once, but the man wouldn't give me a thing. Everybody has secrets. Maybe he's lied to us about some stuff. It doesn't mean he means any harm. He's nice. He's good. He's good, right?”

Will hesitated, then embraced her awkwardly. “He would never hurt you” he said. “I know he wouldn't. Anyway, I wouldn't let anyone hurt you again.”

Abigail pushed him away, wiping a tear from her cheek. “We'll be late for school. And you'll miss your bus. So, err. Have a nice day. 'kay?”

“You too” he replied, worried about her state of mind, though knowing she was unbelievably stronger than anyone he knew. “Don't think about it too much, right? I was just concerned... but you're right, we're fine, we are safe here.”

She took little Mischa by the hand and opened the door.

“Will?”

“Yeah?”

“He wouldn't, right?”

Will did his best to look at her in the eyes.

“No, I don't think he would.”

*

“You're home early” Will told Hannibal when the main door of their house opened to reveal his presence. “No cadaver to mistreat today?”

Hannibal tilted his head. “I take it Abigail and Mischa aren't back yet” he stated, looking around to confirm his hunch. “What are you doing?”

Will was throwing out all meat from the fridge that he had not put there himself. “You're not bringing back anymore meat” he answered.

Hannibal didn't faze. “You seem under the impression I would provide any of you with unhealthy meals.”

Will grit his teeth. “I'm not a doctor, so I don't know about that. What I know is, you're not bringing that here anymore.”

Hannibal put his jacket on the hook and looked around again. “It is past seven already. Abigail should be back.”

“Maybe she had to stay a little longer at Du Maurier's” Will stated, remembering with unease their conversation of the morning.

It didn't slip past by Hannibal. “What happened?”

Will cringed. “We talked. She got upset. She probably needed to talk to her shrink about it.”

Hannibal walked towards Will, slowly, his face unreadable.

For a second, the young man felt fear gnaw at his guts.

“What did you tell her, William?” Hannibal asked casually. Papa's using your full name, that means Papa's angry!

Will swallowed, then took a sharp breath in. “I told her you are a sociopath” he replied, lifting up his chin in defiance.

Hannibal cocked his head. “How did she take it?”

Fucking scientific minded killer.

“She didn't like it, obviously” Will snapped, angry at Hannibal and even more at himself. “There's no way I could tell her what you actually are. That would destroy her, though I pretty much doubt you care about that.”

“I do” Hannibal answered. “You seem to forget I do care about her. About all of you.”

“Then why? Why do you do it, Hannibal?” Will cried, hurt and despair joining to shake his voice. “Do you realise what would happen if Abigail found out? If the police found out? They would take you away! You'd end up in prison! What am I supposed to tell either of them, then? That Daddy's a fucking killer?”

“You would tell them the truth” Hannibal answered tranquilly. He paused, then turned to look at Will curiously. “If you can believe me, William, please trust that I never do a thing specifically to hurt you. You were never supposed to find out.”

“The police is on your tracks!” Will snapped. “I want to become a FBI agent! How exactly was I not supposed to find out?”

Hannibal lowered his head pensively. “I believe someone saw through me” he answered quietly. “I had no witness. I am very careful about it. Someone knows, and tipped the police about it.”

Will shook his head. “What, if you're talking about me I–”

“I would never assume you would betray me that way” Hannibal replied casually.

Betray me.

“You're a fucking murderer!” Will snarled. “I'm actually in the wrong for covering for you! Handing you over wouldn't be a betrayal, it'd be a... a...”

Hannibal listened with interest.

He didn't have to say a thing; Will knew he could never denounce him.

Not in a million years.

Will hid his face behind trembling hands. Lucky for him, the phone rang then.

“Allow me” Hannibal said, picking up. “Hello?”

This gave Will a short respite. He looked at the older boy in front of him, this young man dressed sharply in cheap clothes, neatly combed, perfectly collected. This person he had loved –that he loved, still.

This murderer who killed for, what? Fun? Money? The pleasure of creating monstrous figures out of living beings?

Hannibal was speaking, polite as ever, but something in his voice had that sharp, cutting edge he only used when he was upset. “It is understood. I will meet with you shortly” he was saying.

Radiating cold fury.

“Who is it?” Will asked as the other was hanging up. Hannibal lifted his head towards him, eyes darkened by their widened pupil.

“Mr Budge” he replied quietly. “Abigail had a breakdown at school today and, as you guessed, went to Mrs Du Maurier for advice. Only Mrs Du Maurier had to leave at six and left her in the hands of your own therapist.”

Will grit his teeth, feeling guilt creep up his stomach to tightened around his throat like a hand. “She okay?” he managed to croak.

“She is. Mischa and her are waiting for me to pick them up.”

“I'll come with you.”

“My motorcycle cannot carry us all.”

“It's still early. I'll take the bus on my way back.”

Hannibal, already back in his protective gloves and jacket, was opening his mouth to denying him again, so Will blurted whatever desperate excuse he found. “If we show up together, Abigail will see I'm fine with you being around again. That I was been stupid. She'll know everything is alright.”

Hannibal bowed his head slightly. “A sound explanation. But you are not coming.”

Will followed him outside, grabbed at the other's clothes desperately. “You have to let me come! I– I need to know she's okay – she's my sister!”

Already sat on the motorcycle with his helmet in hand, Hannibal grabbed Will's brown curls and kissed him on the brow, fiercely. “You have nothing to do with her meltdown, William. You should make dinner, so she can eat when we come back.”

Hannibal's actions froze Will on the spot, but his hands automatically seized the other's arm. “Don't leave me” he heard himself beg.

Hannibal stilled, his fingers still intertwined in the dark curls. He looked at Will's face with an intensity, scrutinising his features as if for the first, or for the last time. His eyes wondered on Will's mouth, as in ponder.

He leaned in, kissed him on the cheek.

Will closed his eyes.

The moment after, Hannibal was gone. 

Chapter Text

When the door opened, Abigail wiped her tears to watch the newcomer: proudly, fiercely, defiant. As any wounded human oughts to watch the person who hurt them.

Hannibal cocked his head, taking in the situation.

He is always so calm. I should have known , she thought, tightening her grip over little Mischa.

The little girl giggled when she saw her brother enter. “Anniba!” she cried, wiggling to free herself out of her step-sister's grip, hoping to run to her big brother. Abigail didn't let her.

“Good evening, Abigail” Hannibal greeted quietly. His dark gaze slowly sled to the chair facing her, where Mr. Budge was looking at him with still eyes. “Good evening, Tobias.”

“Anniba!” Mischa cried again, glaring at Abigail who wouldn't let her go.

A tiny smile crept on Hannibal's mouth. He approached his little sister slowly, carefully as Abigail was tensing up the more he neared her.

“How his my love doing?” he asked his little sister, squatting in front of hers and Abigail's chair. “Did you have a good day?”

“You a'e 'ate” the little girl answered. “I want to go 'ome!”

He stroke her hair gently. “You will. Abigail!” He stood up and handed her his motorcycle helmet and the key to the bike. “Take Mischa home. William is waiting. The second helmet is in the bike's trunk, as always. Be careful on the road.”

His voice was firm, confident, almost commanding. He knew.

Abigail tightened her grip on Mischa, taking comfort in the warmth of the little body against hers.

“Would you rather take the bus?” Hannibal asked, tilting his head again.

She looked at him, who was so neutral in his expression. Cold. Foreign.

Hugging Mischa tightly, she slowly rose.

“Wait” Hannibal ordered.

She stilled.

He lifted a hand, stroke the blond hair of his little sister's head off her forehead. “Be nice to your sister and brother, my love.” He kissed her on the brow. “Be happy.”

“Will is waiting” he then told Abigail casually, meeting her wary blue eyes. “He said he would cook you something hearty.” She shrugged, looked away from that still face. She didn't take the helmet or the keys.

“Go home” Hannibal ordered, and she almost flew away.

The door closed silently behind her.

Then Hannibal's eyes turned to Budge, who was looking at him with interest. “I would rather you would not interact with any of my siblings ever again” he stated calmly. “In fact, I am asking you to give Will a referral.”

“Do you truly care about them?” Brudge answered, studying with the boy with curiosity.

Already a man but not entirely built in yet, fit like a dancer, slender and graceful in his stance like one. Cheaply dressed but neat, and confident.

Unafraid.

“I do” Hannibal answered simply. “Do stay away from them.”

“Is it a threat?” the therapist answered, leaning his chair with a small smile.

“Does it need to be?”

Budge chuckled lightly. “You are an interesting person, young Lecter” he said. “Clever. Brilliant, even. With a keen eye for beauty. I saw you at the opera recently. You work there part time as a backstage assistant, I believe?”

“Indeed.”

“I should thank you for improving the wind instruments section. That bassoonist truly was a mood killer.”

Hannibal smiled, and came to sit in front of Budge, where Abigail had been. “Why am I here?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“What else?”

Budge considered the younger man quietly. “You and I are very much alike” he answered.

“In some aspects” Hannibal politely agreed.

“Free. Powerful. Unique.”

“Is those are the words you think best fit.”

Budge rested his arms on the sides of his chair. “Only a few can understand what our life is like.”

Hannibal stayed silent, waiting for the other's request with a placid face.

Budge scrutinised him with dark eyes.

“Do you feel lonely, Mr Budge?” Hannibal asked curiously.

The other smirked. “Sometimes. Don't you?”

A slight twitch in the boy's maroon eyes, restraining themselves from looking at the door.

“They can't understand” Budge told him. “You know it.”

“I do not expect them too” Hannibal answered.

“It doesn't mean you have to be alone.”

“I don't feel lonely.”

Budge smiled, getting up to walk towards a little chest of drawers to take out two glasses and a bottle. “You are young” he said. “Wine?”

Hannibal's eyes wandered on the label.

“Red, and French. A good year” Budge told him as he was showing him the bottle. Hannibal's eyes looked up towards him, brown with pinpoints of red. He seemed expressionless, but his lower position made his eyes look wider and somewhat innocent.

Budge opened the bottle and served the younger man a half full glass. “Taste it” he ordered.

Hannibal's eyes slowly detached themselves from the standing man, looked at the red liquid in his glass.

Light from a small lamp had glowed like a beacon of fire behind Budge's dark skin; it trembled on the wine as strokes of burning lava. The scent was enticing.

Hannibal closed his eyes.

Pretty boy. Pretentious, too. Young, clever, malleable. Thinking himself invincible, up to any challenges life would throw at him. The perfect apprentice.

Budge let his eyes wander on the young man, take in his straight, ashen hair, the slight flare of his nostrils as he smelled the wine, the dark shade of his mouth.

He would dress him in fine, fitting suits, feed him delicious dishes and wines. Comb his hair. Take in the little tremble of his eyelashes as he would straighten his outfit out for him.

Show him around like a prized possession.

And then, at night, he would teach him how to plunge hands in the red guts of a weeping man, how to pull a perfect sound out of his throat.

“Do you wish us to be friendly?” the Lecter boy asked, still taking in the scent of the wine.

Budge extended a hand, slid two fingers under the other's chin to lift it towards him. “Don't you?” he smirked.

Hannibal put his glass on the nearby coffee table. “I don't find you that interesting.”

“You will” the other replied, confident he was speaking the truth.

Hannibal stood up, facing Budge in the narrow space between the coffee table and his chair. “I don't want to be your friend” he stated peacefully.

Budge frowned. “We have common interests” he remarked.

“We do. Yet I do not wish to pursue a relationship with you.”

Budge chuckled, then circled a hand around the boy's throat, lightly. Black skin against pinkish tones. The sharp resilience of obsidian on soft, ham-like skin. “Why did you come, then?” he whispered, tightening slightly the grip of his fingertips. “Not for your siblings –they don't even know who you truly are.”

The boy put a hand on the other's arm, as if to test the strength of his grasp.

“I was going to kill you” he stated calmly, brown eyes rising up to lock with darker ones.

Then he wiped Budge's smirk out of his face with a blow.

*

Will took the bus. There was no fucking way he was letting Hannibal handle Abigail now.

It took him thirty seven minutes to reach the city, and another fifteen to arrive to his and Abigail's therapist's joint offices.

He'd tried to call her, but she wouldn't pick up her phone.

On his way to the office he noticed Hannibal's motorcycle, parked neatly on a reserved spot.

He ran through the main door, up the stairs and to the waiting room.

Abigail was sitting there, hugging Mischa tight and rocking back and forth. The little girl was whining in discomfort; when she saw Will, she called him to help her, reaching for him with her little arm.

“Abbe” Will murmured, approaching his step-sister slowly.

She rose her pale, glassy eyes.

“Hannibal's a killer” she whispered in an eery voice. “I was talking to your therapist, and then I just knew. I just knew.”

“Diddy-Dad!” Mischa pleaded, disquieted by the situation.

Will gently pulled Abigail's arms off her, and sat the little girl on the couch at her side with a magazine to look at.

“Abbe” he called again.

The young girl broke down like glass, sliding her arms around him to weep. “It's alright” he whispered. “It'll be alright.”

She didn't answer. As he was still standing, he could see parts of the scar on her neck, the ugly cut left by the knife where her dad had tried to kill her.

He waited for her to calm down, gently stroking her head, thinking how Hannibal would have taken her into his arms and murmured sweet reassurances that she was safe and cared for.

The irony.

Eventually, she stopped sobbing, straightened up and wiped her cheeks. “We should go home” she said.

“Yeah” Will answered, helping her up. He then took little Mischa in his arms.

“Anniba?” she asked him, pointing at the door of Budge's office.

“He's still in” Abigail explained. Her hand palmed the scarf on her neck. “What are we gonna do, Will?”

He hesitated. “I think we're supposed to denounce him to the police” he stated, looking at her with guilt in his eyes.

They both knew they didn't want that.

“What does Budge know?” he asked her.

“I think everything” she replied. “He took over when Du Maurier had to go, and he asked me things... I'm pretty sure he knows. But there isn't much to know, either.”

“I think Hannibal's the Chesapeake Ripper” Will told her.

She gasped, then tightened her lips shut. “Why do you think that?” she asked, her voice slightly trembling.

“The last victim; I know it's his. He practically told me.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “Why would he tell you something like that?”

“He thinks I won't denounce him.”

They both looked away in guilt.

“What do we do, then?” Will asked. “If we don't hand him over to the police?”

“I don't know” she said. “At least, we should all go home and discuss it. Understand why he's doing it. And convince him to stop.”

“He won't stop” Will replied. “I'm pretty sure of it.”

Abigail nibbled on her lower lip. “Do you think it's safe?” she asked. “Taking him home?”

She was thinking of her father.

“We can never be a hundred per cent sure” Will answered. “It's a great risk to take.”

“What about Mr Budge?” she added. “He's going to tell the police.”

Will's eyes widened slightly. “We could talk here. With Budge as a witness –he's strong, probably much more than Hannibal. And he's a therapist. He'll know what to do.”

“What if he doesn't know?” Abigail asked. “We'd be putting him in danger. And if he knows, then he's probably going to call the police.”

“Then let's start by finding out what he does know” Will stated, feeling a tad better know that they had devised a course of action. “If he knows nothing, we'll go to a coffee, and talk to Hannibal in a public place. If he knows, we'll talk here. Find out what to do. What do you say?”

Abigail frowned, straightening up as for combat. “I say we do this.”

Will nodded, and gave Mischa a peck on the head to reassure himself. “You'll be nice, alright?” she told the little girl. “Abigail, Hannibal and I have to talk. You can play quietly I with the magazines, okay? Which one do you want?”

Mischa looked at the little pile Abigail had just picked up and pointed at them. “This one, and this one” she said with determination. Abigail smiled and gave them to her.

“There is also a game we are playing, alright?” she told Mischa. “It's 'you touch Hannibal, you lose'; so you have to stay far away from him. If you don't let him come near you, I'll give you sweets when we're home.”

Mischa grinned, as she very seldom was giving the opportunity to eat treats.

“Do you think we'll be alright?” Abigail asked Will, asking for reassurance.

He nodded. “We can do this.”

She cringed. “What if something happens?” she said, looking at the thick door of Budge's office.

Will pondered. “Well, as that door is massively soundproof, I guess nobody will come to our help. Maybe you should enter 911 in your phone and stay ready to press on the button.”

“Good thinking.”

Will waited for her to prepare her phone, then took a large gulp of air and knocked on the door.

He had to knock again, as his therapist was taking his time to come open.

He exchanged an anxious look with Abigail. “What if he's killed him?” he whispered.

“Killed who?” Mischa asked with interest.

“Shhh, it's for the game” Will told her. “If Hannibal touches you, you're dead, so you can't let him. Remember?”

She smiled and laced her arms around his neck. “It's 'ike the big bad wolf and the 'ittle piggies!” she remarked.

Abigail and Will looked at each other warily. “I suppose we'll call the police” Abigail said.

The door opened though, revealing a quite alive Mr Budge.

He had a huge, purple bruise on the right cheek, opened red on a little cut. The two siblings froze.

“Are you alright?” Will exclaimed.

“Did Anniba touch you?” Mischa asked very seriously.

Mr Budge straightened up, puzzled. “I wasn't expecting you” he told Will.

“You were supposed to be on your way home” the annoyed voice of Hannibal stated from the inside of the office.

“Did he attack you?” Abigail asked the therapist in a low voice, ignoring her step-brother.

Mr Budge nodded, once. “He did. But I got the upper hand, and the situation is now under control. Do you want to come in?”

Will and Abigail hesitated.

“You don't have to” Mr Budge told them patiently.

“Are you going to hand him over to the police?” Abigail blurted out, concern shining in her blue eyes.

Budge tilted his head. “Shouldn't I?”

She bit her lip. “Well... can't you cure him?” she asked. “Make it so he wouldn't be... violent anymore?”

Mr Budge smirked. “I could treat him” he answered, opening the door wider to let them in. Hannibal was sitting with his back to them, in the armchair Will used during sessions. He didn't get up or turn his head towards them when they entered.

The therapist showed them to his sofa, where they could sit side by side. They could see Hannibal's profile from there; Will noticed his legs were bound together by a belt, and supposed it was also the case of his hands, as his arms disappeared behind his back. There was a red cut at the corner of his mouth.

“I had to restrain him” Mr Budge told them in an apologetic tone. He looked at them curiously. “Was he ever violent to you?” he asked.

Both Abigail and Will shook their head. Mischa was looking alternatively towards her brother and her shiny magazines.

“I'm sorry he hurt you” Will said. “I should have warned you.”

“It's alright” his therapist assured. “Although, I am afraid your brother will have to be handed over to the police.”

“You said you could treat him” Abigail reminded Budge urgently. He nodded.

“I said I could try.” He sat in his own chair, facing Hannibal, who still wouldn't turn his head towards them. “I know of a doctor that treats similar patients. However, it is not strictly speaking official, and those programs are often very experimental.”

Abigail shifted in her sit uncomfortably.

“What does that mean?” Will asked, frowning as Mischa was trying to wiggle out of his embrace to go to her brother. “Remember the game” he told her. “You won't get sweets if you go to him.”

She pouted.

“It means we can't be sure of the results” Mr Budge answered. “And that some of the procedures are not entirely ethical.”

“If you don't want me to go to prison, this would be the best course of action” Hannibal told them, shifting minutely his head to their side and looking at them. Will got the unnerving impression he was hiding himself.

“Though calling the police would still be the better option” Budge told him, sending Hannibal a sort of amused look.

Hannibal replied with his own, subtle interpretation of a glare.

“How would it work?” Abigail asked nervously. “Him going to that doctor?”

“I could recommend him to the program” Mr Budge answered. “If the hospital admits him, he will be treated as regular patient –only no-one would ever know he was there. You would most probably not be allowed to visit him, though I could ask my friend for that favour. Moreover, it could take years.”

“It could take a life” Hannibal told Budge as if this had another meaning for the man. The therapist smiled at him, his eyes dark and satisfied with the boy as if he was looking at a valuable prize.

“Sociopaths, as I believe him to be, are a rare find” Budge told the siblings. “I trust he would be accepted, no questions asked. We could forget that he just assaulted me, and tell the police nothing.”

“And no-one would know where he is” Will repeated, trying to figure out why that statement bothered him. “What's the name of that place?”

“I'm afraid it's confidential” Mr Budge answered with a meaningful smile. “But between you and I, you could find out easily if you looked at Baltimore's list of specialised hospitals.”

“And if not, you'll report him for attacking you?” Abigail asked, trying to measure their options.

“For that, and maybe for much graver issues” Mr Budge told them. “If my suspicions are correct.”

Abigail and Will exchanged a guilty look.

Mischa, annoyed by Will's embrace, kicked him in the knee with her little heel and jumped out of his lap, then ran to the nearby corner of the room with her magazines, near a pillar with a bronze cello statue on it. Will hesitated, then decided to let her be.

“I would be satisfied with that solution” Hannibal told his siblings, turning his face to them but, then again, not entirely. “You could go home tonight, Will riding the motorcycle, and report me missing to the police tomorrow. When they investigate, you will say what you did today except from the fact that Will and I never came here, waiting for Abigail and Mischa to come home on the bus. Then I would have gone out for a walk, and never come home. Does that seem acceptable to you?”

Will frowned, angered by Hannibal's calmness. “That wouldn't be fair” he said. “You deserve to pay for what you did to– to Mr Budge!”

“He would redeem himself equally following a treatment” Mr Budge told Will. “If it proves a success, it could help cure many other violent persons. That is appreciable.”

Abigail was fidgeting with her scarf. “Would it be dangerous?” she asked, looking up to meet Budge's eyes.

“It could.”

“Would it be painful?”

“Perhaps.”

She looked at Will. “I don't know” she told him in a low voice. “What if they do weird experiments on him like in the films?”

“I don't mind” Hannibal stated firmly, looking at them with confidence. “You say I deserve to be punished; pain should be fitting enough. But I would rather you don't call the police. Both of you have a tainted enough social statue due to our family's history; you shouldn't have to go through more stigma. If you call the police, I would go to prison and everyone would become even more wary of you. If you hand me over to Mr Budge and pretend I simply disappeared, people will most probably pity you and eventually forget about any previous history of violence you were involved in.”

“Stop pretending you're doing this for us!” Will snapped, rubbing his face with both hands. “You don't care about us, you're a fucking sociopath!”

He felt Abigail's hand run up and down his back in a soothing gesture. In-between tired fingers, he noticed something odd –Mr Budge's hardened gaze, looking at him with a sort of scorn. But it was gone in a blink.

Hannibal didn't faze. “I would rather go to an hospital as insane and be treated than go to prison” he rectified immediately, just as Will did with someone when he picked up a better course of reactions to display thanks to his empathy. “I would dislike the humiliation of being publicly denounced.”

“Of course you fucking wouldn't” Will snarled, getting up to take some nervous steps. Budge's gaze was sharp and hard again, on him like the barrel of a gun. Then the man looked away to hide it.

Why was he so fascinated with Hannibal?

“Are you on the program?” Will asked. “As one of the doctors running him?”

“Sometimes” Budge answered, his eyes back on Will like harpoons. “I act as a consultant.”

Hannibal violently kicked the coffee table at his feet with both heel, sending it harshly into Budge's knees, startling the others.

“Is that arrangement to your convenience?” he asked the therapist –Budge's eyes where back on him, sharp and deadly and amused. “Of course, my siblings fully understand and agree that I would not see them again. They would not try to look for me either, or change their mind and call the police instead.”

Will's heart tightened. Was it what it really meant? He looked at Abigail, and found her equally shaken. “You said we could sometimes see him” the girl remarked.

“If Dr Chilton approves of it” Budge answered. “But I honestly doubt he will. He prefers to leave that side of his hospital hidden.”

“At least in prison we could see him” Abigail murmured, looking away in shame.

Will came to sit back next to her. “I don't know” he said. “We have to think about it.”

Hannibal still wouldn't look at them properly, as if he wouldn't let them see the other side of his face. Will closed his eyes.

He was Hannibal, brilliant, hard-working, in charge of an unstable family. His identity as the Chesapeake Ripper had been unveiled by both his siblings and Mr Budge, who proposed an alternative to sending him to prison. His mind, as if life was but a game of chess, had already measured the outcomes of every possible actions. He asked to be taken away and put in a secret asylum, ready to endure the most gruesome experiments. Why?

Will remembered Hannibal warning him about Budge, probably because he knew the man had found him out. Maybe even because Budge had been the one to tell on him.

Budge wanted him on the program, and now Hannibal asked for that too. But he didn't care about public humiliation. He didn't care about what others thought –not even Abbe or Will.

Will was Hannibal, uncaring about human death and consequences; when Budge said he'd discovered him, he tried to kill him.

That had failed... so why had he stopped trying? Budge had not called anyone yet. Hannibal knew Abigail and Will were at a loss, vulnerable, that he probably could get rid of them or convince them to lay low right after murdering Budge.

Yet he wasn't. He was handing himself over to Budge and his weird asylum facility.

“Mischa, no!” Will felt Abigail's hand leave his back but too late –the little girl was already crawling into her big brother's lap. She even sent them a little smug glare. Hannibal was smiling to her, and Will could see then his left eye was swollen closed, bruised shades of red, sickly yellow and purple.

“Good evening, love” Hannibal told his sister. “What have you brought me?”

Mischa blinked in astonishment when she saw the state of his face. “A' you 'urt?” she asked with curiosity, forgetting about the magazines.

“It's a game, remember?” he told her with a slight grin. “You already lost, because you weren't supposed to come here. That is part of the game. I am merely pretending.”

Mischa pocked carefully his shut eyelid with a little finger. Hannibal took his face away. “You are going to smudge up the make up” he told her. “Have you been happy today?”

“Yes” the little girl told him, sitting carefully on his legs –her brother cringed. “I 'earnt 'ow to count again.”

He smiled. “Maybe next year I'll introduce you to Euclide then.”

She grinned. “That wou'd be 'ess annoying than c'ass I think” she replied.

“You will kiss me goodnight, now, and go back to your brother and sister, right my love?”

“No” she said, grinning in mischief.

“Please” he told her –he seldom pleaded, so she knew it was important.

“A'right, but you' read me a bedtime sto'y tonight” she bargained.

Hannibal smiled. “Tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow. I can't come home tonight.”

She pouted, but nodded and gave him a kiss, that he gently gave back. “Goodbye, my love. Sleep tight.”

She crawled down off his lap and Hannibal grit his teeth. When Mischa was back into Will's arms, he seemed relieved.

And Will knew why –that he had read in Hannibal's hidden wound, in the lies he'd fed Mischa, in the odd offer he would accept: he was protecting them.

But from what does a man like the Chesapeake Ripper need protection from?

Chapter Text

If Hannibal was protecting them by avoiding calling the cops, it meant there was danger somewhere that laid with handing him over to the police. Will bit his lower lip, hugged Mischa tighter.

I am Hannibal, and I don't want the police to come. Or rather, I don't want my siblings to call the police. I must convince them to chose the other option. The option offered by Mr Budge.

Mr Budge. Will looked at his therapist.

“Are you really fine with letting him get away?” he asked the man. “I mean, that's not very legal, I think. It would make you an accomplice, even.”

“Finding out a way of dealing with sociopaths outweighs the risks” Budge told him, his eyes watching curiously Will's stomach –looking at Mischa.

Hannibal had tensed up slightly. “If I go to jail, I will have the displeasure of seeing you growing apart from me” he stated. “Whereas Mr Budge's option implies a clean separation; you wouldn't have to bear with me any longer, and I would not see you drift away.”

Chose Budge's option. Say yes.

Why should we say yes?

Will observed his therapist, the purple bruise on his right cheek, the warm reflection of light on his dark skin. He'd never liked him much, but he'd never feared him either.

I am trying to protect you by having you say yes.

What if they chose to warn the police instead? Why wouldn't Budge want to call them? Was he so intent on studying Hannibal that he would, what? Get angry?

Hannibal wouldn't try to protect them from a mere shouting.

Violent, then?

Will looked at Abigail, who was lost in a wonder of her own, scrutinising both Hannibal and Budge, nibbling on her lower lip just as Will was. His eyes slipped to the scarf on her neck.

Could Budge get violent enough to scare Abigail? But would Hannibal try to spare them a scare by accepting to be sent to whatever...

Was that asylum even real?

Will frowned at looked at Budge again. The man was observing Abigail, now.

Maybe Budge wouldn't hand Hannibal over to anyone. Maybe he would, what? Kill him himself, as a personal vendetta against sociopaths? Or keep him as an experimental mind toy? Why would he want Hannibal for?

Will closed his eyes again.

I am Tobias Budge, a successful therapist fascinated with odd minds. Will Graham puzzled me. Hannibal fascinates me.

I like beautiful things. My office is full of them, works of art and music instruments.

Will startled. He had never truly payed attention to that before. Most of my painting represent singing, dancing or playing musicians. There is a bronze statue of a cello in a corner of the office, and a straight piano near my desk, with music sheets open on it. A violin hangs on the wall.

I am a musician.

Will opened his eyes and stood up, going to the end of the office to look at the music sheets, going through them without paying attention to other people, lost in his analysis.

A brilliant musician. I can play difficult melodies without needing to scribble any indications on the sheets –I can read music as others read books. I even compose my own tunes .

“Will.”

Hannibal's voice. Demanding. Will snapped out of his reconstruction and noticed every eye was pinned on him.

“Are you investigating me?” Mr Budge said in a joking manner, his eyes dark and cold like a pitch black night.

A brief look to Hannibal, whose face was stern. He shook his head once, almost imperceptibly.

“I need to know I can trust you” Will told his therapist. “If we're going to give you our step-brother and never be able to check on him again, we need to be sure he'll be, uh. Treated well.”

“Better than in prison” Budge assured him. “I'll see to it personally.”

Will's eyes slid on Budge, taking in the man's clothing. I like fine suits and men of taste. The young Lecter pleases me, but his clothes are of poor quality. I would like to see him dressed up to the nines .

Would he be able to do that in a asylum? Budge didn't seem saddened or disappointed by any lost opportunity. At the contrary, he was practically exuding victory.

Hannibal was his.

I won't hand him over to the police because I want him to be mine.

A shard of jealousy rose up in Will's stomach, growing into a needle, then a thin dagger; he tried to push it away to concentrate.

I'll dress him up and play him like a fine cello. I'll make him sing my own tunes. I'll write a symphony with the notes flying around in his brain.

Why would Mr Budge need a sociopath, someone he perhaps even knew to be a killer? What would he do with him?

I am a musician. I enjoy a good performance.

Will stilled.

Budge wanted Hannibal to play his own tunes.

Use him to create bloody melodies, a musi–

Will suddenly remembered the headlines of a recent newspapers.

“I think we can trust you” he told the man. “I think we should let you take Hannibal to that facility –at the condition that you will keep us updated personally about his progress and well-being.”

A slight smugness on Budge's face; relief washing on Hannibal's shoulders.

“I don't know” Abigail said, sitting Mischa where Will had been to stand up. “I don't like the idea of never seeing him again.”

“Do you know what happens to young men in prison?” Will snapped.

“That could happen in an asylum too. I want a way to check on him. Personally.”

“Mr Budge can do that.”

“Well, maybe you can do with cutting him off of your life, but I'm not the one he rejected, and I want the option of seeing my brother!” she shouted.

“Abigail” Hannibal called softly –she turned her shiny blue eyes to him, trembling in anger. “I am certain Mr Budge will find a way for us to meet from time to time. Won't you?”

Budge nodded.

Lies, lies, lies. They weren't playing for any asylum privilege. They were deciding if Budge would kill the three children or not.

“Can't we set up a date?” Will said. “For a meeting, with Hannibal, let's say, a month from now. So we can check on him and make sure he's fine.”

“A month from now?” Abigail gasped. “Will, anything can happen in a month!”

“Yeah well, if Hannibal weren't a dick, we wouldn't be having this conversation in the first place.”

Hannibal cringed, but Will knew it was at his vulgarity rather than at the insult.

That detail suddenly brought out lots of little endearing things Hannibal did that Will used to love.

His heart started to beat faster, as if he'd just remembered that he'd actually been heads over heels for the man.

Just like that, he stopped hating him for what he did, pushed his murders aside for the moment, and focused on saving their lives.

“It is starting to be late” Budge remarked, looking at the time. “If you aren't sure about my offer, maybe we should rather call the police and be done with it.”

“Maybe” Abigail blurted out, glaring at Budge with frowned brows. “It's not like we're deciding the fate of our brother or anything important anyway.”

“I think Mr Budge is being very generous in his offer” Will said, approaching Hannibal and trying to find a valid excuse to free him. “It's an unique opportunity we should not overlook.”

From this side, he could mainly see Hannibal's swollen eye and the purple bruise over it. He remembered him cringing when Mischa had crawled on his lap, and noticed a large, red stain on the left leg of his pants. “You're wounded” he noticed, trying to play up his surprise.

“A scratch” Hannibal replied. “There are more pressing matters.”

“Is he hurt?” Abigail asked, looking like she wanted to approach Hannibal but couldn't bring herself to do it.

“I think so, we should put him on the sofa” Will stated, going to his sort-of sibling to help him out. “Mr Budge, would you lend me a hand, please?”

The man seemed slightly annoyed, probably because the conversation was starting to bore him.

Will didn't wait for him to move to pick up Hannibal and help him stumble towards the sofa, his heart beating fast and his ears wide open to any sound coming from Budge's sit.

“Abbe” he called. “You should go buy bandaid or whatever. Take Mischa with you.”

“What? I'm not going anywhere!” the girl exclaimed. “You're just going to hand Hannibal over to that man, and I'll never see him again!”

Will sat Hannibal on the sofa and turned to Abigail. Budge was hidden behind her, which meant he couldn't see him either. “I promise Hannibal will be there when you come back” he said, fumbling deftly behind the other's back to try and untie his hands.

“Why are you freeing him?” Abigail asked, suspicious.

“I would ask you the same thing” Budge said, approaching them nonchalantly.

Will could feel him imagine his hands snapping Abigail's neck.

“Abbe, take Mischa off the sofa and give her back the magazines, will you?” Will told her to get her away. “I'm untying his hands so he can lay on his back and we can examine his leg. And he's going to be very nice, are you Hannibal?”

“Oh, I'm sure he will” Budge said, his dark eyes running on the boy in amusement, no longer bored by the conversation but probably still quite close to violence.

Abigail picked up Mischa and backed off to the corner with the bronze cello statue, visibly unnerved that a murderer would be set free in the same room as her, again .

Hannibal rubbed his hurting wrists, looking at Will with ponder. Their eyes met, blue, determined ones and brown, reddish, unreadable others. Will gave a slight nod and moved away.

Instantly, Hannibal propelled himself on Budges with bound legs, aiming for the head.

He missed the hit and gasped, for apparently no reason, as he was securing his arms around Budge's like a human shackle.

“Go to the police right now, it's your only chance” he told Will in a ragged voice.

But he clearly wasn't going to hold Budge very long, so Will tried very hard to set himself in Hannibal's mindset and hit his therapist on the chin before Budge would kick Hannibal with his knees again.

“What are you doing!” Abigail was screaming from her side of the room, terrified. Mischa pressed both hands on her ears, looking at the scene with discomfort.

Budge couldn't kick Hannibal away so he rose a hand as much as he could to seize him by the hair and pull his hair back, uncovering the vulnerable throat. “This is what you choose, then” he told him with a smirk. “Adding them to your bloody canvas.”

Will punched him again, but the man seemed to be made of iron, and laughed with red teeth.

“Stop it! All of you, stop it!” Abigail shouted near them, holding the bronze cello statue like a masse over her head. “Will, we're not killing someone to get Hannibal out of this!”

“It's not someone, it's–”

He couldn't finish his sentence as Budge successfully kicked him in the stomach with a foot, sending him to the floor. The man then pushed Hannibal off him as if his grip was nothing, and turned towards Abigail, who froze.

She knew that look.

She'd seen those eyes.

The man was holding a thin, red letter opener in his bloody hand.

She stopped thinking and swung what she was holding towards his face.

She missed the first time.

The second time, the sharp edge of the cello caught Budge's skull in full, ramming in as in butter, spreading red and greasy bits of grey on the metal instrument.

The second time, Budge was dead.

She stood frozen, looking at the corpse, seeing her father instead.

He had not cut her throat open. She had bashed his brains out.

On the floor, Hannibal was sitting painfully, pressing a hand to his side. He looked at her, seeing through her eyes, knowing what she'd done.

“You did it, Abbe” he said, talking to her as he was Will, with the same nickname and tone of voice –thought maybe involuntarily. He'd always known how to reassure her.

“You've done it. He's gone.”

Will was catching his breath on the floor near them; he had trouble taking in what had just happened. Mischa came to him and gripped his shoulder, queasy.

“I did it” Abigail repeated, looking at the dead murderer. “I killed him. He's gone. Gone.”

She looked at Hannibal, and suddenly sank to her knees, embracing him. “I killed him” she said. “He's not coming back.”

“Never” he answered, sliding a arm around her. “Never.”

He wasn't as warm as he used to, but he pressed against her gently like he always did, comforting, safe.

“I love you” she told him. “I don't want you to go. I love you.”

From his spot, Will heard the words like daggers piercing through his skin.

He didn't know in which way Abigail was meaning them, but the spear of jealousy was biting. To avoid jeopardising the moment, he took Mischa in his arms to comfort the little thing.

“I'm not leaving you” Hannibal promised his step-sister. “Though right now, we have to call the police.”

She gasped, and looked at him with fear on her face. “For Mr Budge” he told her. “You stayed with him when Du Maurier went, then, when I came to pick you up, he asked me to stay behind and attacked me. That gives all of you the perfect excuse to go home and have a restful night of sleep.”

“I'm not leaving!” Will and Abigail exclaimed at the same time.

Hannibal smiled a little, his lids falling heavily on his eyes. Then he leaned in to embrace Abigail again, putting his forehead on her shoulder, and his arms sled down.

Abigail rose a bloody hand.

“Will, call an ambulance. He's wounded.”

She got the boy off her and laid him down on his back; she pulled the bottom of his shirt up to get a look at the thin red line on his side that was pouring out blood.

Then she took her scarf off to press with it on the wound.

Chapter Text

As Hannibal was staying at the hospital, Will took over his responsibilities. Coincidentally, it was the end of the month, and some bills were making their way to his desk (well, the living room's table).

Hannibal organised everything neatly in a set of folders, so Will didn't have trouble taking over; what he had trouble with was the amount of money they weren't left with.

After paying the water, electricity and phone bills, they had barely enough to eat –let alone buy Mischa new clothes, as hers had been stained by Hannibal's blood when she's sat on his lap.

University was already paid for, but therapy sessions weren't, and Abigail needed one almost daily.

Moreover, Hannibal's hospital fees suggested one had to sell a house to be allowed to survive in the US.

Will decided to cut on his own therapy sessions –Mr Budge was dead anyway– and Abigail agreed on only going to hers twice a week unless she badly needed one.

She felt better anyway.

A few days into Will's taking charge of the family, he had the good surprise to receive a letter from an unknown bank –Mr Graham was starting to send money again. Not a large amount, but enough to cover for the extra spendings the family had to make.

He also received a letter that announced Hannibal was fired from his part-time job at the opera because he had not been coming to work and not even given a call about it.

Abigail called the opera to give them a piece of her mind –they agreed to take her brother back when he would be better.

Somehow, Will sensed that was more because Hannibal worked well and had an iron solid excuse to have missed his shifts than because of Abigail's anger.

The siblings had had time to discuss the remaining issue of their step-brother being a serial murderer. They had decided to start by punishing him through not coming to see him at the hospital even once; though they would regularly ask the doctors about his state (stabbed twice, yet improving).

For one, Will would be in charge of every spending from now on, so nothing Hannibal bought and where would go unnoticed. Even Hannibal's pay-checks would have to go through him, and Hannibal would be allowed only a controlled amount of pocket money.

Then Abigail had worked out a schedule that would allow her and Will to know exactly where he was all the time, checking on him regularly to make sure he was were he ought to. They collected phone numbers and addresses to that aim, knowing Hannibal wasn't above lying to them about his whereabouts.

Finally, they confiscated the keys to his motorcycle. He would be allowed a precise amount of gas in it, so if it got spent too fast the siblings would know something was on.

They debated buying a lock for Hannibal's bedroom door and windows, and finally decided they would do so until they were satisfied he wouldn't be chopping anyone into pieces anymore. At night, he would be locked in. During the day, they would watch his every step.

They called this his “Probation” as a joke.

The final step was going to a charity to find a bed for Mischa, so she would sleep in their room rather than with her brother. They pushed it against Abigail's because the little girl didn't like to sleep alone, and because there was no room for it elsewhere. Sometimes, Will pushed his own bed against the two others and they would all sleep together like a pile of puppies. At other times he had nightmares, so that wasn't such a good idea.

When Hannibal finally got out of the hospital and came home riding the bus –not going to fetch him was a part of the punishment Abigail and Will were very unsure about– they sat him at the dinning table and explained to him on what terms exactly he was allowed to stay.

He had put his crutch aside and listened to them attentively, Mischa hung to his neck like a blond necklace. Abbe and Will had tried their best to look firm and final, but both of them knew they wouldn't truly be able to stand up to him if he decided to contradict their plans.

“How long would that last?” he finally asked when they'd finished their presentation.

“Depends on you” Abigail said. “I could last all your life.”

Hannibal tilted his head, looking at the list of phone numbers the siblings had established to check on his whereabouts. “What about your life?” he remarked. “When you will find a work or partner?”

“We'll see then” Will replied. “Now, the point is we'll be watching you and, if you don't behave, we'll call the police. Can you do that? Not kill anymore people?”

“Do you need a shrink too?” Abigail said. “Mr Graham's been sending money again, we can pay for it.”

Hannibal fumbled with the rest of their documents. “I could simply go” he pointed out.

Will bit his lip.

“We'd keep Mischa” Abigail retorted.

“I would take her with me.”

The siblings exchanged a wary look. “Would you?” Abigail asked. “Leave us?”

“You are asking me to live as a prisoner.”

“We're trying to figure how to let a murderer leave under our roof!” Will shouted, startling his younger sister. Hannibal hugged her comfortingly.

“Abigail killed someone, no matter what we told the police.” Hannibal had pretended to be the actual killer because, as he had been restrained and stabbed, self-defence was more obvious than three children beating a single respectable man to death. Furthermore, he didn't want to get Abigail into more trouble than she already was.

“It was different, and you know it. You murder passer-bys, while she was merely defending her life. And ours, too!”

“You seem to believe I would kill anyone, given the occasion.”

“Well, aren't you?” Will asked, going for another file. “Here, look. It's everything we could find on the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“A dangerous collection” Hannibal remarked.

“Let's call it an insurance” Will said. “We put a copy of this file and proof of your involvement in the murders in a bank. If anything suspicious happens to either one of us, or if you decide to take off, the file will go directly to the police.”

For a second, Will saw something akin to satisfaction flash in the maroon eyes.

Hannibal was proud of them.

He didn't like the prospect of living as in prison, but he'd always enjoyed a thorough work. Also, he probably felt reassured of their attachment to him, given all the trouble they had been through to ensure he would stay with them in spite of his... hobbies.

“I can only bow to such conditions” he stated, tidying up the files to put them into neat piles. “I hope you realise that the police would consider you accomplices of my crimes if they ever found out.”

“We know that” Abigail said. “We figured that, since you were fine with taking a stab to the stomach for us, you'll be fine with not having us ending up in prison.”

He smirked. “Maybe not indeed.”

“So, you do agree with our terms?” Will asked, a tad tense. “No killing, letting us check that you're not?”

“I do. As long as we remain a family, I have no reason to breach them, either.”

Will grinned as he'd bit a lemon. Families change. Hannibals are clever enough to find loopholes everywhere. This could not end well.

But, for the time being, it made them happy.

“I suggest dinner” he said while standing up. “We have pasta and fresh fish from the pond.”

“I would go to my room first, and freshen up a bit” Hannibal said.

Abigail was already up to tidy the files away and start setting the table.

Hannibal put Mischa down and took his crutch to help himself up and towards his bedroom. He paused to look at the new lock on its door.

Inside, he found another set of locks on his new metal blinds, open for now, and the white glim of a bedpan in a corner. His scissors and nail file had disappeared.

He took a change of clothes from the wardrobe and got out to take a shower and change into his pyjamas. He was still tiring easily.

Dinner was quiet, even though Mischa babbled joyously about her day at school. Her presence soothed Hannibal; she was the only one who didn't care about him having killed some people.

He longed for a good night of rest at her side.

But after brushing their teeth, Mischa went by herself in the Graham-Hobbs bedroom, calling her brother to show him her bed, her own bed, because she was a grown-up now.

Hannibal didn't try to conceal the hurt he felt then when he looked at Will and Abigail, who where queasily waiting for his reaction.

He tucked Mischa into bed and read her favourite story, then kissed her brow and bid her goodnight.

Then Will accompanied him to his room and started to lock the blinds of his windows.

It did feel like prison.

“Why did you put Mischa in your room?” Hannibal asked.

“She needs access to the bathroom at night” Will answered. “Also, she doesn't kill people, so she doesn't need to be locked up.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “Why didn't you tell the police?”

“Because we're stupid fucks who want a go at a normal family life, I suppose.”

Hannibal sat on his bed, and put his crutch on the floor where he wouldn't step on it.

“Do you need to go to the bathroom before I close your door?” Will asked, avoiding the other's eyes.

“I am fine.”

“Do you need anything for your wounds?”

“No, thank you.”

Will glanced at him, who was watching him like a cat. “Stop looking at me like that. We have no other choice.”

“You could let me live my life and not care about how I do it.”

“Living your life implies others dying for it. And don't get me started on the cannibalism; you're lucky I didn't tell Abbe about it.”

“The organs I sold helped some people.”

“Let's not get into details. You're a murderer. Dot.”

Hannibal cocked his head.

Fuck, how Will had forgotten how pretty he could be. Pale hair and dark, thoughtful eyes. Shiny reflections of the lamp in strands of gold in his hair, and ruby strokes on his lips.

Will wanted to push him on his back on the bed, just to see this hair make a sort of golden aura around his head. With a pliant mouth at the centre.

Given how weakened the boy was from his recent stabbing, he could easily spread his thighs apart in hooks on both sides of his own legs, push the tired dressing gown aside and pull his pants down, ram right into him effortlessly like he'd dreamed of countless times.

Hannibal unlocked their gazes, slowly got the bathrobe off to fold it on the bedside table, and slid under the covers. “Will.”

The boy swallowed, trying to shake his fantasy off. “Yeah?”

“Would you be so kind as to refill my bottle of water? I would do it myself, but–”

“Yeah, no worries.” Will took the plastic bottle and hurried out to the bathroom.

He could not continue to think about Hannibal that way. The man was out of reach, once and for all. Not only a killer, but at his mercy, which would make any attempt on his part both gruesome and abusive.

Once he'd filled the bottle he splashed his face and neck with cold water, then took some time to breath and wish his boner away.

When he came back to Hannibal's room, the young man looked at him with expecting eyes. Will wasn't sure of what.

“Thank you” Hannibal said, taking the bottle and taking a sip that left a shine on his lips. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course” Will said, sitting on the edge of the bed to hide his lower half.

“Why are you so mad at me for killing people you don't know?”

Oh, Hannibal . Will's heart ached at the question, because he could feel it was genuine. Oh, you poor monster .

“You could get hurt” he answered, deciding to explain what the other could understand first. “You could get sent to prison or to the death row if you're caught. I don't want you to get hurt, you know that.”

Hannibal was looking at him, thoughtful. “I could get hurt anyway.”

“Those people you killed, they had families, too. Brother, friends, just like me, who didn't want them to get hurt. People like Abbe or Mischa who are now very sad because of what you did. I don't want them to get hurt either.”

“You do not know them.”

“They're alive. It's enough for me to care.”

Hannibal rolled on his side, putting a hand over Will's knee. “I understand what you are saying, but it does not make proper sense. You are talking about emotions. Feelings you have for people you don't know, and who do not know you. Universal feelings, that may exist only in your heart and would fade away if you truly got to meet those persons.”

“I don't think killing anyone is going to make the world a better place.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Hannibal.” Will sighed, and hesitantly he put a hand on the other's cheek. “No matter what you think, you are not to kill anyone again. Do you remember?”

Hannibal chuckled. “Could I have forgotten already?”

He slid a glance at Will, mischievous, looking just like Mischa when she was about to prank them.

“Don't” Will said, but he couldn't contain a smile.

He wanted to lean in and kiss the other's lid. His brow. His cheekbone. Nibble on his neck and leave a mark there.

“Maybe someday you'll understand me” Hannibal said, sneaking a hand on Will's arm.

“Maybe someday you'll understand us.”

Hannibal rolled on his back and smiled at Will, beaming with the comfort and joy of being back home, cared for in spite of the obvious distrust.

Sometimes Will remembered Hannibal had also been a child.

“I understand you” Hannibal said. “Though I believe life is too short and unpredictable for us to care about mean rules like those.”

“You're not going to convince me” Will replied, pulling the covers up towards Hannibal's chin, while he was thinking very hard of ripping the sheets off him. “Now, sleep tight, okay? I'll unlock your door at seven.”

Hannibal lifted a hand, gently stroking Will's cheek as if no murders or cannibalism had ever come between them. “You should tell Mischa about the locks. She may want to sneak up in here.”

Will wanted to sneak up.

Instead, he got up and locked the door.

*

He dreamt of taking Hannibal again. The old, dark fantasies where he'd slam him against a wall to bite his mouth and torn his clothes off; where he'd throw him on the bed like a puppet and push his screams into the pillow while he sank into his flesh. Pulling harshly on his hair, bending his neck back until he'd made his whole spine a perfect curve. A dream of lust and violence, of utmost possession.

Abigail woke him up. He saw darkness and felt sweat before he could even smell the scent of arousal lingering.

“You can't sleep here” Abbe was saying. “I don't like when you're having this kind of dreams, and it scares Mischa.”

Will tried to shake the dream off, rubbing his eyes and standing up as much as he could, leaning against the wall to reach the bathroom. He splashed his face with freezing water and finally made sense of the word around him. He'd been fantasising, probably loudly, and Abigail had thrown him out of their room. Aside from the chairs around the dinning table, they didn't have anywhere to sleep, so Will decided he would go to Hannibal's double bed.

First, he took himself in hand to appease his nerves. It didn't take long, thinking of Hannibal standing in front of him on the tiles, his back to him and his palms on the wall as he was taking a pounding.

Then he washed himself shallowly, knowing Hannibal would be able to scent the arousal on him anyway. He didn't have a change of clothes.

He opened the lock on Hannibal's door and got in silently, hoping not to wake the older boy up.

“Is it seven already?” the other's voice asked almost mockingly.

“Shut up” Will said, sliding under the covers. “Don't you ever sleep?”

“The walls are pretty thin here, William.”

Will groaned in displeasure and wiggled to make himself comfortable. “Go back to sleep.”

Hannibal chuckled. Bastard.

Will tried to curl as far as possible from him, but the other simply slid a arm around his waist and pulled him to his chest.

“It's been a while since you last slept here” he murmured, smelling Will's hair and messing it with the tip of his nose.

“Okay. Stop acting like nothing happened” Will said, turning around even though he couldn't see very well yet. “I'm not going to let you fondle me because you're a fucking killer and nothing can erase that.”

A soft, demanding mouth on his.

Okay, maybe that could.

Will froze as Hannibal's lips moved on his, gentle, at times possessive, his hands running on Will's back until one of them cupped the back of his neck and gently started caressing it.

Fucking stupid manipulative bastard.

Will moaned, and pushed Hannibal on his back. Two could play this game.

If Hannibal was willing to prostitute himself to get back on Will's good side, he was in for a surprise.

Will started by responding to the kiss, stroking Hannibal's body with both hands, thinking very hard about his murders to avoid getting carried away.

Then he picked off Hannibal's clothes one by one, pushing away the other's hands when they tried to do the same.

Finally, he started rocking his hips against the other's, until soft pants escaped Hannibal's wet mouth. When he closed his eyes, Will snaked a hand down to grab Hannibal's enthusiastic self and give it a few strokes.

For a moment, the situation seemed so odd he wondered if he wasn't dreaming.

Hannibal opened his eyes again, and took Will's head into his hands, pulling it gently to his for a kiss. His arms then slid around the younger man in a warm embrace.

“This is going well” Will whispered into Hannibal's ear. “You are gorgeous, dishevelled; your eyes and mouth are shining like moonlight on a pond. And I can't even tell how much those sounds you're making are affecting me.”

Apparently Hannibal liked his poetry because he let out a soft desperate whine and tightened his thighs around the other's. “Won't you take me then?” he murmured, hips grinding up to rub Will's. “Won't you?”

For a second, Will loses focus, his mind blanking out as he tries to think. So he lets out what goes through his mind then. “I would. Oh gods I would. Slide into you, stretch you open, fill you up as if to fill any emptiness you ever felt inside. Make you tremble around me. Push whines of pleasure out of you. Make you a mess, wipe up your mind so the only things that'd stay in there would be my name and pleasure.”

He squeezes his hand around Hannibal and breathes deeply to calm his desire. He stopped moving, so Hannibal opens his eyes in questioning protest.

“I would” Will says, “but there'll always be a part of me that remembers you've murdered people just like us, and that they will never be able to feel anything like that ever again. Nothing can erase that fact, no matter how much I want you.”

He lets go of Hannibal, goes to sit on the edge of the bed, rubs his face with both palms. He doesn't have to look to know realisation washed over Hannibal like the waters of a cold shower. He can hear it in his ragged breath.

When he's calm enough to, he rises up and takes a cover in their wardrobe, exits the door and puts the lock on again.

He'll sleep on the bathtub. He's done it before.

I am Hannibal, and I don't fucking care who I end up hurting.

I kiss Will, because I know he wants me and I know he'll react positively to it –I'll have him wrapped back around my little finger in no time. He's too stupid to notice anyway.

I let him undress me while he remains clothed, no matter humiliating I find it, especially for a first time. He'll do what I want afterwards anyway. He's so fucking stupid.

I let him kiss me and touch me and rock against me, and I kiss him too. I wrap my arms around him gently, so he'll think that I finally love him back. I close my eyes and hand over the reins to him, let him control me and use me, let him fuck me because I. Because I.

Hannibal would never have sex if he didn't want to. He's clever enough to find a billion alternative to that. He's manipulative enough .

Will wraps the cover tighter around him, curls tighter around himself in the bathtub and closes his eyes.

He's too tired to wonder what it means.

Chapter Text

Take me. Take me.

I am the Chesapeake Ripper and I never beg, but now I am asking Will Graham to have me. I am kissing him, caressing him, pushing my hips against his demandingly.

I rejected him. Now I'm handing myself over. Why?

Will bits his lips as he is preparing breakfast. It's ten past seven, but he hasn't unlocked Hannibal's bedroom door. He feels guilty about it, but he doesn't want to face him yet.

He's not pinning after me anymore. I resent that. I would have him follow me around like a stray puppy. So I'm using sex to–

No. That wasn't right. He wouldn't.

Will sets the table, silently because Abigail and Mischa would still be sleeping.

I'm asking for sex because I want to. I only do what I want. And now, I want Will. Why?

What changed? Will learnt about Hannibal being a killer. Abbe and him stopped trusting him, took control over his life, locked him up into his own bedroom and work schedule. Took over his pay check.

I accept that. I will live with it, at least for now. I am fine with it as long as–

As long as.

Take me, take me, take me . Will had never known Hannibal would want to play this part during intercourse until last night. Yet he'd never imagined the reverse. Though now that he does, it would feel kinda of good, too –if Hannibal wasn't a killer.

I am aware of your unfortunate desire for my person . Rejection. Then begging. Take me.

Will put the milk and cereals on the table, as well as warm fried eggs and bread.

Slam me against the wall – Crush me under you on the floor – Jump me in a dark alley.

Take me, won't you?

Fantasies so violent Will was ashamed of them; a violence he'd never imagined to perform on anyone but Hannibal. Desperate, longing to possess, to own.

Hannibal asking to be owned.

I take care of you, of Abigail, of Mischa. I am an adult. I started acting as your dad at twenty-two, but I'd worked that part since Mischa's birth, because Mrs Lecter was never the caring mum. She doesn't want me. My dad didn't either, disappearing and never being heard of again. Only Mischa needs me, and because she's a child.

Once, you said you wanted me. You didn't know. You didn't know the real me. The one who kills for money, and eats the meat because it would be foolish to let it go to waste.

Now you do. You know. Would you please, please, take me?

Am I still good enough, or do I truly need to be perfect or useful for anyone to care?

Push me on the concrete, hide my face, hurt me, I don't care. Don't even unclothe me; don't waste time being sweet; ram in, just, take me.

You don't have to love me, but show me that you care.

I'm so fucking weird, with my world sized brain, my literate speech pattern, my sociopathics views.

Only you can see me. Only you. Only you.

You didn't before, but now that you do, I'd like to know if I'll stay alone anyway.

You don't have to kiss me. You don't have to love. You can hurt me and push me around all you want.

Won't you please embrace me.

It's twenty-four past seven, and Will unlocks Hannibal's door.

The older boy is already standing behind it, leaning on his crutch.

“I would rather you be punctual” Hannibal says, already dressed and impeccable. He limps towards the bathroom and closes the door behind him. Will can hear noises from Abigail's and Mischa's room.

He goes to the bathroom, which lock hasn't been repaired, and comes in.

“Are you watching me even when I have to use the bathroom?” Hannibal asks as he's drying his face.

Will looks at him, tries to measure how much of his fantasies were actually ripped off Hannibal's psyche. That violent desire to be wanted for something else than perfect cooking and impeccable parenting skills. To be wanted imperfect.

“How long have you loved me?” he asks.

Hannibal doesn't faze. “Does it matter?” he replies placidly. “Longer than you have. You probably picked on it and extrapolated. Your mind is quite unique.”

Right then, Will understands he loved him from the start, since their very first encounter, when Hannibal realised how utterly extraordinary William was. But the boy was seventeen. So young. Probably untouched. Visibly not attracted.

When Will changed his mind a few months ago, it was already too late. Hannibal had killed; he couldn't go back, and Will's extraordinary mind would find out. Furthermore, there was always the chance that Hannibal's fascination had contaminated the youth. That Will wasn't feeling attraction, merely Hannibal's own desire.

Take me, even if you don't love me. You don't have to show care; in my fantasies, you even resent me for doing that to you, imposing my desire to your malleable mind. You hurt me. I don't mind. I don't want to imagine what it would be like for you to truly love me. I know you won't, and I'm not the kind of man to ravel in hopelessness. Give me what you can, resentful, violent sex; treat me as badly as you want, this is only a dream.

Will bits his lower lip. “I'll be driving the motorcycle. I'll take you to the uni, and come pick you up at six.”

“I have to go to the morgue to work.”

“We called the morgue, they are okay to wait until your injuries are properly cured. I'll pick you up at six.”

Hannibal nods, and Will hesitates. He wants to slam him against the wall and kiss him –more accurately, Hannibal wants something of the kind to be done to him. Will can feel his longing. A sort of hopeful despair.

“Sit” Will orders, gesturing towards the edge of the bathtub.

Hannibal frowns, surprised at the request.

“Sit.”

He obeys, out of curiosity.

Will's hands pull his shirt up to examine the stitches on his stomach, then unbuttons his trousers and slides them down to check on the wound on his thigh. “Does it hurt?” he asks. Hannibal shakes his head. “You know, I can take care of that by myself.”

Will makes an effort to look at the other in the eyes, brown, unfazed, a tad annoyed at finding themselves half naked in Will's clothed presence again.

Then he leans in, both of his hands on either side of Hannibal's waist, and presses his mouth to the wound of his stomach. Soft, but firm, enough to itch without hurting, and so hot.

He feels Hannibal start to shake and rises back up, looking at his startled face again. There is a flush on his cheeks.

“Be good” Will orders.

Then he turns around to enter the living-room, where Abigail and Mischa are already eating.

He knows Hannibal won't come out for a while, at least not until he's stopped trembling.

*

The arms around Will's waist are firm and trusting when he drives to the university. He enjoys the feeling, as for once being in charge means something other than making stressful decisions. He stops the bike in front of Hannibal's uni and helps him get off it, hands him the crutch and waits for him to enter the building before leaving.

It is entirely counter productive, but he wants to spoil him. He has some money and will be the one to make final decisions –even though he'll ask Abigail her advice on things and will have to get Hannibal's signature on official paperwork as he's still only twenty.

But he has power, which means he can very much pick up Hannibal at six and drive him to a recognised patisserie to let him choose a treat.

Obviously, Hannibal picks up a small strawberry cake first, because it's Mischa's favourite and he thinks he can sneak it to her back home. But Will tells him they won't be bringing anything with them, and that the treat has to be eaten in the small tea saloon part of the shop. Hannibal licks his lips, unsure of what Will means. He doesn't usually not share.

“We are picking one, and you're eating it whole” Will says, aware that they never do that because those things are pricy –which is why they usually buy only one or two to share. “Which one is your favourite?”

Hannibal goes for the raspberry cheesecake. “Not mine, Hannibal.”

“I like this one” Hannibal insists.

“You just want to share.”

“Don't you?”

Will sighs. “I am sharing. By giving this to you. Pick one already.”

Hannibal tilts his head. “You pick one.”

Will rolls his eyes and points at a small cake near the croissants –which would be the only thing Hannibal truly enjoys among such artificial flavours. “We'll have that weird green thingy there” he tells the waitress, who smiles and informs them in approximative French it's called a “Religieuse à la pistache”.

Will pays for it and takes Hannibal by the arm, leading him to a small table far from the windows, in a quiet corner.

“This is an outrageous waste of money” Hannibal tells him. “Abigail and Mischa will be so disappointed.”

“We're not telling them” Will says. “Eat your cake.”

Hannibal looks at him, clearly puzzled by Will's actions. Then he cuts a mouthful of the pastry with his little fork, smells it like it is something suspicious, and eats it.

Will chose the best pastry shop in town, and knows Hannibal isn't used to good desserts anymore than he is –desserts are a luxury a poor cook can't afford, not when he has a family to actually feed. So he smiles when the older boy pauses and softly hums in delight. “Is it good?” he asks.

Hannibal opens his eyes and nods a little. If there's one thing the boy likes, it's quiet scents and subtle foods. “You should try it.”

“I'm not hungry. Come on, take another bite... I know you want to.”

Hannibal chuckles in amusement and lowers his head –and for an instant he is cute, in a way Will seldom can see him be. He glances at Will from time to time, and the more cake he has the more he opens up like a weird, cannibalistic flower that looks pretty and smells divine. Will grazes the other's arm with the tip of his fingers, talking to him about his day and making what he hopes are funny jokes, leaning in to stand closer to him. Hannibal is relaxed enough to seem almost flirty, bating his eyelashes and tilting his head with a smile in what Will isn't sure is entirely calculated.

As he finishes the first half of his pastry, Hannibal tries to sneak him a bite, but Will refuses. He knows that confuses him. Eventually, Hannibal takes two other bites, then offers another to Will, who denies him again. He can feel his bewilderment.

Hannibal calculated his offerings precisely: one after it seems appropriate to believe the eater has had his share, one when it could be thought he's getting full. Maybe Will doesn't find pistachio appealing.

“Don't you like this kind of pastry?” Hannibal asks casually –Will almost laughs because he knows it's only another trick.

“I love them. But I want you to have it all.”

Hannibal doesn't insist. He's thinking Will wants something else then, and Will isn't surprised when he eventually leans in for a kiss –which he avoids. “I'm not buying you” Will protests as he puts a hand on the other's own and strokes it with a thumb. “I just want you to enjoy something without having to think about us for a change.”

Hannibal blinks, and he suddenly sees it –how his murders had been the only thing personal he had had for himself those last years. Of course he took organs and meat to sell and eat, but this was incidental.

Murders were personal, his own, private garden where nobody intruded –not the shadows of his mother, not the burden of his family. It was his. Nobody could get in. Nobody could relate to them –no-one had anything to do with them but Hannibal.

It was his art. His own means of expression. Unique.

Did Will want to compare that to a small, greenish pastry?

Hannibal lowered his fork and looked at the thing, trying to picture a human body discombobulated inside. They he shrugged the image off, finding it strange and quite unfitting.

Will watched him with piercing blue eyes, stroking his hand gently.

There was a meaning to this. Will had wanted to tell him something, but Hannibal couldn't quite grasp what.

“I decided I wouldn't treat you as a criminal” Will stated suddenly. “Of course, you'll still be locked at night and under heavy surveillance, but I'm not going to punish you for it. You're off to a clean start.”

Hannibal tilted his head. He glanced at his pastry, wondering if that was what it meant.

“I'm the one in charge now” Will added, gently squeezing the other's hand in his. “I will take care of you.”

It felt good to hear the words, even though they are sort of meaningless for a man like Hannibal. “I have managed quite well on my own until now” he remarked.

“We wouldn't be having this conversation if that were true.”

Hannibal pondered. Will was highly unstable, shaken by the murder of his mother and abandonment of his father. The example set by the family of his step-sister hadn't rectified his poor vision of a family life. Now his sort-of brother was also a murderer and he, what? Wanted to set things straights?

Maybe he desperately needed to believe there was still hope for him somewhere. So desperately he believed Hannibal could change. Poor thing.

Hannibal took Will's hand in both his own, warming it up tenderly. “I am not something you can fix, William” he warned him gently. “I am not broken.”

“There has to be a reason why you do what you do.”

Hannibal was about to reply when Will cut him short. “Anyway, you're not in charge of this kind of things anymore, I am. I decide what is best for you for the time being. And what is best for you now, is being pampered.”

Pampered. Hannibal stilled, puzzled at the notion. He knew of the term, of course, but was fairly disconnected from the concept. He'd trained himself to cater to other's needs and wishes so they would deem him harmless and reliable, and play right into his hand. He'd never let anyone do the same to him.

“When we go back home, I'll be cooking while you read a book, or study, or take a shower –anything” Will announced.

“Mischa may need help with her homework” Hannibal remarked. “Or Abigail.”

“I will take care of it. Tonight, you're not to do anything for us –at all.”

That was a strange notion. A perfect murder night –that he was supposed to spend, what? “Pampering” himself?

“I find your method rather enigmatic” Hannibal stated, scrutinising the other's face, trying to read his thoughts.

“After dinner, we'll sleep together. As in, we'll make love” Will added, trying to sound firm but unable to control the slight constriction of his throat that made his voice higher. He was nervous, so Hannibal gave him his best show of self-control, internally amused at how it would destabilise him further.

“And, uh” Will coughed, trying to clear his voice. “Have you ever done it with a man before? Yesterday doesn't count.” Despite his best efforts, his voice had lowered. Hannibal found it endearing.

“That could be the occasion of a first experiment for the both of us” he answered quietly, softened by the other's shyness. To his surprise, Will chuckled. “I've already done it with a man, Hannibal” he replied in amusement. “With two men, actually –not at the same time. I dated the first one for about four months.”

Hannibal didn't react –more accurately, only Will could read the tiny signs on his face, of astonishment and of... wariness? What could he be wary about?

Maybe he didn't like the prospect of being the less experienced of the two; it meant he would start with lesser control tonight.

“I thought you had only been with Alana” Hannibal said, letting go of Will's hand to finish the remains of his pastry.

“There has also been Freddie, actually” Will told him. “For a couple months, before I realised we were utterly incompatible. And some one night stands. I don't have issues attracting people; I'm only really bad at maintaining an actual relationship with them.”

Hannibal nodded, without looking at him, scrapping his empty plate to make it look clean. Will frowned. “What? How many persons have you been with?”

He tried to make an estimate according to the occasions Hannibal had had to start a relationship. Not much in the last two years, obviously, but that let plenty of time before, and Hannibal was quite an interesting man, if not an attractive one. He wasn't beautiful in an obvious manner like Abigail or even Will were, but he was very charming, and fascinating to talk to. He would have attracted many partners, especially literate students or even teachers. Will shrugged at the thought.

“I have never been interested in relationship matters as you were” Hannibal replied, neatly putting his fork away. “I always preferred to focus on my studies.”

“Oh.” Will blinked, a tad surprised at his answer. “So you've never dated anyone?”

“I have not.”

A tiny part of Will sighed in relief at that. A tiny, jealous, possessive part he always tried to push away, but that always managed to crawl back in.

“Alright, so, you're never dated” he repeated. “And you've never slept with men. What about girls? I heard the parties at the medical uni are wild. How many girls did you sleep with?”

“Are we counting now? This seems a bit crass.”

“I just want to estimate how good I'll have to be tonight to make you forget about all of them.”

“I have never been very interested in sex.”

Will frowned. “I'm not going to judge, if that's what you're afraid of.”

“I am not concerned about your opinion on the matter. I simply find this conversation... graceless.”

Will bit his lip. “We're having sex tonight, and I want it to be great. So you'll have to tell me about your likes, dislikes, wishes and so on –I might be exceptionally good at empathising, but I'm not a magician. And I'd like to know roughly how much experience you have, because I can't act the same if you're experienced or if you're a virgin.”

He was about to rant on when he noticed that slight, subtle flicker of Hannibal's eyelids at the last word. “Oh” he whispered, trying to ignore how his tiny jealous side was now dancing the samba in his brain. Hannibal looked away. “Does it make a difference?” he asked, poised but annoyed.

Will suddenly realised how quickly he was breathing. He could almost see how wide his own pupils had enlarged. A painful ball of want was stirring hard in his stomach.

“Oh, I'm going to ravage you” he thought, fighting himself to avoid ravishing the man right there on the tiled floor of the tea room.

He drank in the brown eyes, flickered with golden eyelashes, the red, sensual mouth, the ashen locks of hair, the graceful, strong body with large hands and fit muscles everywhere, and thought how all of this would be his.

He felt like a lioness lying in wait for her prey, only Hannibal was anything but prey –Will felt like some animal preying on a snake, maybe, a dangerous snake; a little mongoose who had a glimpse of the long, graceful curves of a king cobra and felt his mouth water over it.

Thinking how at night he would plunge his teeth in the beautiful body, devour it, make it his.

Chapter Text

“Good evening, my love; how have you been today?”

The jealous side of Will always wonders if letting Mischa grow up is a viable option. Luckily, the side that still wants to be an FBI profiler reminds him that murdering a child would be bad for his career.

But it's difficult to silence envy, especially when it's poking you in the face with giggles and a smile –Mischa's giggles and Hannibal's smile. The young man nuzzles his little sister' stomach so she'll laugh, then kisses her all over and pretends to eat her. She thinks its funny.

Will shrugs and looks away, reminded of dead meat in their fridge and cannibalistic meals.

Abigail seems mesmerised by the scene. Since she's discovered Hannibal's actual identity they haven't truly interacted; but this used to be part of their relationship. She's too old for him to nuzzle her belly now, but the hugs and chuckles and kisses still happened quite often. Now she's probably afraid he'll suddenly pull out a knife like her father did.

Will helped Mischa with her homework, so Hannibal chose her as a way to pass the time until dinner; they're laughing, and their giggles fills the air like bubbles of champaign sparkling in a glass.

Abigail stands up and goes to Will, who's trying to make sense out of their last bills.

“I can't” she told him. “It's too painful. I can't.”

Will rose his eyes, taking in her pale skin tone and the rings under her eyes.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked her. “Call the police?”

She bit her lip. “No.”

“What can I do, then?” It was an actual question.

She looked at him in despair, with fidgeting fingers. Then she turned on her heels and headed to their bedroom. Hannibal looked at her go with mild concern, then turned to Will and rose his eyebrows.

“Stay where you are” Will ordered, standing up to meet Abigail.

“She's not waiting for you” Hannibal remarked, as ever the brilliant reader of people.

Will paused. “So what? I let you go, you make her like you again. And? You go back to your ways? Persuade the both of us that we can overlook it?”

Hannibal tilted his head. “What would make you happy, William?”

Will shivered. “Stay where you are.”

He entered his bedroom, where Abigail was sitting on her bed with arms wrapped around her folded legs. “You can't invite him in that way” he told her.

“I'm not inviting him at all, I hate him!” she snapped, her gaze vague but angry.

“You were hoping he'd follow you, comfort you, and help you believe it'll be okay” Will stated.

She took her pillow and threw him at him harshly. “Stay out of my head!”

Will avoided the throw and came to sit next to her on the bed. “It will be okay” he said. “At least, I think so. He's... he's done terrible things, but I believe he will not arm any of us.”

“He hung a man by his feet and carved stripes of skin out of him to make him look like a jellyfish. For the head, he put a hat on top.” She looked at her step-brother in horror. “He put a hat on it, Will! How can we ever truly trust him?”

“Because we want to” Will answered, feeling his throat tighten. “Because even if that's... irrational, we need to believe our family can work. That we can have a family.”

“If we denounced him, we would keep Mischa and become a true family, with no murders.”

“I'm not twenty one yet, and I don't have a job. I wouldn't be allowed to care for you, and we'd be separated. Let's at least bear it until my birthday. Remember this is the trial period.”

“What if he kills us?”

Will looked away. “I can't promise he won't, but I don't believe he will.”

Abigail wiped some tears away. “Are you going to sleep with him?”

Will twitched. “What?”

“Maybe if you slept with him, he wouldn't be able to kill us. Or, at least, you. Maybe you can manipulate him as they do in the films. You know, have sex and...”

She stopped and shut her eyes tightly. Will slid a arm around her back. “I'll protect you” he said. “And you'll protect yourself. You can bash his brains out if you want to, remember?”

She grinned awkwardly, as if somehow her smile was broken. “I love him, Will” she whispered. “He would kill me .”

And Will then knew in his heart, it was true for him too.

A gentle knock on the door.

Hannibal pushed it open, carrying Mischa against his hip, seeming concerned. “Can I come in?”

“No” Abigail snarled. “Go away.”

He stilled, then put Mischa gently on the floor so she could go play out. “I would like to talk to you, if you let me.”

“And say what?” Abigail. “Nothing's gonna change what you did. You'd only change what I think of you, and that's no good for me. Get out.”

Hannibal sat on Will's bed. “I am not your father, Abigail.”

“Doesn't change the fact that you're a dickhead like he was.”

Hannibal cringed at the swear. “I don't want to hurt you, and I am not planning to” he stated.

“Words.”

Will stood up from Abbe's bed and came to Hannibal, taking his head between hands. “I told you not to worry yourself about us today, remember?”

“She is my sister” Hannibal told him. “How could I not be worried?”

Will leaned in and kissed him gently on the brow. “Go back to Mischa, alright? She missed you a lot when you were at the hospital.”

“Abigail needs me.”

“Abigail would use you as an emotional crutch to rebuild herself around you. You know it. I'm not letting you take advantage of that. Get out. Better yet, go take a shower. I want you clean for after dinner.”

Hannibal observed him with maroon, unreadable eyes. “Why won't you let me help?”

“Because we'd like to work as a functional family, not the opposite, and letting you stick in the holes your betrayal left is the exact way of not achieving that. Now, take responsibility and walk away, if you truly love us.”

The older boy lowered his head, then wrapped his arms around Will's waist. “I would not hurt you, Will. Not Abbe, not Mischa, not any of you. I hope you understand that.”

“Yeah well, that's not something you can prove, so you'll have to earn our trust if you want us to ever believe you.”

Hannibal nodded. His ashen hair got messed up against Will's side, and Will stroke it with a hand gently. “Go take a shower now” he ordered.

The other stood up, quiet and composed, then circled a hand loosely around Will's neck to bring him to his lips for a kiss. As always, Hannibal closed his eyes.

Afterwards we went, and Will could hear the bathroom door open and close behind him.

He turned back towards Abigail. “I'm going to sleep with him” he told her.

She frowned. “I wasn't being serious” she replied. “I don't want you near that guy.”

“No, it's not... I love him, too. I'm sure I can find a way to... make him better.”

“With your cock?”

He twitched. “When mum went, I was devastated” he told her, coming back to sit on the bed. “I know you can relate, because, well.”

“Mum died” Abigail reminded him. “It's not like she had a choice.”

“She had one when she left me. Anyway, I felt like maybe, if I had been a better boy, or, well, if I hadn't been me, she would have stayed. At least, taken me with her instead of surrendering custody to dad. Then I grew up and started to understand the situation better, but she, well. And then, my own dad abandoned us to live in his garage with bottles of whisky.”

“Is there a point to this story? Because if we're comparing childhoods, I warn you mine kinda beats yours in creepiness.”

“I've always wondered if something was wrong with me” Will said. “Obviously, there is, but I started to realise it wasn't why mum left after dad left us. Because I was living with you, and with Mischa and Hannibal, and you were all... fine with it. You've never treated me like a freak.”

“I was murdered at fifteen, and Hannibal eats people for breakfast. Gods, even as a joke it makes me wanna puke. Anyway, we're not exactly the ones to talk.”

Will cringed at own right she didn't know she was.

“Maybe” he said. “The point is, I feel like I belong here. Maybe that's why I don't want Hannibal to be sent away. Because he's always accepted me as I was, with my tics and empathic disorder issues. He doesn't see me as a freak, and when he's here, I don't feel like one.”

“To be fair, nobody can compete with his own degree of freakiness.”

“Exactly” Will said, looking at her as if she'd put the finger right on the mark.

She shook her head. “So? He's a creep –correction Your Honor, he's The Creep– what has it to do with you wanting to get in his pants?”

“I think he's like me” Will replied thoughtfully. “He never knew his dad –we're not even sure Mischa and him have the same one– and his mother never cared for either of them. And, murders aside, he's a freak. He's much more clever than anyone and, if he's actually a sociopath, his brain isn't wired the way most people's minds are. He's like... an alien lost on a human word. There's nobody like him. He's alone.”

“So you're going to make it better. With sex.”

“Stop mocking me.”

“Sex is not love, Willy. Remember how that Disney song doesn't go 'listen to your dick and you'll understand'?”

“I want him to know he's not alone. That he's loved. That he belongs. And for the time being, he'll belong to me.”

“That's creepy.”

Will bit his lower lip. “I'm not sure you can understand, really” he said. “You're sixteen shades of messed up, but your brain is normal. Even though you're smarter than most people, you could have had a normal life. Hannibal and I... we couldn't. Ever. We're wired the wrong way.”

“Mrs du Maurier would say there is no good or bad wiring, only what motor you build with the wires. You decided your boat would be labelled 'FBI coastguards', he chose to stash his with human body parts. And you're putting your dick on top of it. I'm not sure he'll get the message.”

“I'm the only one who can see him. My empathic disorder is a drag, but thanks to it I can understand people like him. He knows it. I may be his one chance of being understood. I can give him what nobody else can.”

“I'm not going against that. I'm just asking, why is sex in the deal?”

Will twitched. “It's a very personal connection. Unique. It would strengthen our bond.”

“Maybe he ate the last person he had sex with. Ever thought of that?”

Will smirked. “I just told you he's not able to truly connect to anyone. He doesn't even see the point of sex, even on a physical level. He can't reach out or, more accurately, others can't reach back.”

“Are you going somewhere with this?”

“He never slept with anyone.”

Abigail seemed surprised. Then she pouted. “So? What does that change?”

“I can give him the one thing no-one else can.”

“Your penis” Abbe mocked, rising an eyebrow.

“A connection.”

She shook her head. “I'm furious against him, but I don't think manipulation is the way to go. We want to trust him, which means he has to be able to trust us, too. You're talking of messing with his mind and using him. He deserves it, but it would be counter-productive.”

Will tightened his lips. “Alright, maybe it's not just that. Maybe it's just...”

“What?”

“I want to.”

Abigail looked away. “It's not a good idea, Will. Not now, probably not ever.”

“I don't care.”

“And don't you think that strange? That he would change his mind about being with you?”

“He's always wanted to be.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“He didn't say a thing.”

Abbe rolled her eyes. “Ah, yeah. The empathy thing. Ever thought you could be wrong?”

“I'm not about this. He truly cares. And he changed his mind because he thinks I see him now.”

“So, he wants you because you know he's a killer?”

Will twitched, queazy. “Yes.”

“Don't you think that a little insane?”

“Yes.”

She lifted her hands, palms up. “And you're still going through with it?”

Will looked at her straight in the eyes. “I am.”

*

Dinner was tense.

“Don't sleep with my brother” Abigail told Hannibal, without looking at him.

Very tense.

He rose his eyes towards her with curiosity.

“You're only doing it because he's a fucking hormonal teenager, and you want to manipulate him into liking you again.”

Will twitched and frowned, looking at his plate. “That's not how it is, Abbe.”

“She is right” Hannibal corrected. “Although I do love you, I had taken this into account.” He took a mouthful of pasta and added: “Just as you think you can manipulate my emotions by agreeing to it.”

Abigail looked at them both. “So we can all agree this is very stupid?” she said.

“I have hoped William would take an interest in me for years” Hannibal replied. “I will not be the one to back up from this opportunity.” He continued to eat his meal calmly, pausing from time to time to help Mischa with her own dish.

He didn't seem particularly fazed, however Will could feel desire stir in himself at the renewed thought of their union. Hannibal's hands, gently lifting a fork to feed Mischa. The light on his blond hair. Moist shining on his lower lip.

“You're just horny” Abigail retorted, visibly bitter.

“Perhaps” Hannibal replied, uncaring about adjectives.

Something caught Will's attention then, because Hannibal wasn't horny at all. He wanted Will, but his interest laid with the boy's mind rather than with his body.

Why was he asking to get laid?

Will took a bite, then closed his eyes, munching distractedly. I am Hannibal, very intellectual, quite old-fashioned, not very interested in sex. I want Will to like me again. I know I can do that through sleeping with him, because he wants me. I'd rather have dinner at a nice place, maybe go to the opera. I'd love to date for a long, peaceful time before intimacy occurs –but I know that's not what he wants. That's not how I'll get to him. I'm not trying to start a relationship; I don't believe he wants that anyway –he's in for sex. He's young.

He'll get to like me eventually, if I manage to seduce him. He doesn't trust my mind, so I'll surrender my body. He'll take it, and I'll coax him into loving me. I'll find a way.

Will swallowed his bite, and looked at Hannibal.

He hated to admit it, but Abigail was right. Sleeping with the boy was a bad idea.

Hannibal met his eyes, brown and calm and quiet. Then he looked away. He'd probably read what Will was thinking right now.

“Do you even love him?” Abigail asked again, accusingly. “Or is that also a lie?”

It is a lie , Will thought. He loves me. He desires me. And I want... sex. I want to fuck him like there's no tomorrow.

Will frowned. So, that's what Hannibal thought of him. That he merely wanted a shag. That he was lonely enough to turn towards his sort-of brother because of mere convenience. Delusional enough to believe this was love.

It felt quite insulting.

Worse, it defeated his purpose. Hannibal had to know Will loved him, not think he was using him.

Will wolfed down his plate and went to wash it in the sink.

“This is not over!” Abigail told him. “Don't think you can run away from your own stupidity, because I'll be plaguing you with it everyday if you go through this.”

“No, you're right” he replied, turning towards her. “You're right, I shouldn't. I'm not going to.”

Hannibal observed him to estimate the truth of this answer.

“Really?” Abigail doubted. “You're not just saying that?”

“I'm not. I... that would be unwise.”

Hannibal looked back at his dish, and took another forkful of pasta. Vexed, but certain he could turn the tide around. Will smiled bitterly.

*

Abigail was still suspicious of Will, so when he told her after dinner he was to close the locks on Hannibal's blinds and door, she warned him she would go fetch him herself if he wasn't back in ten minutes.

Hannibal was in his bathrobe and worn up pyjamas. He didn't even look at Will when the boy entered his bedroom, but he started to disrobe precisely when Will was done with the second blind –so he would turn right when the cloth was starting to slid down his body with grace.

“I suppose I shouldn't ask why you changed your mind” Hannibal said, folding his bathrobe carefully without looking at Will –probably so the young man would be able to observe him at his leisure. It was difficult not to, especially since Hannibal had outgrown this particular pyjamas, which was slightly too tight for him.

“Then don't” Will answered, inhaling deeply and walking past the bed to the door.

“Will you do that often?” Hannibal asked. “Brush me off shortly after saying you want me?”

Will knew he shouldn't answer. “I want you” he said anyway. “That hasn't changed. But Abbe is right; I can't sleep with you.”

Hannibal turned his head minutely towards Will, still looking at the floor. “So this is it” he said. “You will say everyday that you love me, and everyday turn me off before any proof of it can be shown. That is how you'll punish me.”

“I don't want you to think I'm sleeping with you because I can, because you have no other choice, or because that's the only way you think I'll get to love you. I don't want it to be a tool of manipulation between us. I'll wait until you are ready to believe that I do love you.”

“I believe you do.”

“You think I'm a horny teenager, eager to jump whatever is thrown at me.”

“I don't.”

“You think I'm in lust with you, not in love.”

Hannibal didn't answer, but rose his eyes higher up, to look at Will's face.

“I'm not” Will said. “I love you. I don't like what you've done, and I'm trying to deal with that, find out a way to live with myself while being in love with a murderer.” He swallowed. “And I still want to have sex with you; I really, really do. But I don't want it to feel like prostitution, you trying to win me back through it. You don't have to win me back. You have to stop murdering people and wait for me to forgive what you did. Even though you don't want to.”

Will didn't have to look at Hannibal to know he'd hit home. He wouldn't have needed to hear his sharp intake of breath either.

Hannibal took a few hesitant steps towards him, then gently went to kneel before him, wrapping his arms around the boy's waist and pressing his head against the other's ribs.

“Nobody can see me like you do” he whispered. “No-one.”

Will stroked his hair hesitantly.

“I never hoped you would love me” Hannibal added in a low voice. “I only wanted you to see.”

The other boy slid his fingers through the ashen hair soothingly.

“Though as much as you try, you won't” Hannibal said. “You say that you love me, though you can't, not without knowing me, and you don't. You see murders where I see life.” He lifted his face to look at Will's. “I know you could understand me, and it keeps me going. My mind is fixating on yours like a moth on a lamp.” He hid his face in Will's belly. “I am obsessed with you, Will Graham.”

He tightened his grip around Will's waist and the boy could feel him, slightly, trembling.

“Don't give me false hopes” Hannibal murmured. “Of course, I manipulate you –my mind can't shut down the thinking, and I am conscious of any subtle meaning of my actions. I see the hidden meaning of what you call communication –I read that web of lies, and that makes me a manipulator. I suppose that makes you fools, or innocents. Politicians who do not grasp the meaning nor full consequences of their actions, of their words. I see every dirty turn that I take, when you take them without seeing. I doesn't mean I can't get hurt.”

He turned his head aside, against Will's belly. “I do. It hurts when you reject me.”

Will pressed a hand against his own mouth, to quiet the shaking of his breath. Hannibal clearly knew what his words, his pain, would do to him –but Will wasn't sure he actually willed to use them against him. He was conscious of the consequences of his speech on Will, but his aim was still unclear. For a moment, Will thought there might not be one, but it made Hannibal's words hurt so much more that he had to shut this idea away.

“Are you ever alone, Will?” Hannibal asked quietly. “Your mind rustles in foreign thoughts. You feel the emotions of every life around you. You are a mirror to others, and as such, they welcome you. Their own reflection pleases vain eyes.”

Will stroked the other's cheek, gently. “Isn't it what you want?”

Hannibal leant into the touch. “I wish you would catch my reflection and keep it with you like a small painting. The word is a museum of portraits, each of them unique and precious; you can reproduce them all with the skill of a master painter.”

He turned his head further on the side, probably so Will wouldn't be able to read his features. “People compliment the frame my portrait sits in. They admire its polish and complexity, but they don't look at the painting. It is too strange, too new, too scary. Like an abstract picture in a gallery de la Renaissance. But you could make sense of it.”

“You love me because I am the only one who can see you” Will summed up, a tad bitter at being desired for his utility and not his own self.

He felt Hannibal silence a thought, the truth about his love for him. “Yes” he lied. Then he added, quietly: “At times, I feel lonely.”

That, at least, was true.

A knock on the door.

“It shouldn't take that long to close a pair of locks” Abigail said while entering the room. “Hannibal, for gods' sake, tell me you're not begging.”

“He isn't” Will said as the other stood up.

Abigail was about to scold them (probably) when Hannibal spoke.

“I will negotiate for a room at my university” he said. “There is one in the morgue that I will probably be allowed to as I am still recovering from an injury, provided that I go back to work. If you are worried about me wandering around, you would just have to come lock me in at night. No need for locks on the windows, it is in the basement.”

Abigail looked startled, and Will's eyes widened at the sudden announcement.

“I will be back on week-ends” Hannibal added. “And call every night to read Mischa her bedtime story.” Before either of them could retort, he stated: “You have no say in this.”

Chapter Text

It felt strange to Will to go to Hannibal's University instead of home after school, especially as he did so only to lock him up.

Hannibal was working on a cadaver when he entered the morgue; observing, scrutinising a dissected head he had been asked to draw. He didn't act as if he'd heard Will come in, focused as he was, but Will knew his sense of smell was sharp enough for it.

“Good evening” he greeted.

Hannibal turned around and nodded.

Wary, Will approached. There were scalpels on the dissection table.

“That drawing is very precise” he noticed. “No wonder Dr Duras wanted you to illustrate her encyclopedia.”

“I suggest you start by locking the fire exit” Hannibal stated. “There are two other doors here: the closet one, and my room's.”

Will's jaw tightened. He walked around and found the doors; he felt guilty closing the fire exit.

Hannibal's “room” was but a large closet with a narrow bed, or rather, an old disused mattress the boy had dressed in clean sheets. He'd arranged the junk around to make it more... less disgusting.

Will turned on his heels and went straight to Hannibal.

“I don't want you to live in this hole.”

“I won't come home, William.”

“Then take a hotel room.”

Hannibal didn't even bother to look irritated.

“We don't have this kind of money.”

“I'll take a job. I've already sent some applications. You can't just live here, it's... it's beneath you.”

Hannibal looked at him.

“Seeing you hurts” he exposed calmly. “I can stand the pain, but I don't like it. It is worse now that you know about it. I would rather you went.”

“This is but a fucking power play!” Will snapped. “You think I'll cave if you make me miss you enough. You want me to overlook what you did.”

“Are you here to give in?” Hannibal answered.

“No way.”

“Then you should lock me up and go.” He resumed his drawing.

“You're... infuriating.”

Will got his cellphone out and dialled Abigail's. “Hello”?

“Will? What's wrong?”

“I'm going to stay with Hannibal for the night.”

“What? Fuck, I know I should have gone instead. You come back this instant, you horny moron!”

“It's not for sex” he said.

“Just wait until I get my driving license.”

“It'll be fine, Abbe” Will replied. “I just don't want him to be alone.”

“You have missed the point of my moving out entirely” Hannibal remarked.

“I'll call you tomorrow” Will told his sister before hanging up.

“I told you I'd rather you went” Hannibal said.

“Shut up and go take a shower. You stink.”

Ignoring the other's visible annoyance, Will went to Hannibal's room and sighed at its messiness. He heard pipes whine in the walls. Moments later, water was running.

Will did his best to make the place bearable –but he couldn't manage much better than the other had.

A rustle behind him; he turned around and there was Hannibal, naked but for a white towel loosely wrapped around his hips, dripping water and hair falling in his questioning eyes.

A glimmer of gold on his wrist: he was wearing Mischa's wristband.

He didn't say a word, waiting for Will to react.

Will took the towel off to start drying him up properly, gently massaging his scalp in the process.

The other's eyes closed.

“Sex isn't love” Will told him gently. “I know most people feel that way, but it's not. It's true that I want you, but not like that. Not while you think it's just about lust.”

“Isn't it?” Hannibal replied, his eyes still closed, trusting Will with anything.

Will proceeded to dry the rest of him with the towel. He wanted to kiss every spot it touched.

“I'd like you to lie face down on the bed now” he asked.

Hannibal didn't question him, nor the fact that Will came to sit on his upper tights then.

“Are you comfortable?”

Hannibal thought about telling the truth. Stating of Will's presence crushed his heart like a snail's shield under a heel.

“I am” he said.

Will put his palms on Hannibal's shoulders and started massaging him.

“Why do you think I merely want to fuck you?” he asked.

“Don't you?”

“Stop answering questions with questions.”

Hannibal pondered.

Those hands felt good on him.

“I knew you'd stop feeling anything for me the day you would discover who I really am.”

“If that were true, you would be in prison now, love.”

Hannibal cringed.

“I know it is but a matter of time. When you'll both understand I am not going to change.” He would take Mischa and leave then.

Will sighed.

“Do you feel like killing someone right now?” he asked.

“No.”

“When do you?”

“Sometimes. When I have time and opportunity, I go to some rude person I met once and turn them into something beautiful.”

Will swallowed, forcing himself not to contradict him.

“In what are they beautiful?”

Hannibal thought about his answer.

“I can feel life” he said. “I put my fingers on their beating heart, fragile like a scared bird. I can touch their organs, playing like music; they are alive, moving, whispering in blood and bubbles, contracting like snakes. Don't you think it's a wonder life came to be at all? At random. And now it's everywhere on Earth, and I feel like I will never have enough time to experience it all. When they die, it's like hearing someone smashing all the keys of a piano; they cry with hunger because they want to live, they want more, they fight like never before. They are beautiful.”

Will didn't move, saddened.

“Why humans?” he asked. “You could kill animals for that.”

Hannibal moved his head against the mattress pensively.

“I won't hurt those you don't deserve it” he said. “The word is a better place with them in it.”

Will let Hannibal fall asleep after that.

Then he called Abigail, who was still awake due to nervousness.

“He's not going to stop” he said. “Ever.”

He bit his lower lip.

“I'll be twenty one soon.”

*

Nearby on the bed, faking sleep peacefully, Hannibal pouted. He waited for Will to get in bed, squeezed in-between him and the wall, and for him to fall asleep, an arm protectively wrapped around Hannibal's waist. When the young man's breath evened, Hannibal silently got up and went out the room.

He came back moments later with a wet hand-towel, that he gently pressed against Will's nose until his body went entirely limp. He then tentatively snapped his fingers next to Will's ear.

As the young man did not react, he leaned in and gently kissed his brow.

Back in the morgue, Hannibal swiftly went to a corpse drawer that he smoothly pulled opened, revealing the terrified plumber he'd tied up and gagged earlier on.

He made sure his tools were ready before lifting the heavy man on his working table, and fastening him up there.

He procured himself coolers full of ice and opened the acid tank before starting.

The acid tank had been his idea, officially to reduce costs when it came to disposing of useless dead matter. His mentor had loved the concept and installed it herself.

He didn't take the time to draw interesting parts of what he was unveiling, as he usually did. He couldn't help skinning partly the live arm to observe the muscles and tendrils slid underneath though. The mechanics fascinated him.

He picked up the liver and spleen as well as most of the man's fat, carefully packed them up in ice, then put the coolers away, looking at his watch.

He had time to examine fully how a beating heart reacted to different types and intensities of stimuli before a light hand knocked on the long, thin opening that couldn't really be called a window up in the outside wall. He responded in kind, then opened the goods elevator trap on the same wall and placed both coolers in it.

The lift wasn't used much, now that a large door had been installed for the bodies to be brought in; but Hannibal maintained it carefully oiled anyhow.

The elevator came back, two empty coolers standing in, with a paper note that indicated the precise amount of money that would be deposited in Hannibal's off-shore account once the merchandise had been examined.

A much needed amount, part of which Hannibal would immediately send to Will under his father's name. He spared the rest for Mischa's scholarship.

Chopping up the plumber got boring soon after he passed. Hannibal preferred to watch his limbs melt in acid, fascinated at how their insides were revealed as their dissolved.

He wasn't very concentrated though; he was thinking about home.

About how to solve his situation.

*

“Will! Come here, boy. There. This is Hannibal, and here's Mischa, Emilija's son and daughter. Where's your sister? I asked you both to come out. Abigail!”

The first thing Hannibal noticed in Will was dark, curly hair.

The first thing Will noticed in Hannibal was how sick he looked; then the baby he was carrying against him in a large scarf across his chest.

“I'm Will. Hey.”

“Hannibal Lecter. Glad to make your acquaintance.”

Will twitched, avoiding the other's eyes, and shyly chuckled. “No need to act so posh, the Queen's not home yet.” Hannibal smiled.

He remembers taking care of Mischa, never letting go of her as she was half-sleeping weakly against his chest.

Will had found his dad very annoying then, as well as how much Mrs Lecter didn't care about her kids; Hannibal coughed a lot, trying his best not to do so on the baby he was holding, protecting her with the scarf he carried her in.

Abigail hadn't come home yet, to Mr Graham's surprise (he always forgot about her therapy sessions). After dinner, the children were sent to their room.

Hannibal sat up tiredly on Will's bed.

“You should get some sleep” Will muttered, avoiding the other's eyes, queazy and twitching.

“Thank you for the offer, but I cannot leave my sister's side.”

“If you're sick, she might catch it” Will grumbled, looking away awkwardly, fidgeting with his fingers.

Hannibal considered him with tired interest. “I might lay on a bed while she sleeps in the other” he eventually offered. “But you would have to keep an eye on her so she doesn't fall.”

“I can take care of her” Will mumbled quite shyly, daring to look up at the other's hands.

A door opening and voices raising.

“Abbe's home” Will said, almost flying to the room's door. “I'll, err... give you time to get under the sheets. It's fine, they're clean” he added as he'd noticed the other's wariness.

“I was thinking about how you could 'catch it'” Hannibal answered.

“It's the flue?”

“I believe so.”

“Then it's fine, I just had it, and Abbe with me. Hi, Abbe!”

The newcomer looked around and noticed the unknown boy cuddling an infant. She took a step towards her half-brother, both to reassure herself and let him half hide behind her.

“Hello” she greeted quietly, scrutinising the stranger in a cold, suspicious manner.

“My name is Hannibal Lecter. Nice to meet you.” He rose from the bed to shake her hand; she let him.

“I told him he could rest in my bed” Will explained to his sister. “He's sick.”

Abigail thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, okay. Where are we going to put the baby?”

“Maybe in your bed?” Will asked, and she glared.

“It shouldn't stay in a room where a sick person is” she told him. “We'll put it in the bathtub, in a warm cover. It's clean and she won't be able to fall anywhere this way.”

“I am not certain...” Hannibal started, hugging his little sister closer to him in a protective way. He turned his head away from her to cough.

“I said I'd watch her” Will stuttered, his eyes evading and nervous. I'll take a book and read next to the bathtub or something.”

“What if she needs to be fed? Or changed?” the ill boy replied. He hold the baby carefully, yet tenderly, and sometimes leaned in as if he were about to kiss her but thought better about it.

“I've done some babysitting” Abigail lied. “Where is her stuff?”

The ash-blond haired boy pointed out at the large blue backpack he'd taken inside with him.

Both Will and Abigail went to open it.

“That's what you give her?” Abigail said as she found a pack of powdered milk neither her nor Will knew how to use. There was a notice printed on the back though.

Hannibal nodded quietly. His eyes seemed to be about to close by themselves; he hold the baby tighter. “Wake me” he stated as he was almost automatically lying down, his arms curled around the infant pressed against his belly. “Wake me if you need anything.”

Instants later he was breathing heavily, not quite asleep yet but too exhausted to fight it.

Abigail came to pick up the baby. “It's fine, we'll take care of, hum...”

“Mischa” Hannibal whispered, his frown creasing in pain.

“I'll get you some painkillers” Will mumbled. He dashed out of the room, avoided the chatting adults and came back with a large glass of water and pain medicine that Hannibal gulped down eagerly.

He then seized Will's hand with quite some strength. “Where's Mischa?” he asked.

“Well, err, hum... Ab... Abigail took her, she's t-taking care of her” Will replied, queazy, very aware of his hand being held.

“Tell her I'll come to her as soon as I can. Will you? William?”

Will nodded, his throat tight, too nervous to correct the boy and tell him that his name was actually just “Will”. “I... I'll go tell her” he answered queasily.

“Thank you.”

“I think the baby's sick” Abigail told Will as they were arranging Mischa in the bathtub.

Will put his palm on the infant's head. “She's really hot” he said.

“What do you think we should do?” Abigail asked, looked at the door, behind which the adults were still chatting quietly. “Should we tell them?”

“Well, yeah” Will said. “It's a baby. It could totally die.”

Abigail nodded and went out to her step-father. “I think the baby's ill” she said.

“My daughter's fine, honey” Mrs Lecter answered. “I checked on her before leaving home. She's just a little tired.”

“Maybe you should check on her again” Abigail remarked.

“Abbe, dear, Emilija knows how to care for a baby. She already has Hannibal, remember?” Mr Graham said.

“But she's really hot!” Abigail insisted.

Mrs Lecter pouted, then looked around. “Where is my son?”

“He's sleeping” Will answered quietly from the door, a hand gripping the corner of the wall.

“At this time of the day? Well, I guess the poor darling must be very tired” she said. She got up and went to the room where her son was napping. “Where is Misha?”

“In the empty bathtub” Abigail replied as determinately as she could. “We thought she should be kept away from the bacterias and such.”

“In the bathtub? Oh, silly children” Mrs Lecter mused, going to check on her kid. “Well, she's a little tired, but nothing to get worried about. I'll check on her temperature when we're home. In the meantime, you should let her sleep.”

“But she's sick” Will murmured behind her, fidgeting nervously with his fingers.

Mrs Lecter ruffled his head in passing, which made him twitch. “Don't worry darling, she'll be fine as long as you let her be.”

“And don't take a bath while she's in there!” Mr Graham joked from the other side of the room.

“But she's not fine” Will muttered as Abigail was joining him again in the bathroom. “She's trouble breathing. I'm not sure a baby can cough.”

“I bet they can cough, but blowing their nose is another matter” Abigail said. “Should we call a doctor?”

Will shook his head. “So the... social workers gets involved? Do we want that to happen?”

She cringed. “We could pretend we're doing that on their behalf.”

“Yeah, but they'll notice when it gets time to paid.”

“Alright, so...”

“I'm taking her to the hospital” Will decided.

“What?”

“It's not that far; I'll take the next bus and stop at Ste Katherine's; it's on the way.”

“It's a twenty minute ride with a newborn.”

“A baby.”

“She looks like a pea.”

Will frowned. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“I should go. You're not that good at dealing with people.”

Will twitched. “Yeah, but you're too young. People will ask questions. I could be the big brother with sick, unavailable parents.”

“Who can't mutter 'hello'.”

“Be on board, alright? I need you to cover for me. Tell the adults I'm playing out, that Alibab is napping and that the baby is still doing nothing.”

“Hannibal.”

“What?”

“I think his name's Hannibal.”

“Whatever; it's equally ridiculous anyway.”

Abigail sighed. “Alright. I'll go find your dad's credit card and cellphone. You find a smaller bag than that blue disaster to put your things in.”

“Done.”

Hannibal was freezing. He woke up to an unfamiliar room and sat up immediately when he noticed the absence of Mischa. He looked around, his head spinning; a gentle hand shook him lightly by the arm.

“Where's my sister?” he asked. In the dark, he started to recognise the shape of the young Abigail.

“She's fine” she replied. “You should sleep some more.”

He nodded. “I know. But I should check on her. I'm afraid she'll get ill as I have spent too much time with her lately.”

“Checking on her isn't exactly reasonable then, right?”

Hannibal looked at her suspiciously. “Why are you trying to keep me away from her?”

“I'm not–”

“If you have had trouble putting on her diaper, I will not get mad. But get to the point.”

The young girl's blue eyes widened. Then she shook her head. “Alright, fine. Do you have a mobile phone?”

He frowned.

“Just... Well. We told the parents she was sick, so she's at the hospital now, getting her health checked. We could contact them on your phone to see how it's going.”

The boy looked at her with very cold eyes. Then he slowly got up to his folded jacket and got a phone out of it. “Number?”

Abigail cringed, then told him Mr Graham's number.

The boy seemed furious, yet he answered the phone very quietly. “Will. I told you to take care of my younger sibling, not to abduct her.”

Abigail could imagine her half brother stuttering at the other end of the phone, so she stole the device from Hannibal's hand and quickly turned on the speakerphone. “How are you doing?” she asked. “Have you seen a doctor yet?”

“F... ine” Will replied quietly, still anxious about Hannibal's sentence. “Why did you tell him?”

“I didn't, he guessed, I... guess” she answered. “The doctor, Will?”

“There's a paediatrician, she's getting me some drugs right now” he answered, more confident now that his sister was on the phone. “She's really sick, we'll have to come back next week to check on her health. And, erm. The doctor is paying me a taxi home.”

“What did you say to her?” both Hannibal and Abigail asked at the same time, probably anxious about the same thing.

“N... nothing” Will stuttered, startled at hearing Hannibal's voice too. “I suppose she guessed I... err. We had a... complicated situation at hand. She didn't ask questions, but she said I can come to her if I need. Well, that and the social services.”

“Will!”

“I swear I said nothing!”

“This is not the most pressing issue” Hannibal issued. “How is my sister?”

“A... asleep” Will twitched. “I f... fed her while I was waiting, and she's been sleeping since then.”

“Have you made sure her trachea is not encumbered by the remains of her meal?”

Abigail looked at that weird guy with odd eyes. Will' silence indicated he was doing the same.

“She burped all over me, if that's what you mean” he answered eventually.

Abigail saw the sort of blond dude crack a slight smile. “When will you be home?” he asked in a surprisingly gentle voice.

“I'd say ten to twenty minutes, depending on the traffic” Will replied. “Hey, here's the doctor, I'll–”

“Do not hang up” Hannibal demanded. “I would like to talk to her.”

Will twitched, then timidly held the phone out in the doctor's direction. “My... erm, Mischa's brother, he would like a word with you. Please.”

She didn't look surprised. “Hannibal, hi! Why haven't you come to me earlier? Mischa's really out of shape.”

Will bit his lower lip and gently cradled the baby he was holding close.

“I am afraid I am quite out of sorts myself” Hannibal answered tiredly over the phone. “I ought to have brought her sooner.”

“Are you sick? Do you need and appointment?”

“I shall answer positively to both of those questions. Alas, I cannot free myself long enough to come to you. My teachers will not tolerate further leaves of absence, and I do not trust anyone to care for Mischa while I am gone.”

“Come with her then. I'll check on you both.”

Hannibal sighed. “I am most grateful to you, Doctor Li. Please rest assured I will pay for that taxi ride back to William's home.”

*

“She burped all over me, if that's what you mean...”

Lying in his tiny bed next to Will in the morgue, Hannibal reflected on his family's past. On how Abigail was braver, bolder, less sensitive than Will, but how Will was more empathetic, brave at his own time, and sensible.

“She shouldn't stay in a room where a sick person is.”

He reminded himself that they'd saved Mischa's life, and couldn't be left behind then. If anything happened to Hannibal, they would take care of his sister properly.

The challenge was to persuade them both to live with a serial killer... and he already had an idea about how to achieve that.

Chapter Text

No-one was home, which was odd, Will thought when he woke up a week-end afterwards. At this time, Abigail was usually making breakfast for Mischa; maybe she'd decided to hang out with some friends, and taken the little girl with her. And Hannibal... well. He was supposed to come back in the morning, but had called to tell he would study at the library first. Will had not bothered locking him in at all during the week. The boy may as well enjoy his freedom while he could.

Will tried calling his sister on her cell phone, but it rang in her room. She was probably close by then.

He worried again at dinner time when nobody showed up, and decided to go out to look for his sisters. He searched around the house, then on their property, and finally went home to put on a jacket and hide a knife in his pocket before going to the woods.

He rang Hannibal's phone, who didn't answer. Will started to panic.

He ran into the forest, looking through the bushes, thinking about all the places he knew Hannibal could use for a murder. After a useless first attempt, he forced himself to calm down by breathing deeply. Then he imagined himself as Hannibal, looking for a way to dispose of a body.

Or two.

He went for the wild boars' den, as they called it, where a hoard of wild pigs used to roam around, eating everything they could find. The little family used to go there and throw the boars inedible food remains, pretending they where at the zoo. Once, Abigail had even drawn made up zoo tickets and given one to Mischa so the little girl would be able to say she'd been to see the animals, like her wealthier friends had on the previous day.

Will ran to the den.

At some point, he started hearing cries. Human pleading.

He almost froze on the spot.

He'd see him, he'd see Hannibal kill his sister if he kept going.

Or he'd see his sister get killed.

He couldn't bear either.

He thought for a second about going back home, waiting for Hannibal to come back, and pretend nothing had ever happened. Pretend that he'd never had a sister. Anything but this.

A crying man suddenly dashed passed him, limping, in tears, blood running down the side of his face and arm.

Will knew him; it was that jerk who'd mocked Abigail's freckles once, telling her they were the blood splatters left by her father's knife; Larry.

Will realised instantly he would have to let Larry die. He knew them. He'd turn them in. There was no way out.

Hannibal suddenly jumped over a bush near Will, slender and graceful like a running doe, wearing Abigail's fishing gear, his gaze steady and focused on his prey.

He was paler than he used to; smaller, too; it wasn't Hannibal.

It was Will's sister.

Abigail ran after Larry without effort, slowed down a little as she was about to catch him so he could escape; on the opposite side of the woods, Will saw another hunter drive the boy on Abigail's left, towards a harsh ditch hard to see amongst the bushes.

Blinded by tears, his breath made difficult by running mucus and panic, Larry ran towards the gap; he saw it at the last moment and took a sharp turn on his left, probably betting on Abigail being the lesser of two evils.

She let him pass by her again, and actually ran ahead of him, disappearing in the woods. On the opposite side Hannibal, who was wearing Mischa in a baby carrier on his belly like a pregnant woman, slowed down but stayed in sight. He wrapped his arms around the budge Mischa made against him and started whispering gently to her.

Will could see her put her thumb in her mouth from afar. It was surreal.

Larry fell on the leaves, short breathed, sobbing erratically. “You fucking bitch, you fucking bitch” he kept muttering in-between sobs. He'd been cut on the arm, and twice on the leg.

He looked around and picked up a stone, then stood up, looking in the general direction Abigail had disappeared in. Behind him, Hannibal was quietly singing Mischa a lullaby.

Will's hands curled into fists, and he took a few steps in the open, towards Larry.

The boy dropped the stone he'd picked up, visibly stricken. “Oh no, oh no, oh no no no” he kept muttering. “Oh no no no oh please!...”

“I'm not going to harm you” Will said, trying to sound convincing. “I'd just like to know what's going on.”

Larry let out a small broken sob.

“Get the fuck out of the way, Will” Abigail said as she suddenly dashed passed him, grabbed the surprised boy by the shoulder and slashed his throat in a wide spray of blood.

Drops sprinkled Will's face.

Larry felt on the floor, gasping for air, twisting like a fish out of water.

“Stay out of this” Abigail told Will, quiet and strong and confident. “Go back to knowing nothing if it's easier.”

Hannibal was tranquilly joining them. He looked at the dying man with interest, gently stroking Mischa's little back. The girl was sucking on her thumb.

“You've let Mischa see this” Will said, because it was the only coherent thought he could utter at the moment. “She's a child.”

“She knows I love her” Hannibal said. “She knows I'll protect her and care for her no matter what happens. She's not scared.”

Mischa saw Will look at her and smiled mischievously, like any average child would in an average context. “Papa's taken us 'unting pigs, Dilly-Dad” she told Will.

Will felt like the world was collapsing around him.

“I was sad you we'en't 'e'e” she added. “I want to go 'ome.”

“We will, sweetheart” Hannibal told her. “We have to finish here first.”

“I want to go 'ome now” she insisted. He seemed to consider her request.

“Would you take her?” he asked Will. “I'm afraid she's quite tired.”

“I'm not so sure it's a good idea” Abigail told him, looking at Will almost defiantly.

She knew him better than Hannibal. Or, Hannibal was more curious than her to see what would happen.

“I'll take her” Will said, his voice sounding frail and weak even to his own ears.

The little girl seemed to weight a ton, even in the baby carrier. But she was warm and harmless.

Tissue on Will's face; Hannibal was carefully washing away the blood. “There are mashed potatoes in the bottom drawer of the fridge” he reminded him. “Let her eat that while you shower, alright?”

Will registered the words, not really what they meant. He nodded nonetheless and took a few steps to go.

Behind him, Hannibal was smiling gently to Abigail, looking at her with caring love and pride.

She was smiling back.

*

Will came back to himself in the shower. Water running. Cold, now.

In the kitchen, strange how the walls were white, Mischa was playing with the remains of potatoes and cheap slices of ham.

“I don't want to go 'unting again” she told him firmly when he came to sit next to her. “It's sca'y.”

Will gently rubbed her little blond head. “You should tell that to your brother.”

Mischa shook her head vigourously. “It wou'd make him sad” she said.

“That you don't like hunting?”

“That I was sca'ed” she answered, looking at a piece of ham on her fork.

Will nodded tiredly. “You should tell him nonetheless.”

Mischa put the ham in her mouth. “A'e you a'right?” she asked.

“You're too young to be asking about other's well-being” he answered. “Tell me you want more mashed potatoes and chocolate sweets.”

“The'e a'e choco'ate sweets?” she shouted, her eyes wide open.

“No, sorry, no, love; we didn't have enough money to buy them this month. But I'll get you some tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.” She ate a little more, then handed Will her fork so he would feed her. He was too out of things to remind her she wasn't a baby anymore.

When the door opened, both Abigail and Hannibal looked filthy, muddy, and damn well happy. She was smiling wide like the ocean, and he looked satisfied. Content.

He stroke her cheek gently to take off a brown spot there.

Abigail's smile dropped when she noticed Will. “So, have you called the cops on us?” she asked, trying to look fierce but letting out a little worry.

“No” he said, feeding Mischa some potatoes. “Take a shower, you stink.”

“You stink” she answered, but she went to fetch clean clothes nonetheless.

Hannibal came to sit in front of Will.

The boy pointedly ignored him and fed his sister again.

Hannibal tilted his head.

“You've done that to her” Will said.

Hannibal didn't answer.

“You've convinced her to do that so we wouldn't be able to tell on you.”

“It was her idea” the other answered as the shower started running. (“Damn, there's no hot water left! Fuck you Will!”)

“I don't care whose idea you say it was. I know I'm right.”

“I can't say you are entirely wrong, but I mainly helped her because I sincerely believed it would do her good” the other answered.

Will felt sick.

“Have you eaten?” Hannibal asked. “You don't look well, Will. You should eat.”

“Mischa got scared” Will said.

Hannibal paled.

“She told me she didn't want to tell you, because it'd make you sad. But she got scared.”

“It's not t'ue!” the little girl lied at once. “I was not sca'red at all.” She frowned her brow and pouted. “Daddy's a 'ia'.”

“I didn't meant to scare you” Hannibal told his sister. He took her on his lap and hugged her carefully. “I'm really sorry Mischa. I thought you would be alright. I will never do that to you again.”

She wriggled her small legs. “You p'omise?” she asked eventually.

“I promise. And you have to tell me the truth when you don't like something. Alright?”

She pouted, then smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “It wasn't fun at all!” she said, curling on herself on his lap like a kitten.

“Seems like you can be wrong about some things” Will snarled, munching on some remaining ham. “Seems like that hurt Mischa. Call yourself a brother after that.”

“I didn't mean to.” It might have been the only time Will ever heard Hannibal be defensive.

“What good does that do her?” he replied. “I tried to warn you about the consequences of your actions, but you didn't care. It only counts when it's her, is that it?”

“Don't be a brat.”

Will snapped. “A brat? Really Hannibal,is that the best you can come with? Oh yes, wait, I only qualify for regular jerk stuff –you go with the upper class, jerky-jerky hunty-killy master dickhead king of the jerk universe stuff! You need to do better than anyone, and you masterfully succeed at that! You turned my sister into a killer, and frightened yours to death in the process. Way to go, asshole!”

“Language, Will” Hannibal reprimanded him with tight lips.

Language.

Language.

Will's blood started boiling. He got up to take Mischa off Hannibal's lap, not too harshly, and put her back on her chair. Then he seized her pondering brother by his hair and pulled him into their room.

“I'd rather you let go of me” Hannibal told him quietly, trying to untangle Will's fingers from his hair.

“Shut up.”

Will closed the door behind them, and put a chair to block anyone from entering.

“I am fed up with your shit, Hannibal” he stated. “That you're a killer is one thing. That you'd drag Abbe down that path is another.”

“She came up with the idea” Hannibal calmly reminded Will.

The slap was a surprise. Somehow an actually good one.

The second one really hurt.

Hannibal grabbed Will by the wrist as he was aiming for a third. “You're right” he said. “I can be wrong sometimes. I was wrong about Mischa. But you should have seen Abigail, how strong she felt, how confident she was. She wasn't scared anymore. She was happy. She was relieved.”

There were clothes on the bed, Will noticed. Pants and shirts and a belt.

“She didn't feel like the victim anymore” Hannibal continued softly. “It's done her good.”

“How does it feel?” Will asked. “To finally have a killing buddy? A fucking murderer who'll follow you around like a pet? Aren't you smug that you managed to manipulate her this way? The way you're trying to manipulate me?”

“I wasn't thinking about it so” Hannibal replied quietly. “But I am glad, yes. It can get lonely.”

Will dove for the belt. It took Hannibal a moment to register the action, and when he did, the worn up leather was already hitting him hard on the back.

At first, he did nothing, curious to see how that would go; however, as the hits grew annoyingly painful, he made a gesture to grab Will's other arm; the boy struck him in the stomach with his knee. Hannibal fell, blinded by pain.

“You think you can have it all?” Will spat, striking him again. “You think you can walk around killing people and twisting them to fit your own, sick game, and never pay the consequences?”

Another blow. Hannibal couldn't count them. It's hard to think once you've been hit.

He registered being pushed against the bed, on his stomach, and something sliding around his neck, squeezing it tight. He struggled, fighting for air, trying to grab the other's hair or scratch his eyes.

Part of him found the situation increasingly interesting. The rest was about to beg the gods for some air.

Will pushed against his wriggling body. It seems like there was nothing left in the world but darkness, anger and this man twisting under him.

“And you took Abbe, and even Mischa, but–”

Will squeezed the belt tighter. He was in control again, and it felt good. Hannibal was like a caught fish now, trying to get free.

He wouldn't get free.

Will would never let him go.

“Will, you'r–” Hannibal's face was red now, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. He hit Will with an elbow in the ribs, but his strikes had no strength left in them.

Finally he went limp, but that was probably just a trick. He was most probably faking having fainted, so Will would release him. So Will didn't. He wouldn't before

Before

B

Will ripped the belt off Hannibal's neck, turned the boy on his back, pulling him all the way on the bed.

God god god god god god god

Blood was still pumping. He had a pulse.

Oh dear gods Hannibal, don't be dead, please, don't be dead I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry I have no idea no idea why

He pinched the other's nose and blew air into his lungs, enough so that he would suddenly come back to his senses, coughing.

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry

What have I done.

Chapter Text

“I'm fine.”

Hannibal's voice was thin and cracked, barely a whisper. He kept coughing for air. 

“How can you say that?” Will whined, wrapping himself around the other and kissing him on the face. “How can you say that after what I just did?”

“You werhh... very hh...angry –khh, kh.”

“I have no excuses.” He took the other's head in his hands and kissed his lips. “Nothing you did can justify what I... What I...”

He broke into a sob. 

“I'm sorry” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“I to...d you it's finhh...” Hannibal's voice couldn't work properly anymore. 

“It's not. It's not.” 

The world had no meaning. 

“At least, you hurt people you don't care about” Will murmured in-between tears, the silence around them only broken by Hannibal's dry coughing. 

Will's eyes couldn't get away from the red mark around the other's neck, which would soon turn a blueish kind of purple. He was stunned, literally; silence buzzed in his ears like a swarm of quiet bees. He didn't think, didn't feel anything; only cold.

“I don't understand” he said. 

Hannibal had managed to sit up. He didn't seem angry. Not even resentful. Will wouldn't have been able to tell what he felt. 

“I don't get it” Will repeated slowly. “I don't want to hurt you. I really don't. But I dream of killing you, and raping you, and hurting you in the worst of ways. And I don't want that. But in the dreams, I do want it, and it's... it's...”

He looked down. “What's wrong with me?” he whispered. “I thought you were a monster, but I'm worse, I'm way, way worse than you, and now I've tried to... I tried to...”

He felt warmth tickle his eyes. 

Then warmth gently stroke his arm, and it was Hannibal's hand, caring. 

How the fuck could he be caring right now. 

“It's...” Hannibal started, but his voice was hoarse and rasped, so he had to cough first, and Will just couldn't bear it –that he'd hurt him so much that Hannibal couldn't even speak properly now. 

That he'd almost killed him. 

“Who ought to hhh... hhhave tak–khh, kh!en kh–care of you?” Hannibal eventually asked, gently, his voice so cracked it was almost unintelligible. 

Will couldn't register the question at first, in shock over his own violence. 

But Hannibal repeated the question, and he eventually answered. “My... my parents” he said, blinking to get tears out of his sight. 

“But thhhhey left” Hannibal said, quietly.

“They're a bunch of fuckheads, and I'm still worse than them” Will stuttered, lowering his eyes. 

“Who is takhh... khing care of you, now?” Hannibal asked, patiently. 

Will looked at him, wiped some tears off his cheeks. “You do” he said, resentfully. 

He didn't deserve it. Hannibal had always looked after him, and this is how he'd repaid him. 

“I'm not in my plhhace” Hannibal stated. 

“What?”

“It shouldn't be me, takhh” –he interrupted himself to cough– “taking khhare of you.”

At first, Will didn't understand what he was saying. 

Then, he saw it.

How Hannibal had been the perfect Parent, while Will's actual ones were gone. How he'd been so good at something Will's own genitors sucked at. 

How he'd bested them. 

“N... no, it's not you, it's not your fault” Will muttered, shocked to realise how much he'd actually resented the boy for not being either of his true parents. “You've done nothing wrong, and I'm...”

“Shhh” Hannibal gently shushed, stroking Will's cheeks in-between careful hands. The boy's blue eyes were lost and panicked like frightened birds. “It's not your fauhhhlt I am the living embod– khh, khh– embodiment of everything you hhhate.”

Will could hear his heart beat faster and faster. 

Parents. And criminals. And Hannibal was watching him with trusting brown eyes, freckled in blood, gently stroking his face, soothing. 

“You're not everything I hate” he denied. “I love you.”

He saw the angry red mark on Hannibal's neck. 

Hannibal leaned in to gently kiss his brown. “My love, it seems that…that itis time for you to realise that you don't.”

Will shook his head. “You're wrong” he said, but his voice wasn't as determined as he'd hoped. “You're wrong, I do, I do love you.”

“I've taken khhcare of you instead of your pahhrents, stealing their rhhole in your life. I hhhave murdered, disrupting your existence with kh khhaos, when you like things to be hhhow they ought to.”

Will felt his lower lip quiver. “But I love you” he said, and as he was saying it, he didn't feel so sure of it anymore. 

Hannibal was stroking his face with both thumbs to comfort him. 

He had a circle of hurt branded in his neck, and he was trying to comfort him. 

“I never saw that I was so ugly” Will whispered in quiet horror. 

“Youhh're not. Youh've have been very hhurt, and are still greatly distressed –kh khh– because of it.”

“Don't–” Will laughed nervously. “Don't try to make me look good. Just don't. Not when I've just strangled you.” 

A constricted sob was weighing heavily on his chest. He realised something else. 

“How long” he asked. “How long have you known, that... that I don't. That I'm just a brat. That I don't.”

He just couldn't say it. 

“Since hhhalways” Hannibal answered. “You've always hhated what I am to you. The kh–caretaker first, now the k–criminal. You've hhalways resented me. I know hhow much you want me hurt.”

Will hid his mouth with a hand. “I don't want you hurt” he said, trying to persuade himself it was true. 

“It's fhhine, William” Hannibal said tranquilly. “You've gone thhhhrough a lot. You will get better. Just give it time.”

Will frowned, his head shaking, incredulous. “How can you care so little about it?” he said. 

“Because it's not youhhr fault” Hannibal answered, his voice controlled in spite of its hoarseness. “You don't mean to. You are simply a hhurt child, trying to grown out of it.”

A hurt child. Will looked at the somber ring around Hannibal's neck, already turning black. 

“You said you love me” he murmured. “How can you?”

“I see past the hhurt” Hannibal answered. “I see youh're beautiful.”

Will felt the burn of tears again. He wrapped his arms around Hannibal into a hug. 

“Don't talk” he said. “You're hurting your throat.”

“I don't mind about hhhurting.”

“You should. You should mind that I've hurt you. You shouldn't have let me. I know you could have stopped it, if you'd wanted. If you'd cared enough about yourself to hurt me.”

“I khhare about myself, Will.”

He smelled good. His skin was soft in all the right places, firm in others. He was just warm enough, but in the spots where he'd been hit, that radiated heat. Will let his hands stroke his back gently. 

He was perfect. He was so fucking perfect. 

It hurt so much. 

“You're right” he said. “I don't love you. I would never had done that if I did.”

“It's f...”

“Don't say it's fine.”

Hannibal pressed his forehead against Will's shoulder. So trusting. 

Will wanted to break his neck. 

He wanted to spread him on the bed and open him up, stroke his beating organs, kiss his heart. He wanted to get him out of his skin so he would be able to touch him without that useless barrier. 

Naked wasn't enough. 

He needed to eat his soul. 

“I'm sorry” Will said. 

“Don't say that” Hannibal replied. “I know you don't mean it.”

Abigail entered the room at that moment, freezing them both into place. The chair Will had tried to block the door with felt almost mocking to him right now. 

“Shower's ready” she told Hannibal. “But you should be warned that thanks to Mr Generosity there, it's freezing c–”

He had never seen her like that, but Will knew exactly when she'd made that face before: after discovering their mum murdered on the floor, right before getting her throat slashed by her dad. 

When he'd told her their mum was dead because of her. 

That expression of both denial and realisation. Shock. 

“It's...ine” Hannibal told her instantly, getting up to wrap her in his arms. 

She was starting to hyperventilate. He hugged her tighter. 

At the same time, he was gesturing to his closet to Will, pointing to his throat to get him to pick up a scarf or a turtleneck. 

A turtleneck; he probably thought a scarf would bring her back bad memories. 

Hannibal let go of Abigail long enough to change into the piece of clothing. She stared at Will in disbelief then. 

“I don't know why I did it” he said. 

A lie. 

Hannibal was taking off his shirt; red stripes carved into his back, on the gorgeous curves of his muscles. Will curled his hands into fists, trying not to think what he was thinking right now. 

Abigail's lips were trembling, in such a hurt rage she couldn't speak yet. 

“I can't... I can't believe you would do that” she eventually stuttered, livid. 

Will felt his head buzz in fury. “You just killed a man!” he shouted, jumping on his feet. “And not even a stranger, someone we know, someone the police might link to us! You just put every one here at danger and... and... you killed somebody Abbe!”

She was clenching her teeth. “So?” she blurted, still trembling in anger, yet a little disturbed by that truth. “So what? You come to me, Will! You talk to me about it, you don't go strang... You don't go doing that to him for something I've done!”

“Why the fuck would you do that in the first place?” he screamed, lost in anger. “Why the fuck would you kill someone? What's wrong with you?”

He felt dizzy, and fall back on the bed. “What's wrong with us all?...” he muttered, his anger turning cold and pained. 

Thin rivers of tears were sliding against Abigail's cheeks. “You... you have no idea” she whispered, quivering in pain. “You have no idea how it felt to be... what it felt when he... when that man...”

“When your dad killed mum?” Will answered brutally, tears falling down his eyes too. “Is that your excuse?”

She glared at him. “It's not an excuse” she answered coldly, restraining the quiver in her voice. “It's a reason.”

“A reason to kill” he mocked bitterly. “Ah ah, that's a good one.”

“You have nightmares” she said. 

He looked at her in wary interest. 

“I dream of that day even when I'm awake” she said. “I see him, constantly, at the corner of my eyes. I feel him, his presence, and his... and the cold of the knife.”

She took a hand to her neck, then looked at him, cold and more collected. “When I killed Mr Budge, I didn't feel so scared.”

“There are other ways to regain control over yourself” Will snorted. 

“Like what? Like what, Will? Give me a for instance. I dare you.”

He bit his lower lip. “You have a therapist.” 

“I don't want to be scared anymore” she said. “I don't want to cry like a baby each time I think about him. I want to feel better. And killing Budge, and Larry, it made me feel better. It made me feel in control, safe. I really want to feel safe, Will.”

He winced in pain over her words. “You should have told me” he said. 

“You can't relate to that kind of abuse.”

“What, and Hannibal can?” Will growled, furious at her hypocrisy.

Abigail hesitated, then glanced at Hannibal, who was listening silently to their fight, a hand slightly massaging his throat. He looked at her, but didn't answer. 

“He doesn't exactly... not know his dad” Abigail eventually said, lowering her eyes. “Actually, the man was around for most of his childhood.”

Will frowned, and glanced at Hannibal. Seeing the hand on his hurt throat made his heart twitch in pain. 

“Anyway, he can relate” Abbe continued. “And I can't tell you everything. You have your own issues.”

“You decided to kill people. You should have come to me first.”

“I decided to go to Hannibal instead. I knew you wouldn't understand.”

“Of course I wouldn't! You want to cure yourself by murdering dudes !”

Abigail cringed. “Look who's talking.”

Will startled, then sat back on the bed, his hands hugging himself tight, head down to hold back tears. “I don't know why I did it” he muttered, shocked at the renewed realisation of his act. “I'm not sure it's because of what you did” he added. 

He felt suddenly very cold. 

“Maybe we're all going crazy” he whispered. 

Abigail swallowed. “I am not” she answered. “I'm not saying I'm... I'm not saying I'm happy I've killed someone, but I do feel better. If I could feel this way without killing, I would. But I don't know any other way, and I can't live in pain anymore. I won't.”

Will shook his head. “You can't, Abbe, you...”

“Actually, I think the issue here is you.”

He stilled. 

“You've hurt one of us” Abigail said. “You've nearly str... killed our brother. I mean, yeah, it's horrible to murder strangers, but your own brother?”

Will started to feel something strange in his gut, like blades of ice growing inside him. He needed to puke. 

Abigail went to sit next to him. “You can't stay here anymore” she murmured in a bland voice.

Her brother lowered his head, hugging himself tighter, trying to fight off the cold. He whispered: “I know.”

“I mean, you can't stay–”

“I know.”

The turtleneck sliding on Hannibal's body, hiding Will's marks, fitting the boy too tight because he had slightly outgrown it.  

Will wanted to touch him, gently push him back to the wall and press himself against him, feeling every part of him, sharing warmth. 

“We dohhhhn't tell Mischha” Hannibal ordered, unaware of the decision they'd just taken. 

“She's the smartest kid of the Chesapeake bay” Abigail remarked in a tired voice; “she's going to figure it out.”

“Let's tehhhll hhhher I khhh–kh–khhhaught a khh–khold” Hannibal insisted. Visibly, staying without speaking for a while made it even more difficult for him to express himself afterwards. 

Abigail got up to take him by the arm, and squeezed it comfortingly, as a promise. 

A little knock on the door; Mischa was getting tired of being alone. “Can I come in?” she asked politely from the other side. 

Hannibal tried to answer, but his voice wouldn't come out. 

“Sure, darling, come in” Will replied, still half folded in pain on the bed, trying to sound as casual as he could. 

Mischa smiled to them as she did. “A'e we doing a s'eepove'?” she asked in delight. She loved  when everybody slept in the same bed. 

Abigail hesitated. “No, love” she eventually said –then interrupted herself in doubt. Hesitating, she glanced at Will, looking like her usual sisterly self, worried about him. 

Will was looking at Hannibal's turtleneck. “Actually, we needed you here” he told the little girl. He took a deep breath, trying to fight the icy despair growing in his lungs. He then continued in a low voice: “We're discussing how I'm going to live away.”

Chapter Text

“This is sad” Molly said as she was looking at the drawing they'd made to plan the dinner that would follow the ceremony. 

“What is?” Will asked distractedly, trying to figure out a menu that would match any kind of picky eaters. 

“Your guests. You have almost none, sweetheart.”

He looked up. “My mum is dead” he reminded her. “And I never got to keep in touch with the rest of my family.”

“I know, I know. It's just... Well, your dad's probably not going to be there even if you invite him, and you said you thought your older brother wasn't very likely to come either, so that leaves... what? Two sisters, a plus one for Abigail, and one friend.”

“Not a big ceremony, remember?”

“You've got six guests, Will.” 

“Means more food for the others. Stop complaining and give me a kiss, hot lips.”

Molly smiled and pecked him on the mouth. 

“Where are you putting Willy?” he asked, looking at the drawing she'd made. “Not in-between his gran-parents; they hate me.”

“To be fair, they would hate anybody who'd outlived Willy's dad” she replied. “Here, that's the guest list. If you're really sure you're not inviting anyone else, you should just send the invitations.”

“Right, okay. Oh come on, you've invited Uncle Ferny?”

“He's family.”

“I really don't like that old owl.”

Molly smiled and pitched him lightly on the earlobe. “You fill up those invitations at once, naughty boy!” 

He smiled. 

Six guests. Will had never been very social, but that was awfully few. He picked up six invitations cards, where a spot had been left in blank for the name. 

Mischa Lecter, he wrote on the first one. It had been long since he had seen the little girl, whom he still remembered as a tiny blond infant. He had met with her in a few occasions, when Abigail came to visit him. 

Abigail and Margot Verger. He had barely been introduced to Abbe’s second wife, a wealthy entrepreneur with too much money to Will’s taste. They’d met during his sister’s studies, that she’d just successfully majored from. Will wondered if Abigail would have still chosen to become an lawyer if it weren’t for…

He hesitated before writing his father’s name on the invitation. He hadn’t talked to him in years. He wasn’t even sure what his actual address was. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see him ever again.

Beverly Katz. Will’s only friend, who worked with him at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. In forensics. Sassy, blunt, always careful in her own way to make Will feel at ease in spite of his empathy disorder. Since Will had left home eight years ago, she’d been the only person he’d grown close to, aside from Molly. 

He’d taken the same psychology class as Molly during his first years as a criminal profiler. She’d almost (accidentally) run him over with her bike, then they’d bonded over her thesis in autistic behaviours. Will had agreed to let her study him so he could learn more about himself, and figure a way out of his troubled empathy. 

They’d fallen in love. Hours of hours of talking about oneself, in a secluded classroom, until the lights were low. 

They’d fallen in love.

Will looked at the last invitation he was holding, still blank, waiting for a name. 

He hadn’t seen him, or talked to him, for years. He wasn’t sure what he looked like anymore, even though he remembered the words, “sharp face, full lips, gorgeous sunken eyes”. He didn’t remember. He didn’t want to, either.

Graceful features, plump mouth, brown dark skin with freckles of gold. This was him now, this was Molly besides him, filling up her own invitations by his side, the beautiful Molly, with her cute ways and understanding gentleness. With her firm grip on reality. 

God, he loved her. He loved her so much. 

She was perfect, in every way, gorgeous and smart, tender and bold, decided, unafraid. He couldn’t help but look at her, look at her, look at her. She glanced at him and smiled.

Black hair, so messy in the hot air made humid by the nearby sea. Full lips, gorgeous, like ripped fruits. All the stars of the sky sleeping at day in her eyes. Skin as brown as grown tree, bark soft and smooth, delicious soft mush in hidden places. 

She’d told him they’d get married so her son would be protected by law in case anything happened, but that it wouldn’t be a proper wedding. 

They’d have a proper wedding when they’d feel ready for it, some years from now, again. 

Now they were thinking of Willy —how much she loved her son. That little face brown like a nut, so adorable when he laughed, though he still missed his father, so much. 

But it was commitment nonetheless, Will thought. And he’d wanted a wedding, a proper wedding, with her. He was ready, he’d told her. He was ready.

It hurt to think that she wasn’t. That she needed more time to see him as a reliable partner, as the one partner. That she needed proof. 

Will tapped irritably on the table with the border of his card —the invitation. He took a pen, quickly scribbled the name of his lost brother on it, then threw his invitations in labelled enveloppes he stacked on a corner of the table. 

Molly lifted her eyes up, surprised at his gesture —she laughed when he took her by the waist to kiss her senselessly. “We aren’t done working, you dog” she smiled, stroking his curls tenderly. 

“I know” he smiled. “I thought maybe we could take a break…”

She laughed again, and her laugher in the house was brighter than a thousand suns.

*

Mischa had grown up so much; she looked like a young little lady now, and she seemed so serious, almost upset, especially when she looked at Will. 

Abigail radiated strength and confidence; she hadn't hidden the scar on her neck, and walked down the aisle in noisy high heels. 

Even though the Graham siblings had kept in touch, calling each other every other week, the confrontation had been harsh. Abigail was a young, successful lawyer, filthy rich by the looks of it, walking around in a Chanel suit. Will had felt underdressed when he'd come to meet her at the gate, even though he was the groom and supposed to be amongst the two most elegant persons of the ceremony. She'd come with her wife Margot, whom Abigail was helping in reconquering her title as the wealthy heiress of the Verger empire. As Margot was her second wife; Will suspected that Abbe'd married the first one to get her hands on big money. He wasn’t sure it still wasn’t the case.

Mischa had greeted him with frowned brows, looking like the perfect parody of a thirteen year old teenager –that was about to graduate and to start a double major in dancing and criminology.  

Will wasn't sure about why she'd chosen dancing; but he knew why both Abigail and Mischa would be so interested in pursuing careers in law and law enforcement. However, the Chesapeake Ripper hadn't been that active in the last eight years; he merely surfaced from time to time, as if he'd wanted to remind the word that he was still rummaging around, ruining lives. 

As a renowned FBI profiler, Will had access to the file. 

Sometimes, he met Abigail in secret and talked to her about a new development. Casually, like in passing. Feeling guilt gnaw at him. 

Mischa coughed loudly when it was asked to speak or shut up forever. 

Will wasn’t sure he how felt about that. 

Afterwards consisted in chatting to strangers and accepting their congratulations with a pleasant smile and nod, which Will detested. He wished Molly and him could go home at once, and make out like newly weds. He saw her made a silent encouraging gesture to him from afar, mimicking eloping and getting away from all the boredom. He smiled. 

“So, you're Will Hooper now, hey?” Abigail said next to him, nudging him lightly in the ribs. 

“You can talk, miss I-changed-of-last-name-twice.” 

She smiled and rose up her glass of champaign. “Hobbs had such a gore ring to it.”

“And the Verger industries of butchering pigs doesn't?” he remarked playfully. 

“Touché.” She drank a little. “So, marriage, uh? I knew you liked her, but I was surprised you'd get married.”

“It's mainly for the kid” Will answered. “We would have waited otherwise, but it's easier to be married when you've got a child to raise.”

“You didn't tell my much about Willy” Abigail answered. “Do you like him?”

Will looked at the little boy, who was talking to his gran-parents with a wide smile on his face.

“We get along alright. I'm teaching him how to fish. I think he's warming up to me.”

Abigail hummed, sipping on champaign. 

“Abbe...”

“I already told you, he's really sick. And I think he wouldn't have come either way.”

“How did you know I–”

“You always end up our phone calls the same way, silently asking about him. He's sick.”

Will swallowed guiltily. “I think I need to say goodbye.”

“You had eight years to make your peace.” She turned her unsettling blue eyes towards her brother. “Don't you think it's odd, asking about a crush you haven't seen in ten years on your wedding day?”

“I still wish he could have come” Will replied. 

“So you could brag about how over him you are?”

Will sighed. “I am over him, Abbe. It's been years, as you said. I just... I still miss him, sometimes. It would have been the perfect occasion to meet again, as family.”

“I told him not to come” Mischa said from behind them. They both turned around to face her fierce, resentful glare. Maroon eyes and a thin, straight nose, just like Hannibal's. “I told him he should stay away from you.”

Will glanced at Abigail. “I didn't tell her” she said. “And I'm pretty sure Hannibal kept his mouth shut too.”

Will bit his lower lip. Fucking family reunions. 

“Do you want to talk about it, Mischa?” he asked quietly. “I know what I did is unforgivable; but maybe talking about it would make you feel better.”

“Nice one” the teenager said. “But your manipulative attempt at diffusing the situation will not work on me. I know very well what happened. And I hate you for it.”

Abigail sighed. “Not today, Mischa. We'll set up a meeting. Just don't do this on his wedding day.”

“Doesn't his wife deserve to know what she's getting into?” Mischa replied. 

Will startled. “You're not telling her, are you?”

Abigail had taken Mischa by the arm. “I know you're upset” she said, “as you have every right to be; but there is a time and a place, and you fully well know those are not. So behave, alright? Else I'll send you to the playing room with the other kids.”

Mischa pouted, pushing her full lips up like when she was little, looking a bit like a vexed kitten. 

She'd ashen blond air falling into her brown eyes, and high cheekbones, a family resemblance that made Will's heart ache. 

“Excuse me a minute” he said. He put his glass of champaign away and walked to the little room attending to the toilets. It was quiet and cosy there. 

And there was Molly. 

“Feeling tired of the crowd too, hot lips?” he asked her as he went to sit by her side, resting his head on the wall. 

He closed his eyes for a moment. Then, realising his wife hadn't answered, he opened them again and looked at her. “What's wrong?”

She leaned on the wall too, and answered quietly. “Your little sister told me something very unsettling about you” she said. She slowly turned to eye at him. “She seems to think I might be in some sort of danger.”

Will swallowed, queazy. Petrified.

After a time, he managed to utter: “What did she said?”

Molly was wearing her “blank face”, the expressionless mask she wore when talking to a patient.

“She said that you tried to kill her older brother.” She raised an eyebrow, then looked at him. “You told me you had a fight, not that it came that far.”

He closed his eyes again, leaned back against the wall. 

She believed her. Molly believed Mischa, in an instant. She knew Will so well. 

“It’s true”, he whispered. He gave himself an moment to breathe, to collect his thoughts. Molly let him.

“He'd done something horrendous” he said. “I wish I would tell you what, but I can't because it's entirely illegal and could have us all sent to prison –him as the culprit, and us as his accomplices. It was just horrible. And he tried to drag Abigail into it. I... When I learnt about it, I got mad. I just lost it. I beat him, and I tried to strangle him.”

He suddenly moved away from the wall and started rubbing his face with both hands. 

“I'm not saying I have an excuse” he added, lowering his hands and looking at her, or at least at her knees. “But this was due to a very peculiar set of circumstances, so it's very unlikely to happen ever again. Unless you are planning to turn my sister into a criminal, I mean.”

She stayed very quiet for a long time. He didn’t dare move.

Then she breathed out, and he knew it was okay.  

“I believe you” she finally said. “I'm not saying I'm fine with it, but I believe you.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“Though I'm confused about why you would rather beat him than turn him in to the police. Isn't that your job?”

“I was twenty then” Will said. “I had no job, no money, and no-one else than him, Abigail and Mischa. Turning him in would have implied throwing all of us in the street. He kept the family going. I...” He sighed. “I couldn't tell anyone. I had no way of stopping him but my fists—”

Hannibal under him. Hannibal thrashing against his hips to get away, clawing at his shoulders, grabbing his hair, gasping. Warm heat. Blood pumping.

Desire.

Will shuddered. “Look, I know it's unsettling for you and that you'd like to know more about it, but I really hate talking about it. I hate what I did and the guy I was when I did it. I really don't want to go down that road ever again, not even in thought. So, I guess, the important point there is, can you still live with me, knowing I did what I did?”

Molly tilted her head. “I don't think you've lied to me about who you are” she said. “But I wish I could have learnt about that at some time other than my wedding day.”

Will sighed, then gently leaned in to stroke her arm. “I am sorry you had to learn about it that way. To tell the truth, I was waiting for the birth of our first child to tell you.”

She pushed his face away with a wary smile. “When were you planning on telling me?”

Will bit his lower lip. “Never, I think. It's not the kind of subject you can broach casually, and it would have looked like, what? I was looking for your forgiveness, or your approval? I don't want either of those things. What I did was terrible, and it's still going to be, no matter which way one looks at it. Nothing's going to change who I was. Telling you wouldn't change that.”

“It would have given me some insight as to whom I was marrying” she pointed. 

“Yeah well, I'm not that person anymore. I'm never going to be that person again. I left, remember? I left them to an horrible life of loneliness and social oddness. I really don't think I took the selfish path; I would have been much happier with them, rather than being bullied for my odd, mildly autistic ways. I knew it, and I still left.”

“As if he would have let you stay after that.”

He lowered his head. “He would have” he whispered. “He's not exactly the average man himself, love. I don't think he ever resented me for nearly killing him.”

Molly ran a comforting hand down her husband's back. “You're both totally messed up, if you want my opinion.”

He smiled. “Not as messed up as the newlyweds who hide near their ballroom toilet to avoid talking to Uncle Ferny again.”

Molly chuckled. “You're an idiot, Will Hooper.”

“And you're an idiot for marrying me” he said, leaning in to kiss her sweetly. “Now we can be idiots together.”

“A bunch of stupid” she smiled, wrapping her arms around him. “Say, there is no-one here, and I'm pretty sure my friend Lee is secretly guarding the door outside.”

Will rose an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting we play cards?”

“That is exactly what I am suggesting.”

They both giggled and laid on the couch they'd been sitting on, exchanging kisses. 

“I'm really lucky you would have me, hot lips” Will told his wife with a fond smile. “I'll forever bless the day you almost ran me over with that bike.”

“Mmm, I'll have to make sure to try that more often then” she chuckled. 

He kissed her brow, and for just one second he felt free of guilt; content, happy. 

He wished all their future moments would feel as good as this one.

Chapter Text

“Yeah yeah, I'm coming!”

Molly opened the door on a startlingly thin man with yellowish skin tones and dark rings under his eyes. His pricy Bentley was parked nearby; now that she looked more closely, he was very sharply dressed in a three piece plaid suit and looked totally out of place in her countryside property.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Hooper” the man greeted formally. “My name is Hannibal Lecter; I came to congratulate you both on your recent wedding.”

There was a large wrapped box at his feet. 

Molly considered the tasteful wrapping before looking back at the man. His face seemed quiet and composed, unreadable; some sort of underlying pain pierced underneath. 

“Are you on drugs?” she asked, suspicious. The man seemed startled by her question, then almost vexed. 

“I am quite ill” he answered quietly, subtly reproachful. “May I speak to your husband?”

“Will said you did something horrible and tried to have his sister do it too” Molly added, still wary, but not exactly aggressive. “Were you some sort of drug dealer?”

“I haven't done anything reprehensible for quite a long time, now” he answered tranquilly. “Really, Mrs Hooper, I only came to offer this wedding gift, and congratulate you both. If you believe those actions constitute any danger for you or your husband, feel free to give me my leave.”

She snorted, and opened the door wider. “Come in” she said, wrapping her dressing gown tighter around her waist. “Will's at the beach, probably fishing. He'll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Thank you” the man said tranquilly. He bend down to pick up the box at his feet carefully. It seemed heavy. 

“Put that around here” Molly told him once they'd entered the kitchen. “Tea? Coffee? Anything?”

“I would enjoy a cup of tea” he answered, looking around, scrutinizing the house. Then, he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, as if he was trying to read it through that. Creepy. 

“This is a lovely place” he said. “I sense you have dogs?”

“I collect strays” she answered. “Ugly, rejected dogs who bark just as well as any pretty canine pet in town. Will loves them. He calls them his fluffy muffins.”

The man seemed to tense at Will's mention. 

“Cookies with your tea?” Molly asked.

“Thank you for the offer, but I am not hungry” he replied. 

Molly examined him again, well dressed, well mannered, calm and oddly submissive in his assertiveness, as if he were trying to pass his wishes as other's whims. Clearly good at manipulation.

However, aside from the sickly look, he didn't send a drug dealer vibe. Molly wondered if he'd chosen to prostitute himself, and had gotten a STD from it. In which case, Will's beating wouldn't appear so forgivable. 

She put a satchel of Earl Grey in two steamy mugs that she arranged on the table. The man got his satchel out of the mug quite instantly. “I like my tea very light” he explained as she remarked on it. 

“Lighter than that is called water” she said. “Why didn't you come to the wedding? Was it about that bad blood running between Will and you? Or were you truly sick?”

“Does it matter?” he answered, poised. “I intend for this time to be my final goodbyes to Will. I came because Mischa insisted it would bring us both closure. 

Molly cringed at the girl's name. The teenager hadn't been very reassuring at her wedding, when she'd been talking about how Will didn't mind strangling people he lived with. 

Barking outside. 

“The dogs must have smelled you” Molly said. “I think we might see Will sooner than expected.”

Hannibal nodded silently. She watched him sip some mainly-water-with-a-little-tea, then got up to take the wedding gift to their table. It was lighter than she'd imagined.

“I followed your wedding wish list” the man pointed out, as if he wanted to make sure she'd know he wouldn't actually have chosen that himself. 

Probably too mundane for him. Lacking gold and diamonds. 

“I am going to wait for Will to open it” Molly said. “Thank you for bringing it personally.”

A small dog came running in the kitchen, waving his tail happily, putting sand everywhere. 

“This is Buster” Molly told her guest, joyfully petting the dog who was sniffing Hannibal's pants warily. “And here come Winston and Applesauce. Easy girls, easy.”

The one called Applesauce barked once or twice at the stranger sitting in the living room, going round on herself in curiosity or confusion. Hannibal didn't like that much.

“What's getting them so excited?” Will asked from the nearby room. He entered the kitchen looking down at a scratch on his vest, his dark hair a mess and a scruffy beard rasping the sides of his jaw. Tanned, healthy, fit, and happy. 

He froze when he saw Hannibal. 

The man put back his cup of tea tranquilly. “Good afternoon, William.”

Will's blue eyes were wide in shock. 

“I am here to offer my congratulations, as well as a wedding gift. I hope it will be to your taste.”

Will's ears were buzzing. 

“What is he doing here?” he whispered dumbly. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

“I actually did not intent to stay much longer” Hannibal answered, getting up. 

A soft breeze pushed a lock of sand like hair into his brown eyes. He pushed it away gracefully. 

Will was still too numb to react properly. 

“Maybe he could stay long enough to finish his cup of tea” Molly pointed out, looking at Will to ask if this would be fine. 

“He has to go” Will uttered, noticing how the other had grown wider than him at the shoulders, but looked a bit too thin maybe. His face was somewhat sickly looking, but the eyes shone as sharp as ever, and his lips...

Damn, no-one had lips like that. 

“I'm not going to impose anything, but since you're both here, maybe you could sit down a little and talk” Molly pointed out. “If you feel like it.”

“I feel like him getting the fuck out of my house” Will said.

Hannibal politely turned to Molly. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs Hooper. Thank you for the tea. It was lovely.”

Molly almost laughed at that, as he'd barely touched the cup and not even nibbled on a cookie. 

The man gracefully walked towards the door, then turned around to look at Will. 

“I am glad to see you are doing well” he said. “I hope this will last.”

He then took a few steps out and disappeared from their range of sight. 

“He forgot his car keys” Molly pointed out, noticing the item on the counter. 

“That jerk” Will muttered, angrily grabbing them to dash out after Hannibal. 

Who was, of course, waiting for him by his car. 

“Isn't this kind of trick beneath you?” Will asked, throwing the set of keys at him. “Why the fuck did you come here?”

“I couldn't attend to your wedding. I wished to meet the lovely bride.”

“Shut up, you mindfuck. What do you want?”

Hannibal tilted his head. 

Face unreadable, yet so familiar at the same time. 

“Mischa thought it would be a good idea to get closure” he said. “She insisted I came, acknowledged Molly was charming, and bid you goodbye.”

“It's been eight years, Hannibal.”

It felt so weird saying that name after so long a time. 

“And you did a masterful job at moving on. Congratulations.”

Will swallowed. “Didn't you?”

“I am not married, if this what you're asking.”

“I'm asking if you've moved on.”

After eight years. Of course he would have.

“Mischa believes our relationship was unhealthy” Hannibal said.

“She's right. It was sick. You encouraged co-dependency, and I ended up abusing you.”

“Yes.”

Will was shocked to hear him agree. He'd thought for a moment Hannibal was still stuck on the past. The man took a step towards him. 

“I came here to say goodbye, Will.”

He was walking towards him, yet Will couldn't move. He felt trapped, and his heart was screaming at him to escape. Don't let him touch you. 

Hannibal lifted his left hand, gently stroking Will's face, looking at him in the eyes, lovingly. Blue eyes like two pearls of water. 

Will looked so innocent despite the passing years. 

Then, with his other hand, Hannibal pulled Will to him by the waist and kissed him. 

He wasn't even forceful; Will was too stunned to react. Too caught up in it.

The kiss didn't last; it was just the most tender pressing of the lips. 

“I thought you would come back” Hannibal whispered. “I waited for you. I am waiting still.”

He let got of Will. 

“I am not giving up on you, Will Graham.”

Chapter Text

Molly came out of the house slowly, readjusting her dressing gown, as Hannibal's car was engaging on the main road. 

“That didn't look very violent” she said quite coldly, looking at Will who seemed quite stunned. “This was actually the exact opposite of what I expected from two people who'd almost destroyed each other. Care to explain, Will?”

He swallowed, and twitched. “I haven't told you everything.”

“I guess not. Many more secrets?”

“That's... the last one, actually” Will said. 

“Apart from what he did that was so horrible.”

“I can't tell you.”

“Must have been awful for you to let him kiss you like that.”

He looked away guiltily.

“I... was in love with him” he confessed, fidgeting with his hands. “Head over heels, really. That's probably why I snapped, learning what he'd done.”

“I'm pretty upset with you right now, and I'm not snapping.”

Will rubbed his face. “Look, do we have to talk about it?”

“Not at all love. We could talk to it in front of a lawyer later on, if you prefer.”

He sent her a distressed look. 

“I'm not staying married to a man, and letting my child around a man, who's lied about nearly killing someone else.”

Will ran a hand through his messy hair. 

He rubbed his face, paused, then sighed. 

“I was crazy about him” he confessed. “Literally. I've never loved anyone so much in my entire life, and it's not a good thing because it was obsessive, possessive, and violent. I wanted him around all the time. I wanted him to myself. It was insane.”

“Certainly sounds like it.”

She sounded cold. 

Will hesitated. “He truly did something horrible. Something unforgivable. And he brought Abigail down with him.”

“But?”

“What but?”

“It sounds like there's a but.”

He swallowed and lowered his head. “But that's not what sent me off” he said, crossing his arms. “It contributed to it, sure, but it's not why I snapped.”

He looked at the road where the car had driven away.

“I'm pretty sure you're not finished with your story, Will.”

He bit his lower lip, irritated, then caved.

“I was jealous.” He lowered his head. “Here he was, having done something terrible to my sister, and I... I was jealous. I wished it could have been me. I wished he'd taken me down that road with him, instead of her. I couldn't stand someone else sharing such an intimate... It was killing me. So I... I... I did the next most intimate thing I could think of at that time. Not that I was thinking, really.”

“You tried to kill him” Molly remarked, her brown frowned.

“I'm not saying any of that makes sense.”

“Makes sense to me. You were totally out of your mind.”

“I know.”

“Did you know then?”

“Somewhat. Some things I thought scared me. I pretended this was what he wanted, but it was actually my obsession piercing through.”

She considered him in ponder. He knew she would be testing him. 

“Why don't you turn him in, Will?” she asked.

He frowned. “What?”

“Why don't you turn in him to the police? You'd be at peace with yourself then. You're an FBI profiler, remember?”

Will cringed. “I can't do that, I told you.”

“Really? You really can't find a way to explain to the police how Abigail and you were unwilling accomplices to his... whatever he's done?”

“I turned a blind eye to it” he said. “But she actively participated. At least once.”

“So? She was underage at the time, right? That ought to count for something.”

“I'm not so sure she stopped.”

Molly shook her head. “Bottom line is, you don't want them to be arrested.”

“Of course not. They're my family.”

“That you hadn't seen in eight years.”

“I see Abigail once a month or so. And Mischa about twice a year.”

“What about him?”

Will shook his head, irritated. “Look, it's in the past, alright? I'm not going to send any of my siblings to prison. Not even him.”

“It's strange that you always talked about him to me as your brother, but now I realise he wasn't that to you at all.”

Will stilled. “I've tried to put some distance between us.”

“Lying to me in the process.”

“It's not exactly the kind of things one could brag about.”

She frowned her brow. “It's not about bragging, Will. Simply being honest with me.”

He sighted in frustrated irritation. “Alright. You want actual honesty? I'm not sure I can be trusted around him. I'm not sure I ever stopped loving him. I had learnt to live without him, and to stop thinking about him so much, but just seeing him for one second after eight years is enough to turn my world upside down.”

He took his head in his hands. “Don't let me near him, Molly. I love you, I truly do, and I'm happy here, I want to build a life here with you, with Willy. But I can't, I can't... I can't help myself around him. He's under my skin like poison. So just... don't talk about him, don't even mention him; if he ever calls or comes again, don't tell me, and send him away. I can't go down that road again; I won't. You just have to understand he's like drugs to me; I'm not strong willed enough to resist it. I've tried to run away, and I'm happy here. I don't want to go back. But just saying his name is like showing heroin to a former addict. Don't do it. Keep me away from him. As far away as we can.”

She didn't seem impressed by his speech, and looked at him calmly. “Are you saying you're still in love with him?”

Will swallowed. “I don't know. It's not love. It can't be love, right? I hurt him. It can't be called love then.”

“Would you go back to him if he asked?”

Will stilled. “I...”

“Even though he's done what he's done, and you're an FBI agent, supposed to arrest him for it.”

“I don't want to go back to him.”

Molly rose an eyebrow. “You just implied you would if he asked you too.”

“He just asked me too, and I won't. So I'm going to go back inside now, and cook you dinner before Willy calls to tell us how much he enjoys staying with his gran-parents and the pony they bought him. And we're not going to talk about Hannibal, because he's a jerk and a life-ruiner, and he will not be allowed in our lives. Is that alright by you?”

She tilted her head. “I'm not overly satisfied, but I sense our conversation wouldn't evolve much today. So okay, alright, we'll talk about it later.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“And I want to. So we'll just have to find a moment when we both want the same thing, which is not now. I'm fine with waiting for the whole story, as long as you promise you're actually through with this criminal.”

Will inhaled sharply, then went to her and took her by the shoulders. “Molly, I am through with this criminal.”

“Good.” She pecked him on the lips. “Now go get make me dinner, puppy. You better make it taste good because I'm very angry at you right now.”

“It'll taste amazing.”

“I'm sure it will.”

She let out a little smile, and he chuckled too, which lead to a quiet kiss, which lead to a tender, deeper one. “You're amazing, you know that” Will told her, nuzzling at her neck. 

“So I've been told” she replied in amusement. “What about dinner, darling?”

“I'm on it, you brute totalitarian!” 

They both giggled again, he kissed her cheek and went back in the house. 

Three weeks laters, Mischa called.

Chapter Text

“Hi loser.”

“You do not call me that, Mischa.”

“I call you what I want. I need a favour.”

“If you need a favour you call me Will.”

“Abbe's in Europe, honeymooning again with Margot, and I'm stuck on this trip. I've tried calling mum, but obviously she didn't pick up, and I'm not sure where your dad is.”

“Spit it out.”

“Before I say it, you have to know you're the last person I wanted to ask this to. I actually went to our usual nurse first but–”

“Short version, Mimi.”

“Someone needs to go pick up Hannibal at the hospital.”

Will closed his eyes, and leaned on the nearby wall, breathing deeply into the phone. 

“You don't have to sigh this noisily, I told you I didn't meant it to be you. You're just my last option.”

The man actually sighed then. “What happened?”

“Minor car accident. Nothing serious, but he has trouble walking.”

“He can take a taxi.”

“I'm pretty sure he will, yeah. That's not the most important part of the favour I'm asking.”

“I won't do it.”

“You need to make sure he eats.”

Will shook his head in disbelief. “What? I'm not going to go babysit your brother just because he jumped in front of a car.”

He tried not picturing it, but couldn't and cringed. “God, Mischa... just ask some neighbour of his. Pay someone. You're rich.”

“Listen, you fuckhead” she started in a cold, angry tone that reminded him of Hannibal's own anger; “I can't be there until Monday. I've tried booking up a plane, but there's a stupid social movement going on, and Chesapeake's off limits. I looked at trains, but it would take me at least thirteen hours to arrive. You're an hour away. Just drive to his house once in the morning, and give him water. During the day, go back to your silly little life with Mrs Perfect, then come back at noon to feed him. He needs to be fed.”

“What, did he lose his teeth in the accident? Is his jaw dislocated?” Will half mocked, hoping this wasn't the case. “I told you I wouldn't go.”

“He took care of you when you were younger. Can't you do that now? All I'm asking is two days. Abbe can't come back either, because of the strike.”

“Don't try to guilt me into this. I told you I want nothing to do with the man.”

He could feel Mischa gather up the will to utter the next sentence. Then she changed her mind. “You know, I've never liked you, William.”

“Don't call me William. And you liked me when you were little.”

He sensed her gritting her teeth.

“Please” she whispered. “I have no-one else and he might... he might die.”

Will chuckled. “I can't believe you'd go that far. This is unbelievable. Why would you even say that?”

“He's sick” she answered, not picking up on his skepticism. Which was odd. Will hesitated.

“What kind of sick?” 

Mischa's answer sounded a little rehearsed, or hesitant. 

“He has trouble processing food.”

“What the hell does that even mean.”

He heard her swallow. “It means he can't eat properly, especially when something troubles him. Something has him worried now; he hasn't had a proper meal in weeks.”

Will rolled his eyes. “Are you saying he's starving himself to... what? Protest that I got married?”

“I don't care what you think, Will.” Mischa's voice sounded sad all of the sudden. “Just go over there and make sure he's eating. I... I beg of you.”

*

“It's not that I want to go” Will said, but Molly interrupted him again.

“You've told me to keep you away from him, and I'm doing exactly that.”

“I know, I know and I'm grateful, but I actually think this is serious. Mischa wouldn't... Mischa doesn't beg for favours. She doesn't even ask for favours. And she certainly doesn't ask me.”

“Your brother put her up to it.”

“I doubt that.” But even has he was saying it, his voice trembled slightly. 

“You doubt that?”

“Okay, yes, maybe. I'm not sure. But if it is serious, and I don't go...”

His phone rang. 

“You're not going to pick up now, are you?” Molly frowned.

“It's Abbe. I'll ask what she wants and tell her to call me back if it's not important, okay?”

She rose her eyes as Will picked up. “Hi?”

“Hi you, how are you doing?”

“I'm in the middle of a fight with my wife actually, so this is not a good moment.”

She seemed startled by his straight forwardness. 

“O...kay then, I'll be brief: I need a huge favour.”

“That's not being brief, that's being obnoxious and I'm not going to pick up Hannibal at the hospital if that's what the favour is.”

She silenced. 

“Will.”

“That's what our fight is about, if you must know.”

“Is Molly here?”

Will glanced at his wife. “Yeah.”

“Put me on speakerphone.”

“It's not going to change anything” Will said as he did. 

“Hi, Molly” Abbe said as Will put his phone on the nearby table and went to sit next to it, as did Molly.

“Hello, Abbe” she answered. “Will is not going to Hannibal's.”

“Someone has to” Abigail answered. “He's in really bad shape. He needs to be watched over.”

“You know fully well–”

“I do. I really do, Molly. And I wouldn't ask if there was any other option. I just want you to keep him out of intensive care until either Mischa or I come back. If you can't do it yourself, find someone. I've called the usual caretakers though, and they're not available. Also, my brother is an idiot who fires all the rude ones, which means we're stuck with only one, usually, and he's on holidays.”

“Problem solved then” Will said. “Tell him to suck it up and not be so picky.”

“He's not going to” Abigail sighed. “Okay just... two days. Not even whole days.”

“Our answer is no” Molly said, though Will could tell she was thinking about hiring a nurse. 

However, when Abigail hung up, they where still on “no”. 

Will could see in Molly’s eyes that she was looking for a solution.

He didn’t want to go. He was terrified of what would happen if he did.

Hannibal’s sick face, thin yet oddly charming, stern like a mountain, sharp like a dry landscape where the night wind owls. 

His lips, soft and warm against his, his burning arm around Will’s waist. I’m not giving up on you, Will Graham. 

Such an enticing scent. 

Molly was watching him. 

The firm body against him, sharing warmth. His breath on the lobe of his ear. I’m not giving up on you. 

I waited for you.

“You know” Molly said, “that if you go to his house alone, it will be over between us.”

Will gritted his teeth.

He might die, Mischa had said. Crying.

I waited for you.

“I won’t go” Will said. “If you don’t want me too, I’m not going. You are far more important to me than he is.”

Molly tilted her head on the side. 

“I am glad to hear you say that.”

*

Hannibal looked sick alright, but the dark blue colour of his nightgown complimented well the ashen blond of his hair. Locks of it were falling into his eyes, that he tiredly pushed aside as he was opening the door. 

He seemed surprised at seeing Will, ill-at-ease and fidgeting, waiting on the doorstep. The young man looked at him briefly, bright blue eyes shying away guiltily under a crown of beautiful black curls. 

Hannibal leant against the entry wall, stunned. 

“You came back” he whispered, too tired to straighten up but glad enough to gently smile. He closed his eyes for one second, then took Will by the arm and pulled him close in a gentle hug, wrapping himself like a lock around his chest, stroking the soft curls of his hair, and kissing them lightly. “Only now you're back I can let myself realise how much I missed you” he murmured, his eyes wet and bright in emotion. He kissed Will's hair again, scented it, brought his mouth to the other's ear to whisper in it lightly. “I love you.”

“We're only here until Mischa comes back” Will said, avoiding his eyes, pushing him away in embarrassment. 

Hannibal stilled, looked around and saw, connected to a scent he'd previously ignored, the lovely wife looking at them with an eyebrow raised. 

He took a step back, feeling fatigue weight down more heavily than ever on his shoulders. He straightened up, arranged his messy hair, and composed himself a collected mask for an expression.

“Then I would rather you would both leave” he simply stated. 

“I promised Mischa and Abbe that I would look after you until they return” Will replied. “And you really look terrible, so I guess you're actually sick.”

“A mere flue, nothing I cannot overcome on my own.”

“Mischa said you had a car accident, and couldn't eat because of stress.”

Hannibal tensed, his upper lip briefly lifting up in disdain. “I do not require assistance” he said. “Mischa is overreacting.”

“It's eleven in the morning and you're not dressed” Will pointed out, walking into the hall uninvited. “You must be dying or I don't know you at all.”

Molly came to the door, looking at Hannibal as if for permission. 

At least she wasn't rude. 

“Come in” Hannibal said, turning back to walk towards the stairs. “You may wait in the living-room as I get dressed.”

“You don't have to” Will said, but the other was already slowly going up the stairs.

“He does seem quite ill” Molly commented as she walked into the living room, looking around in ponder. “I must admit he has some taste. Though a cold, distant one, I think.”

Will felt queazy. “The faster we'll go the better I'll feel” he said, poking at a bronze statue of a calling stag. 

“Then we'd better get started” Molly commented, pointing at the box she'd been carrying around. “Do you know where the kitchen is?”

“I'd never set foot here before. I'd guess... that way?” he wandered around until he opened the right door. “Here, hot lips. I guess it shouldn't be too hard, he's bought a whole restaurant apparently.”

“I was going to ask how he'd got so rich, but I supposed I better not.”

Will stilled to think. “I don't really think there's a link” he said. “He's never been interested in money; rather in what it can bring him.”

“Same thing. Alright, eggs?”

“I'll try the fridge.”

Upstairs, Hannibal was slowly putting on a suit, sat at the foot of his bed. He glanced from time to time at his cell phone, which was trying to reach Mischa. She wasn't available, so he left her a message instead, knowing she would worry if he called without saying why. As he was getting up, he got dizzy and fall back on the bed. This wouldn't do. 

He slowly slid across the bed towards one of the Japanese paintings hanging by its head, which he pulled open like a door to reveal his instruments. 

After the injection, he felt strength come back to him, induced and ephemeral but there nonetheless. He could get up and walk around normally, finish to knot his tie and even go to the bathroom to comb himself neatly and put a drop of exquisite perfume on his wrists. 

He would have dinner with those people and have them leave none the wiser. 

A scent caught his attention. 

“Is that carp?” he asked as he entered the kitchen a few moments later. 

“You haven't lost your sense of smell” Will commented as he got a beautiful golden fish out of the oven. “Took you long enough. What where you doing up there, refurnishing?”

Hannibal ignored him and went to sit at the table, where the cutlery had already been set, poorly, and where a glass of water awaited. 

Mocking. 

“This seems promising” Hannibal commented, lifting the glass of water to his nose as if it were wine, feeling his mouth watering at the scent. 

He set it back down regretfully. 

“The sisters said to fatten you up” Will commented, bringing the fish at the table while Molly was pouring them all juice. 

“You need not to cook for me” Hannibal remarked, watching as Will was filling his plate with fish and perfumed rice. “Did you catch that fish?”

“Bought it on the way” the young man replied. 

Hannibal's lips tightened. He waited for them all to be sat around the table, then lifted his glass of water as for a toast. “To surprises” he greeted, and then he brought the glass to his lips, wet them in the desired liquid long enough that it would seem that he was taking a sip, and pretended to swallow before putting it down. Water usually wasn't a problem, but he was at his lowest at the moment. “Bon appétit.”

He engaged in meaningless conversation about the weather and foreign artworks, redirecting anything that would bring either Will or Molly to talk about how much they loved each other and their exciting life with a child by the sea. 

He had a technique. 

He cut a bite of food and brought it to his lips at the exact moment he was saying or asking something that would require an answer or a reaction from his interlocutor. Then, as if focused on said reaction, he stilled, looked at the other, then brought down his fork naturally. 

Then he waited for an opportunity to discard the cut morsel discretely by simply moving it strategically on his plate, so that others would never see him bring the same mouthful to his lips. 

It fooled pretty much everyone, his sisters aside, especially since he would comment on the food from time to time, guessing its taste most accurately from the smell alone. 

This had been how not one of his acquaintances had ever noticed that, instead of being “a picky eater with a bird-like appetite” he, most of the time, simply didn't eat. 

“I especially like what you've done with the rice” Hannibal told Will matter of factly as they were discussing the food. It certainly smelled good. He could sense that the man hadn't managed to keep himself completely out of the meal and had somewhat tried to impress him. 

A shame he couldn't taste it. 

“Thanks” Will answered a bit coldly. “You should eat a bit more of it, then.”

“Maybe.”

Hannibal stilled, looked at Will as he was lifting up his fork with a tiny smile. “Though I am actually getting quite full already” he lied, putting down the fork and leaning back in his chair. 

“You haven't even eaten half of your plate” Will protested –damn those newcomers. They knew nothing of his condition, and would ask of him the most impossible thing.

“Are you getting along with Mischa?” Hannibal asked casually. 

Speaking of which, she called on Will's phone. Hannibal frowned, recalling his message to her. Had he left a clue as of his present state of mind? He had tried to sound reassuring, yet tired, a normal condition that ought not to have aroused any suspicion on her part. 

But Mischa was clever. 

“Hey, glad to learn you can be a decent person for once” Mischa told Will casually as he picked up. “How are things going?”

“Fine. Hello to you too.”

“What do you mean, 'fine'? How much as he eaten?”

Hannibal saw Will look at his plate and decided to take action. “Is it my sister?” he asked. “May I have a word?”

“Hum, yeah” Will answered, already starting to hand him the phone.

“Wait” Mischa ordered, and Will froze. “He's playing you.”

Will frowned. “So he'd get my phone?” he replied skeptically. 

Mischa pondered. “Right. I'll talk to him. Also, know that if what I suspect is true, I'm going back on despising you.”

“A simple thank you would have been nice” Will answered, sighing as he gave Hannibal the phone. 

“Good evening, beloved” he told his sister sweetly with a gentleness in his eyes that had Will turn his eyes away. 

“I love you too, muffin” she answered almost mockingly, but with a tenderness he couldn't miss. “How are you doing?”

“Dinner is exquisite” he replied quietly. 

“Let me guess. You haven't been able to take a single bite because Mr Genius here brought his wife with him.”

“The company was indeed a surprise” he answered carefully. 

“Okay. Right. Hand me back to Will, please. I love you.”

Hannibal smiled warmly. “I will see you on Monday, my love.”

Then he hung up. 

He made it look like he was considering Will's phone pensively afterwards, so he could put it on mute before giving it back. 

“She's right, you haven't eaten much” Will remarked as he checked on his phone. A silent alert showed that Mischa was calling back, so he picked up. “Hi again. I guess your brother thought it would be brilliant to mute my phone.”

“You brought Molly.”

“She came by herself, thank you very much.”

“Hannibal can't eat while she's here. I'm not sure he can when you're here, but the both of you? This is having even more catastrophic results than muon-catalyser fusion. Please tell her to leave.”

“She's not leaving.”

“To leave the room then. At least that.”

“She's not leaving. We've indulged you enough, Mischa.”

He heard her chuckle at the other end of the line, only until he realised it was actually an anguished sob. 

“Okay, alright. At least tell me why it's so important.”

“He would have told you, if you'd come alone.”

“Well I haven't, so tell me.”

“Promise you won't tell her. Please.”

Will exchanged a wary glance with his wife. “Depends on what you tell me.”

Mischa thought about it, then seemed to change her mind. “How is he?” she asked. “How tired does he look like?”

Will looked at the man whose thoughts seemed to be running faster than a sound wave. 

“Has Will ever told you why he decided to leave us?” Hannibal asked Molly casually –Will didn't hear what Mischa was saying next. 

“He mentioned it, yes” Molly replied quietly. “He said he hurt you. Badly.”

“Oh, no” Hannibal continued calmly. “He chose to leave because I am a murderer.”

Then he smiled cordially. “More wine?”

Chapter Text

Molly laughed until she saw Will's face. 

Stunned. 

She looked back at Hannibal, quiet and collected, maybe slightly smug. 

“Killers don't usually brag about it” she remarked quietly. 

By her side, Will's breath was fastening, which meant at least something about the situation was leading to the truth. 

“You've killed a man” she said. 

“More than one” he answered tranquilly, playing with his food. Will suddenly realised he'd never seen him actually put anything into his mouth. 

“No, I meant, you've killed a man” Molly repeated, more insistent. 

Both men stilled and looked at her, one puzzled, the other curious. 

“Tobias Budge. Will's therapist. He attacked you when you were at his office” Molly added. “I did some research.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “So you know I'm not lying.”

“I know you've killed one man, in self defense. Not that you've hurt many more.”

“Ask Will. He will tell you who I really am.”

Molly turned to her husband, who obviously shook his head. “He's being ridiculous” he said. 

“Of course” Hannibal remarked. “You would never have let a killer run free, even if he was your own brother. Even if it would be easy to keep him out of harm's way, as you are an FBI agent with access to criminal records.” 

Molly clearly didn't believe in the serial killing aspect of his speech, but the last sentence struck a nerve. 

“You helped him escape Justice?” she asked Will –who turned away in shame. She gaped in awe. “Will!”

“He's my brother” he said weakly, not that convinced with his own lie. 

“If he's a criminal, he must face the law” Molly told him, but he rubbed his face with a hand like he did when he didn't like the conversation but wouldn't change his mind either way. “I can't believe you'd cover for him!”

“It's not just about him, it's... it's about taking care of Mischa and Abbe, too.”

“Abbe can take care of herself, and Mischa could very well come live with her, or even with us, if you're speaking of jail time.”

“I'm not sending him to jail.”

“You're not seeing clearly.”

“Would you send Willy to jail?” he shouted. “If when he grows up he does something terrible –would you have me turn him in?”

She shook her head. “Don't try to turn this around.”

“I'm not! I'm not, Molly! I'm just trying to have you understand... to put yourself in my shoes. He's family. He's not... Of course I'm going to protect him.”

Molly sighed, then scratched her forehead in ponder. “Alright. Alright. Just tell me one thing; promise me one thing, Will.”

“What?”

“Did he kill anybody? Aside from that man he had to for self defense? Or rape anyone?”

“He'd never rap... I'm not answering to that question, Molly. I'm not telling you what he did.”

“I killed” Hannibal courteously offered. 

Molly glanced at him. “How can you even joke about that in those circumstances.”

He tilted his head. 

Will was rubbing his face with both hands. “Why are you saying that to her, Hannibal?” he asked, restraining both his anger and hurt. 

“I am curious what you will do.”

Will glared at him, furious. “I will leave” he said. “It's as simple as that.”

“Nothing too uncommon, then” Hannibal replied tranquilly. 

Will was about to retort when he noticed his phone was still silently ringing, as Mischa was trying to resume their call. 

A distraction. 

Hannibal had outed himself simply to distract him. 

Or drive Molly away, testing them both. 

Hannibal realised Will knew at the exact moment Will came to that conclusion. 

The collected man turned to Molly, and gracefully pushed aside the collar of his shirt so she could see his neck. 

“This scar was made by the buckle of the belt Will used to strangle me” he stated, showing a thin, white line near his adam's apple. As Molly paled, he understood he'd guessed right about her not knowing the details of the deed. “I see it every morning when I shave, like a signature, his name carved in white. I loved him then, I loved him still. Would you?”

She shook her head, confused, clearly still in shock about the fact that Will had used a belt to attack his... this man.  

“I believe he is beautiful” Hannibal added. “In gentleness, in violence, in telling the truth and lying, in both strokes and strikes. He is such an extraordinary mélange of emotions and thoughts. I enjoyed him kissing me, and I found his attempt at taking my life most interesting. Would you?”

“Stop comparing dicks” Will cut sharply as he was getting up. “And get that into you thick skull: even if you manage to get Molly to leave me, I'm not coming back to you. You're sick, and insane, and I don't want to have anything to do with you.”

He took his wife by the arm but she stood up and pushed him lightly away. “Don't” she whispered. 

Her mind was racing and he knew the result wouldn't please him. 

“You know the way to the door” Hannibal said, keeping his hands under the table, looking at them with a kind of smugness. Will grit his teeth and followed Molly outside, slamming the entrance door shut behind them. 

Hannibal waited until the sound of their footsteps lessened before putting his hands back on the table. They were trembling slightly, as it usually happened when his energising cocktail of chemicals wore out. Soon he would feel drained, having burnt his energy without fueling it. 

He did his best to clean out the dishes and put the remains away, moving slowly to avoid an excessive waste of energy. 

However, he had to sit down afterwards, and had much trouble going to the stairs. 

But it would be fine. He would go to his room and place on his catheter, with nutrients which would keep him going until Mischa's arrival. Then Mischa would be here, all sweetness and smiles, and he would be able to eat again. 

He put his foot on the first step of the stairs and gripped the banister hard. 

Only seventeen more to go.

*

Molly glared at Will, but said nothing, her arms crossed, eyebrow frowned. He looked away.

"Well?" she asked, and he twitched nervously.

Hannibal’s door was but a few feet away.

"Well what?" he replied, noticing his voice was trembling. 

Molly glared harder. "What did he do, Will."

Will bit his lower lip. He had to lie to her. He couldn’t simply confess that he’d been covering up for murder all those years —for serial murder, at that. 

He couldn’t let Abigail, and especially not Mischa, face the consequences of his and Hannibal’s own madness. 

Mischa would be destroyed. 

But then again, maybe not, whispered a low voice in his head. The voice of… he shrugged. 

"If you don’t tell me now, we break up" Molly said. 

He could hear the contained pain in her voice.

"He…" Will started to gain time. "He was… a drug dealer" he said, the lie rolling odd and foreign on his tongue, bitter. He’d always been honest with Molly. They’d always tried to be clear and straightforward. 

He could still say this was a lie. He could still come clean, who was he actually protecting but himself?

"And a drug addict" he added, thinking about how Hannibal actually suffered from a similar addiction, one he couldn’t part with but didn’t quite harm his own health. 

He was fidgeting, uncomfortable. This hadn’t happen since the University. 

"He started mixing the drugs with other stuff to keep more for himself" he said and oh, oh much he suddenly wanted to believe this lie. "Some kid got sick because of it, but he didn’t stop. Then it happened again. And once…"

Lying came easy to Will —thanks to a very vivid imagination, he could very much picture the scene as if he were recalling it. His muscles tensed when he saw the grayish, still body of his sister lying on the ground of his memory. 

"Abigail tried it" he said, his voice dark and low, running cold with contained anger. "She almost died that night."

"I hate him" he thought, but this latter lie didn’t pass his lips as it should have. I hate him, please, please don’t leave me.

He rose pleading blue eyes towards Molly —hesitating Molly, a look of ponder on her defiant face. 

"I don’t know, Will", she said. 

He took one step towards her, and she took one step back. 

"I need time to think about it" she added, her crossed arm rising up to rub at her own arms in an unconscious attempt to reassure herself. 

Will felt a wave of void wash over him, taking everything in its way. 

"Please, Molly" he whispered, taking another step and taking her gently by the elbow. "Please. Think about Willy, about our wonderful life near the beach. Think about how good we’ve been together. How good we can still be."

She couldn’t look at him in the eyes.

"I need some time" she repeated, her head low. She pushed him gently away. "I’ll got see Willy, at my parents." 

She shrugged. "Get a new perspective, fresh air, too."

Will tried to get near her again, but she took a few steps away. "I knew we shouldn’t have rushed into this mariage, there’s always been something telling me this was too good, too good."

She turned back towards him, looked at his paled face. His beautiful blue eyes. 

She sighed, remorse, fear and regret all at once in that breath.

Gently, she closed the gap between her and her husband, for a sweet pressing of the lips. 

"I’ll take a cab to the nearest station" she whispered. "You get back home. We think about this."

Will nodded. "Anything you say" he murmured, "anything you say."

She laughed bitterly. "Yeah, right. Look how good that did to me."

She shook her head, then turned her back to him, and started walking away. 

*

With Molly gone, there was nothing standing between Will and his wish to punch a hole in Hannibal's face. 

He got back in the house and looked around for the man, slamming doors in the process. 

Hannibal wasn't downstairs, so Will went to look on the first floor. 

There were four doors there, one clearly hiding Mischa's bedroom, somewhat messy and covered in both modern and classical dance posters. Another one was neat, blue, and didn't feel very warm at all, as if its occupant hadn't slept there in quite some time. Will recognised one of Abigail's scarves hanging on a hook there. Consequently, the last and most remote door was probably the actual guest room and, at the extreme opposite, right next to Mischa's bedroom, ought to be Hannibal's own. 

Will hesitated. He was quite upset, and overly emotional. He decided to take time to calm down, and went to open the last door on the left. 

It was a large bathroom, tidy, shiny, smelling of cleaning products. Will went to sit on the side of the bathtub. One visit. It had taken one visit from Hannibal for his marriage to go to shit. After eight fucking years of silence. 

He took his head in-between hands and breathed deeply. 

He had to end this. He had to tell Hannibal, once and for all, this was it. They were done. And that if he kept coming after him, Will would turn him in to the FBI. 

Calmer now, he got up and drank a little from the tap, clear water that cleansed his mind. 

Then he went for the last, unopened door. 

*

His head leaning against the side of the bed, Hannibal was fighting to stay awake. The world seemed blurry around him, and breathing alone felt exhausting. 

His brain screamed at him to stay and rest, sleep there, sitting on the floor next to the bed, while the tiniest scrape of lucidity that was left insisted he should get up, lay on the bed, and put on his catheter. 

He had no strength left, it felt like the world weighted on him as if wanting to crush him. He thought about Mischa, and tried to get up, but he didn't seem to be able to move properly anymore. It didn't matter; if he could only reach the catheter and a needle, properly settle it. Even laying on the floor like a hobo, not even dressed for the night. He had to. Mischa would cry otherwise.

When the door opened, he was mid-way through his goal of turning towards the nightstand, where his needles were. He didn't really register the newcomer, too caught up in the most important thing right then. He fumbled in his drawer, exhausted, spreading packs of sterile needles and cotton pads everywhere. 

He didn't even feel like cleaning it up. 

“I need Mischa” he said when a firm hand took him by the arm and lifted him up to sit him on the bed. 

His head spun, and he almost blanked out; came back to his senses with something soft and warm against his forehead. Gentle fingers on his neck. 

“I need Mischa” he babbled again, meeting blue eyes with his brown own, confused because they weren't Abbe's. “She'll be sad” he said. “I can't let that happen.”

His voice sounded faint and remote, he wasn't even sure he was intelligible. He thought about sleeping when he was laid down gently on the bed. 

His stomach hurt so much. 

The man was typing on his telephone, but his hand stilled before pressing the call button. Hannibal blinked slowly, unable to move, drained. He thought about his little sister, the blue eyed one and the brown eyed one, both so strong and pure, fierce and tender. He didn't want to let them down. 

He was letting them down. 

“Drawer” he whispered, hoping the stranger would hear him. “Bottom. Drawer.”

The man heard. He hesitated, put down his unused phone, and slid the bottom drawer open. 

There was an envelop there, carefully annotated in Hannibal's handwriting, “Last will.”

“Not” Hannibal said, so tired thinking was exhausting to him. “Tickets.”

It was a pair of entries to an upcoming, expensive ballet, as well as airplane ones as it was set in France. There were also instructions and hotel room bookings made in both Mischa's and Hannibal's name. 

“To Abigail” Hannibal said quietly. “Please.”

He knew Will wouldn’t call an ambulance.

Chapter Text

“Don't move. The nurse said you mustn't strain yourself.”

The familiar pain of hunger was piercing through the veil of sleep. Hannibal frowned, blinked, then opened his eyes, seing the world as if through a veil.

The catheter was set neatly on his upper arm, where there was space left for a needle bite. He felt disgustingly weak, and dizzy.

“Is Mischa back?” he asked, hoping he'd somehow slept through the week-end. 

“She'll be back on Monday” Will said. 

Hannibal turned away from him. His scent alone made him feel like throwing up. 

“Then I will wait for her here” he stated, reassured that at least he could gather the strength to talk. “Thank you for your assistance. I wouldn't burden you further.”

“I'm not going” Will said. “I would be alone at home anyway, and I don't want to think about how I've ruined my marriage merely three weeks after celebrating it.”

“You brought her to my house” Hannibal pointed out, trying to convey by his tone alone how justified he'd been in telling her the truth. 

“I'm not accusing you of anything.”

Hannibal's mind was still too tired to register things properly, but Will's quietness intrigued him.

“Why did you call for help?” he asked slowly. 

“Maybe I'm a fool” Will answered. 

Hannibal felt a hand take his own gently. 

“Maybe I'd rather let you kill people than die. After all, I've been covering up for you all those years, haven't I?”

Hannibal’s head hurt, burning like a fire. Pain. He frowned, his eyes shut tight, feeling a single tear carve a path along his cheek. He turned his face towards the younger man again. 

“You won't come back, will you?” he asked in a low voice. 

The beautiful curls, dark and wild, and now a scruffy beard. Gorgeous eyes, like water, sky-blue, and pink lips, and a chiseled body, and he was... 

He was not coming back. 

“I will go home and try to patch things up with my wife, yes.”

Hannibal swallowed, his throat tight. “I see” he said quietly. He tried to straighten up but a firm hand on his chest stopped him. 

Hannibal’s jaw tightened. 

“Help me get better” he said. “Help me eat. I cannot let Mischa see me in that state.”

“I'll do my best” Will whispered. He turned around and Hannibal noticed he'd piled four cans of liquid nutritional supplements next to him on the nightstand. It wasn't the brand he usually used; this one came straight out of the hospital, probably given to him by the nurse. His stomach turned at the idea of eating.

“I would need a napkin” Hannibal stated blandly, controlling his breath to face what was going to happen next. He indicated to Will where he kept them, then arranged a very large one over his chest, making sure it covered his neck as well. Had he been the average man, he would have refused to make any eye contact with Will at this point. 

The younger man had opened a can of LNS, and looked at his liquid insides with a puzzled look. White, somewhat yellowish, with no smell whatsoever and the consistence of liquid cream. It wasn't  appetizing at all. 

“Right” he said in a dubious tone. “I'm supposed to give you that.”

“Yes” Hannibal swallowed, readying himself to look absolutely unfazed for what he was going to say next. “Actually, we would have to take that last sentence quite literally, I'm afraid.”

Saying the actual words was too humiliating. 

“Yeah, I'm supposed to spoon-feed you, right?” Will said without looking at him, setting himself next to him on the bed instead. 

Hannibal felt suddenly very cold. “You've called Mischa.”

“You passed out on me. Of course I called Mischa.”

Buzzing in his ears. 

Exhaustion. Hunger, and pain. Humiliation, even Indignity; Hannibal could take it all. But that, that– 

He gasped, cutting the sound sharply with his front teeth. “She will get worried” he hissed, trying to get up even though he didn't have a proper agenda, thinking about running to his little sister to tell her he was alright and she didn't have to worry at all. 

Will pushed him back firmly on the bed, maintained him there with a hand while he stroked his arm with the other. “Shhh, shhh, shh, look at me, look at me Hannibal, calm down. She'll be fine. She's worried right now but you're going to eat and get better, so when she comes home on Monday she'll see that she has nothing to worry about. Alright?”

Mischa. Worried Mischa. Mischa far away in panic.

“I've failed her” he stated blankly, feeling tears burn the skin of his face. Eyes wide, lost in a haze. 

“You’ve done nothing wrong. You're sick.”

“She’d been dreaming to go on this journey forever, and I am ruining it for her.” Unconsciously, perhaps, he was clinging to Will. 

The young man had never seen Hannibal in this state. The man pressed his forehead against Will’s arm, subconsciously looking for warmth and comfort. What happened during those eight years. Did I do that to you? 

The older man would probably have wept if he hadn't been so exhausted. 

Will took Hannibal’s head in-between his hands and gently dried the tears away. 

The other closed his eyes tiredly, and even though more tears came out, he seemed to calm down. 

“You haven't failed Mischa” Will said gently. “You are the best brother she could hope for, the best brother anyone could hope for. She knows you didn't fail her, and she certainly doesn't think you did. Nobody thinks you did.”

Hannibal opened tired, slightly unfocused eyes. “I failed you” he pointed out. 

Will heard his own heart beat furiously in his chest, blood buzzing in his ears. He felt acutely aware of his surroundings, of the weakness of that barely conscious man whose face he was holding, of the hotness of his tears, soft strands of hair. For one second, he envisioned himself leaning in, kissing him, passionately, to convey to him how fucking wrong he was and how strongly Will still felt about him. 

But what good would it do. 

He gently settled him back against his cushion instead. “We are going to eat now, alright?”

Hannibal swallowed, and shook his head. 

Will stroked his forehead gently. “Maybe some water first, would some water be fine?”

The other hesitated, then shook his head again; then he started trembling, as if he had a fever. 

“Okay, okay, sshhh, it's nothing, we're not eating right now, love” Will said, surprised and slightly ashamed at how easy the last word had been to say. “You're too tired to eat, am I right? You sleep a little longer. Would that be fine?”

He wasn't sure Hannibal understood him clearly. He seemed lost in a haze, half-awake, worried but too tired to think, caught in a woken nightmare. 

Will helped him under the covers, praising him gently as if he were a child, stroking his hair. Then he kissed him on the cheek, and stayed there, breathing on his neck, smelling his hair, listening to his uneven breath until he eventually fall asleep. 

*

“It will be fine Mischa, I promise.”

Mischa was a mess. Will had never heard her cry, and now she was sobbing quietly, saying that she would take the first train she could and walk home if she had to, and gut every single one of those strike people guys who thought it right to deviate airplanes away from sick family members. 

“I will take care of him.”

“You don't know the first thing about taking care of him” she had stated resentfully. 

This had been the second phone call. During the first one, she'd been utterly clinical and efficient, telling exactly what he was dealing with and how to take care of it. 

Calling her again to ask wether letting Hannibal sleep some more was actually a good idea had actually not, been a good idea. 

“The nurse says as long as I get him to drink those cans–”

“You have no fucking idea–”

“Maybe not, but I'll try. Don't worry too much about it. I will deal with it.”

“Don't worry??”

It hadn't been the most relaxing call. 

Now Hannibal was waking up again, and Will carefully settled the opened can of white bland stuff on the nightstand, putting the others away from sight –so he won't get anxious about the amount, Mischa had said. 

He gently settled the wide napkin on Hannibal's chest again, stroking him soothingly in the process, stroking his cheek. Hannibal looked at him warily, as if he couldn't decide if Will was putting on a show. 

But he wasn't. Incredibly, it felt so good to simply be here and be caring after him. It felt so simple. Natural. 

Obvious. 

Oddly, Will had never felt so calm, and confident. He knew what he had to do, and for once his empathy would come in handy. 

He played around with the napkin, making sure Hannibal was comfortable and relaxed, almost feeling like this was the foreplay of eating dinner. When the other's tension diminished, Will asked if he wanted something to drink. 

Hannibal tensed up again, sending him a wary look, but relaxed when he saw Will was speaking of water, and smiled slightly when he saw him pour it in a wide wine glass. 

It was one of Mischa's trick. She emptied bottles of water before hand and replenished them with a mix of water and liquid nutritional supplement, as much a she could put in without it showing. She bought a very rare brand of bottle water for that, so that Hannibal would attribute any weird taste to that particular brand and not to the LNS in it. She even went so far as to put some unscented glue under the bottle's tap when she closed it back on, so it would resist opening and seem sealed to her brother.

That was her secret weapon, and Will was not to ruin it. 

So he gave Hannibal that water and never commented on it, pushing the glass slowly in-between his lips, relieved to see he swallowed some of it even though a little startled dripping around quite quickly. He put the glass away, dried Hannibal's chin gently with a dry napkin and smiled to him so he wouldn't feel ashamed. 

Hannibal looked surprised, almost relieved, that Will didn't comment on his incapacity to drink water properly. He had a little more after that, maybe what an average adult would have considered a sip. Will gave him time to ingest and rest in-between each one. Mischa had said to be patient, and that timing was paramount. 

She had also insisted that Will didn't give Hannibal too much water before eating, or he'll be full on half a glass and unable to swallow anything else. So after a time, Will offered to switch to food –well, canned stuff. 

It had gone quite well until then, and he was starting to think this wouldn't be that difficult. 

He didn't fill his spoon, as Mischa had asked him, only dipped it in the white liquid, feeling ridiculous; but she'd said they had to start slowly. The resulting amount was laughable, and Will felt almost cheap when he presented it to Hannibal. 

The man was looking at him, pondering. 

“Alright, love, time to open up, 'kay?” Will told him gently, starting to realise he was actually about to put a spoon in Hannibal's mouth, see those full, curved lips part away for him, give him way, let him in. 

For the time being, they didn't move. Mischa said that happened, when Hannibal was too tense to even open his mouth. Will hoped that wasn't one of those times. 

Eventually, still looking at Will in deep ponder, the man parted his lips, just enough for the spoon to get in –and all that had gotten in just got out right away, simply running along his chin as he was looking away.

Will didn't mention it, wiped him clean, dipped his spoon in the LNS again. 

“So, you're going to a ballet with Mischa” he said, presenting again the spoon before Hannibal's lips. “Does she want to be a professional dancer?”

“She wants to join the FBI” Hannibal said, accepting the spoonful and spiting it out right away. He wiped himself and added “But I am certain she does it because of me. She would chose another career I think.”

Small talk wasn't helping. Obviously Hannibal felt less humiliated by the situation, but it weirded Will out –having this grown, collected man chitchat with him casually as he was repeatedly spitting out of his food like a young child who doesn't want to eat. 

“I tried to convince her to choose another career, but she's set on becoming a profiler like you. I wish I could change her mind” Hannibal sighed. 

Will wanted to comment on that, but he feared it would upset the other man, and close him up even more to eating. So he nodded and encouraged his chatting, trying to act as if the whole thing wasn't at all ridiculous. 

Hannibal was visibly very worried about Mischa. He blamed himself (rightly Will thought) for her wanting to build her life around him –career wise at least. 

“I have contacted every eating disorder specialist in the world it seems” Hannibal stated quietly. “I have tried hypnotising myself, and even asked someone to do it to me –which obviously didn't work. I have tried modifying my chemical biology, and taken all sorts of drugs. Even my own methods didn't work.”

“Being a surgeon doesn't make you automatically right” Will pointed out, slightly irritated by the other's words. 

Hannibal quietened. “I am not a surgeon” he said. 

Will was dipping the spoon. “What, you're not 'Doctor Hannibal Lecter, M.D' as you've always dreamt to be?” he said distractedly. “As if. You even once told me you did what you did so you could become a surgeon.”

“I had to drop out of the university” Hannibal said quietly. 

Will startled. “What?”  

Hannibal looked at him in ponder.

“I got sick” he eventually answered. “I couldn't drive to Baltimore, so I would have had to stay at the morgue, but I couldn't let Mischa and Abigail alone. Also, after a while, I became too feeble to attend. So I dropped out, took some odd jobs to support the family, and never became a surgeon.”

Will had forgotten about his spoon. “You mean you started to have eating issues about eight years ago?” he mumbled. 

“I thought Abigail had told you so.”

“Abigail always said you were fine” Will retorted, feeling resentful against her, now. “Clearly she was lying.”

“She had issues of her own.”

Will played around with the canned liquid. “She said you became a therapist a couple years ago.”

“I did. Once Abigail was settled and Mischa quite grown up, I had time to go back to studying. My illness had lessened a lot; I could even drink and eat a little by myself.” 

He sighed, clearly missing those times. 

“When did it fall apart again?”

Hannibal straightened his napkin. “It went down once when Abigail moved out, after her first wedding” he said. “Though she visits frequently, and I am used to her absence now.”

Will fed him.

“Did you get used to mine?”

Hannibal tidied himself up. “I was foolish enough to believe it would be temporary.” 

He sighed. “I would take you from your wife” he said “but how am I ever to compare to a lovely woman who enjoys ugly dogs and can eat by herself? I haven't got enough energy to try and seduce you, and am probably not at my best aesthetically either.”

Will didn't tell him he wouldn't care. 

“You were never that pessimistic in your youth” he remarked instead.

Hannibal looked at him. “Abigail doesn't need me anymore” he said. “The only reason I force myself to eat is for Mischa. She's too young to lose me; she needs my support. Yet I cannot stand to live in such indignity, being fed by strange nurses on a daily basis. I cannot travel, nor make long visits, even going to the Opera tires me. I have taken to play the harpsichord, a gift from Abigail's first wife. That disorder is a disability that weights on me like rocks, making every steps I want to take a challenge. I have been fighting for eight years to go on. I will fight for at least eight other years for Mischa's sake. Afterwards, if my condition doesn't improve, I am not so sure the prize outweighs the burden. But maybe I will say otherwise in eight years.”

Will didn't answer, not knowing how. He gave him a spoon-full, wiped him after he'd spit it all out. 

“Have you swallowed even a little of what I've been feeding you?” he asked. 

Hannibal grit his teeth. “Not really.”

Will lowered his head. 

Then he put the can and spoon away, took one of Hannibal's hand between his own, stroking it gently, pensively. After a while, he got on the bed next to him, cuddled against him, amazed at how familiar the sensation still felt after eight years of parting.

“What can I do?” he asked. “So you'll eat?”

“I tried everything” Hannibal answered. “When I am in that state, nothing usually works.”

He relaxed in his cushion, sinking next to Will contentedly. 

“Not everything” Will said, straightening up to take the can and spoon again. 

Hannibal had a bitter smile. “Will...”

“Shhh.” The younger man filled his spoon and put it in his mouth. It had no taste, felt vaguely sticky. 

“You are married” Hannibal pointed out, probably to remark on the sexual trait of Will's upcoming actions more than to lecture him on fidelity. 

Will swallowed to speak. “Maybe not for long” he said, thinking about Molly and her beautiful body, her eyes, her wonderful mind. “Anyway, this is a test.”

He took another mouthful and leaned over Hannibal, his breath teasingly stroking the other's lips until he parted them open. 

Of course Hannibal tried to get the kiss without having any of the food, but Will managed to distract him long enough so he would be forced to at least swallow his saliva, and with it, part of the nutritional liquid. 

“Did you get any?” Will asked afterwards. 

Hannibal's upper lip slightly rose in a disdainful snort, but he nodded nonetheless.

This wasn't about love after all. This was all for Mischa. 

He closed his eyes when Will leaned in again, and wrapped his arms around him, partly pretending this wasn't a trick, a game, a mere way of beating his sickness. 

The rest of him knew, and it hurt. But he was used to that kind of hurting. He decided to enjoy the moment. 

He didn't tell Will he was slowly getting full. He would probably throw up at night, his stomach disused to the sensation of not being starved. He waited until the younger man said his jaw was hurting, and that he needed a break. 

Hannibal took a nap then, feeling physically fuller than he'd been in quite some time, emotionally drained. When he woke up, Will kissed him again. 

He was tender enough it felt genuine. He even stroke his back while doing it. Hannibal couldn't swallow most of the nutritional liquid, but some of it still made it, probably quickly ingested by his empty digestive track.

They kept at it until night fall, alternating between kiss-feeding and napping. Hannibal ate too slowly to actually fill his stomach, but the painful sensation of hunger was diminished, which meant he would get sick.

Throwing up was actually worse than eating little, because it was straining.

But Hannibal wouldn't tell Will. He hadn't feel that good, that cared for in a long time. Will almost treated him as if he was precious, as if he truly loved him.  

A pang of jealousy teared through him when he thought about how Molly was lucky enough to be both cared after and cared about by this man. 

He asked Will to help him change. He was truly too tired to do it, but mostly, he wanted him to see his body. It was the one move he had, because actions and words were both exhausting to him. 

He tried to be elegant at least, while clumsily removing his shirt –and having to sit to do it, as maintaining his equilibrium had proven difficult and he had gotten dizzy. 

He sat on the bed, breathing quietly to get the haze away, maintaining a neutral expression, hiding how humiliated he felt, with his shirt half opened and no strength to remove it.

“I can count your ribs” Will noted as he kneeled in-between Hannibal's legs to get the shirt off more easily. 

Hannibal had never thought about that. About how he looked. Abigail was pretty, Mischa was beautiful –and he had never felt the need to evaluate himself on the scale of pulchritude because the one person he wanted desired him. 

There was no desire in Will's eyes now, but a sort of sadness, almost fear. He didn't like Hannibal's body anymore, he didn't enjoy watching it, and he had only touched him to soothe him, not because he wanted to. 

Hannibal felt, for the first time in his life for he had not cared about it before, that he wasn't desirable. 

He made the effort to lift a hand, to stroke Will's face lightly, the curve of his cheek, the line of his lips. Gorgeous blue eyes with long, pretty lashes, and shiny black curls of hair like a crown on his head. 

So that was what people called “being out of someone's league”. Hannibal had never wondered about it before. It had felt so simple –he loved Will, and Will wanted him. 

The young man had removed the shirt, was scrutinising Hannibal's body in deep, thoughtful concentration, like if he was trying to figure how to fix a mess. His fingers were light and soft, almost tickling; he ran then gently over him to assess his thinness. 

Without strength to be spiritual, energy to gracefully create a moment of wonderful delight as he did during dinner parties, without even a body to passively attract, what could he do. 

Was that hopelessness he was feeling?

Hannibal decided to ignore it and leaned in to put his forehead in Will's hair. “I'll admit I find your wife smart, polite and pretty. But she is not me, William. She never will be.”

Will's hands stilled each on one of Hannibal's tights. “You're not that special” he replied, but his tone was half joking. 

Hannibal chuckled, because he was. He was weak and ugly and a murderer, but he was just that special. 

“I love you” he told Will, because he wanted him to hear it. 

“I know. It's not... changing anything though. I love Molly, I really want to live with her and Willy in that beach house with seven dogs.”

Hannibal smiled, because he didn't care. “I am coming to terms with it” he lied. “I am getting used to the idea that you will not come back. That maybe there is someone else I could love so.”

He felt a pang of pain. 

Will had gripped him too tight, digging fingers in his flesh suddenly before letting go. “Maybe.”

“You don't like that.”

“No.”

Not even denying it. Hannibal nuzzled Will's hair. “I could still be yours” he whispered, hoping he would be able to stay conscious if Will took his word for it right then. 

Will snorted, then chuckled. “You're unbelievable” he laughed. “Right, let's finish getting you into your jamies, 'kay? You look like you could use some sleep.”

*

Around midnight Hannibal woke, thinking this was when his body decided to tear his stomach in half until it got emptied. 

But it wasn't. There was a warmth against him, a whole body cuddling with him gently with a smile on his lips, and a beard that tickled and rasped even through the fabric of his pyjamas. A man who was supposed to be in the guest room, if Hannibal had been able to stay awake long enough to indicate him where it was. He wasn't sure he had; he didn't remember going to bed. 

He put a hand on his stomach, that was upset from eating and slightly nauseous. 

But he was so warm and cosy now, bathing in Will's smell and embraced by those arms. 

It took him a few hours to conquer his nausea, but he eventually did and drifted back to sleep. 

In the morning, there were kisses again.

Chapter Text

Will hadn't wanted to kiss Hannibal. He knew it was the worst idea, and he felt bad cheating on Molly. 

But Hannibal had passed out. He'd actually passed out and babbled about Mischa and the possibility of his death. 

Will had figured, what the hell. 

It worked, too. Felt so natural and right, as if they'd been at it for years instead of growing apart. Felt like they were married already. 

It made him happy. Warm inside and fuzzy like he'd never felt before. High on love, Molly would said.

Will pushed aside his thoughts of her and of their life by the beach, decided not to think about it until Monday. 

Hannibal was eating.

He slept in his bed too, feeling younger, remembering how this meant the world to him when he was twenty. 

Mischa had said, don't let him out of your sight. 

When Hannibal woke up he was better. He smiled as if Will was going to stay, beautiful, beaming.

Kissing him felt painful, now Will had seen him bare. Some bones pocking his skin, and even though his muscles were fit enough to maintain the illusion of mass, they couldn't make him pass as healthy. He had to eat. He had to eat. 

They spent the whole day in bed. Will chatted lightly with Hannibal, preoccupied with amounts of nutritional liquid ingested, pretending to listen. Ironically, Hannibal was still too unfocused to truly notice. He smiled, and moaned lightly when Will kiss-fed him. 

Perhaps he was playing along; perhaps he was too tired to notice this was a trick; in all cases, he wrapped himself around Will eagerly, offered up and warm, moving against his body, stroking his back gently, pretending at least. 

But Will knew, couldn't feel aroused after seeing that, those ribs poking out of his chest like a cadaver's. He knew it was his fault, at least partly, that he had done that. 

He couldn't do that to him again. Hannibal would, most probably, die. 

A younger version of him would have jumped on the occasion, and on the man. 

Now he stayed focused on the task, on feeding him until Mischa came home. 

Hannibal didn't complain. 

*

“I would ask a favour” Hannibal said after a long nap. 

“I'm not done with the last favour I was asked off” Will remarked playfully. 

“There is one thing I have never done, never really wanted to do, but with you. I wondered if you would indulge me.”

“Depends” Will said, munching on a piece of bread because a man has to eat. “What is it?”

The look in Hannibal's eyes was unmistakable. 

“I am married” Will reminded him. “Quite happily, until you came around. And I am actually appalled that you would have 'waited for me'.”

“I simply did not feel inclined to do so with anyone I met.”

“Yeah, well; I'm not in the equation.”

Hannibal sighed, turned his head on the side, on the pillow, looking at the window. “I understand” he said. “I thought it worth to ask.”

Will rolled his eyes. “Alright, now that's cleared out –time to eat some more.”

“I am not hungry.” 

“I am supposed to be surprised.”

The young man took Hannibal by the upper arm to pull him on his back. 

“A few months after mother married your dad, you made an escape to the woods. Do you remember?” Hannibal said.

Will thought about it. “Maybe. Was it raining?”

“Not at first. You had had a fight with your dad about his marrying mother so soon after Mrs Graham-Hobbs' death –even though they had been divorced for quite some time then.”

“Those weren't my best days.”

“I remember going after you.”

“You did.”

“It started raining, and you got drenched. Soaked like a cat, looking miserable.”

“You got quite wet too.”

“I took you home, to the bathroom, unclothed you and had you take a warm shower.”

Will didn't answer, wondering where this was headed. 

“You were so lost” Hannibal said. “Yet I knew how strong you could be –how many times had you come home with a blackened eye or a sore lips, saying you had had to defend some kid from bullies again? With a frowned brown and a fierce look, daring anyone to comment on that.”

Will stroke Hannibal's arm gently. “What are you getting at?”

Hannibal paused. “You cuddled against me, still wet from the shower, curled on yourself like a wounded animal under the towel. It's... I wanted to protect you then. Make sure nothing worse would ever happen to you –helping you outgrow that trauma, and become. You were the most gorgeous chrysalis, and you were in my arms.”

Will chuckled. “Am I a pretty butterfly now?” he teased.

“Butterflies are free. You are not free, William.”

“Says the man stuck in bed, who's been obsessed by the same man for about ten years.”

Hannibal swallowed. “I'd like to destroy you” he said. “Burn your house down to the ground, open up your wife and kid from sternum to sacrum, skin off each one of your dogs –because this is how much it hurts knowing you're not loving me.”

Will didn't answer, confused, his emotions hesitating between fear and anger.

“I'd ruin your career” –Hannibal was day dreaming– “I'd expose your mind naked for all to see, I'd have everyone believe you're a murderer instead of me –a monster. I would turn the whole world against you, and you would hate me for it, with burning passion. Maybe you would even try to kill me again.”

Suddenly, Will realised Hannibal longed after the violence that had transpired then. After the intensity of Will's feelings for him. 

“However, you are right” Hannibal said. “I am 'stuck in bed', too weak to act right now, not even fit to think.” He sighed. “I would like some time alone.”

“Mischa insisted that I wouldn't live your side” Will said. “Also, you haven't eaten.”

“I lost my appetite. Maybe napping some more will do me good.”

He resolutely turned his back to Will, and closed his eyes. 

Will sighed. “Fine, have it your way” he said as he was leaning down in his chair. He took back the book he had borrowed from Mischa's room during Hannibal's previous nap. After some time, he left to go to the bathroom. 

When he came back, Hannibal was up, adjusting a suit. 

“You look better” Will commented, admiring the sharpness of well tailored clothes on him. 

“This latter nap did me good. I would like to cook some bienvenue dinner for Mischa. Do you want to help?”

*

“My love.”

“Anniba!” Mischa ran past Will without even pretending to notice his presence, jumping joyfully at her brother’s neck. 

The sudden change in Hannibal’s attitude was striking. Cold, tired, and collected instantly turned into warm embraces and a radiant smile. He was beaming. 

Mischa couldn’t stop kissing his face. “I missed you, bubble gum” she said while messing with his hair with both hands. 

He hugged her harder. “How was your journey?”

“Oh, grand, brilliant! I loved every second of it, did you know I’m too young to enter the UNO? What a surprise, old people thinking younger ones are clueless. How have you been? I heard you’ve been bad again.”

“I’m fine, little queen. I managed to nourish myself enough.”

She put her hands on his shoulders and looked at him in the eyes, suddenly serious.

“You’ve taken adrenaline again.”

Hannibal stilled, almost imperceptibly. “I wanted to make you diner.”

Mischa frowned. Will could tell she was trying hard not to snap at him. She breathed in, deeply. “I would rather you don’t take it anymore” she managed to state calmly. 

Hannibal nodded, but everyone could have told he was just humoring her. 

Mischa slapped him gently on the shoulder. “I’m serious, you big pile of nonsense. You know it’s wearing you out more than the not eating part. Please don’t do it again.” 

Hannibal gently took her by the elbows. “I need to be able to move, your highness. We have talked about that.”

Mischa pouted —frowning, hurt, and sad. “And as always, you’ve chosen to entirely ignore my feelings on the matter.”

“I have chosen to cook you a welcome diner.”

Her lower lip quivered. “Then you’re an imbecile” she stated, fighting hard not to tremble in anger. She detached herself from her brother and turned on her heels to run upstairs and very noisily make a point of slamming her door. 

Hannibal looked vexed. 

“I explained to her it’s a necessity” he told Will.

The younger man raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure she’s clever enough to know the difference between a necessity and a life-threatening whim.”

The other nostrils’ flared. “My sister deserved a warm welcome.”

“Which I could have cooked. Maybe I’m not as much as a chef as you are, but I’m not on the verge of death by exhaustion.”

“I believe you are being much too dramatic” Hannibal retorted dryly, turning on his heels to go rescue the ‘salmon mousse and green peas’ which apple and honey sirop crust was scrumptiously learning how to crunch in the oven.  

Will sighed, and decided to make a point by not following him in the kitchen, going for the stairs instead. He was thinking about giving Mischa a recap before leaving.

Which he may do after the salmon mousse, though. 

Mischa was curled up in a ball around one of her pillows; she startled and instantly took a ‘laying super casually in bed while reading Ursula Le Guin pose’, but interrupted herself when she noticed who was actually entering, alone. 

“I thought you might want a recap of the week-end” Will said, standing in the doorway quite ill-at-ease. 

Mischa nibbled on her lower lip before nodding, allowing him to enter. “Close the door” she said. 

“Hannibal might want to join us.”

“Yeah, I know. Put the lock on.”

Will hesitated, startled. 

“Maybe you don’t know, but he can be very sneaky” she elaborated. 

The young man slowly put the lock on; Mischa relaxed a bit. “There’s a chair.”

It was far from her, at her desk; Will assumed the distance would do them both good. 

“So” she said. “How much did he eat?”

Will gave her the details, forced to be precise by her dry questioning. After a while, she let herself relax into her pillow a little. 

“It’s not that bad” she said. “I confess I feared you’d do much worse. Not that I’m impressed.”

Will couldn’t help a smile. “How was your trip?” he asked. 

“Like you care about that.” She got up and slid on her bed to sit on its edge. “When are you going?”

He shrugged. “I’m thinking after diner.”

She nodded, and let out a gentle, soft sigh. “Thank you.”

Will twitched, and looked at the tip of his feet. A moment passed. 

“I’d like to ask you something personal, if you let me” he finally said. 

She pondered. 

“Alright.”

Will hesitated. Are you happy? How are you doing? Are you fine in this life? Is there something you need —you’d want… 

“I’d like to know how you’re doing —if you’re okay. If living with Hannibal isn’t too… demanding for a thirteen year old— if you need anything.”

She didn’t snapped like he’d feared she would. She shrunk. 

“My brother’s very sick” she said. “How do you think I’m doing?”

He licked his lips, queasy and sick at heart. “I’d rather have you tell me.”

She frowned. “So you can call social services on me?”

He shot her a hurt glance, and she twitched. 

“I’m fine” she said, avoiding his eyes. “I really love my brother. He means the world to me, and he’s… so caring. So nice. Always here for me, and not in an overly protective way. He’s perfect. Just… perfect.”

She hugged herself.

“He’s been sick for years” Will remarked quietly. “The chances that he’ll die of it now are quite slim.”

“Why you even care” she retorted coldly. “You’re not afraid of losing him. You’ve actually dumped him. You’re that man who found happiness in a bottle and threw it away because he’d rather have it in a lamp. You have no idea how bad it hurts, losing him.”

She looked away, and he thought, I know more than you about that. 

“No you don’t” she snapped. “He loves you. He still loves you. You’ve never lost him, he’s still yours, he’s still here, waiting for your stupid ass to return. You haven’t lost him, you’ve abandoned him.”

“He’s a fucking serial killer!” Will shouted —noticing too late he’d jumped on his feet to scream, furious. Then he felt his heart stop. Did Mischa know about that? Was she still aware?

The girl shook his head. “Yeah. I guess one can love that much only a small amount of people. But so what?” 

Her voice trembled.

“Do you know anyone, anyone Will, who’d love you unconditionally? Your weird hair in the morning, your morning breath, the fact that you’ve broken his favourite teacup again; you being good at school, you being bad at school, you grumpy, you glad, you deciding to become a bloody dictator or you running for the Nobel price —who loves that way?”

Will bit back a retort. 

“Mad men” she said. “He’s putting his life on the line, because he thinks —he knows— we’re worth it. All of it. The ugliness of you… hurting him, and the hours I spent feeding him at the hospital. All of it.”

Will swallowed. 

“It doesn’t… it doesn’t make it alright” he said. “Killing people. It doesn’t make it right.”

Mischa grinned in pain. “Of course not” she said. “But he’s a kid, or some sort of mythical creature who’s actually convinced one can love others with their whole being —that it’s worth the pain, and dying of it. That pain and dying are just beautiful life experiences among others.” 

Will was still in shock. “You don’t approve” he repeated.

“What?”

“You don’t approve of him killing. I thought you’d be his first supporter.”

She frowned. “Why on Earth would you believe that?”

He felt a weight lift up his chest. “Abbe doesn’t mind” he said. “And you love him so much.”

“Loving someone doesn’t mean agreeing with everything they do” she stated. “Only fools and Hannibal would think otherwise.”

Will went to kneel by her side, suddenly very aware of how much he’d needed to hear those words. 

“So you don’t like that he’s a killer?”

“I’m not a traumatised young girl who hallucinates that her dead daddy is coming to end her.”

Will rubbed his head, then laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

He fell his back against the side of the bed, elated, relieved, revived. “I thought I was the only one.”

“If you thought that, you wouldn’t have minded telling your police friends what you know.”

He turned his head towards her. “The only one who knows Hannibal, I meant.”

She stilled, then looked at the wall. 

“I asked him to stop” she said. “But he wouldn’t listen to me. Or rather, he’s conflicted.”

She twitched, and nervously rubbed her fingers together. “He’s sick because of me.”

“Mischa, everything you’ve said until know made me thought you’re brilliant —but I’m now doubting that.”

She grit her teeth, unamused. “It’s also your fault” she retorted “—well mostly his, obviously.”

He waited for her to elaborate. 

“I think he’s weakening himself” she said. “He can’t kill in this state. This way, he pleases me by not killing, and himself by not seemingly doing it out of his own volition. He’s still being who he wants to be, which is both a man free of social nonsense and a man who tremendously loves his sister.”

Will pouted. “He doesn’t seem to enjoy the starving part a lot.”

“I’m not saying he’s actually doing this voluntarily to himself. But he probably knows where the root of the issue lies.”

“Pleasing you?”

“Not being abandoned.”

Will stilled.

“Our parents both abandoned him” Mischa said. “For weeks at times. He starved himself to feed me. He probably links the sensation of hunger to the idea of taking care of someone. And you’ve left— you’ve left him. He’s probably convinced he didn’t love you properly enough.”

Will shrugged. “By starving himself?”

“Food’s important to him. It’s a symbol of caring. Only people who love you would feed you, give you life.”

Will startled. 

“What?” she asked. 

The food in the bin. He’d put all of it in the bin. The meat. 

“You’re thinking of something” Mischa said.

Telling him to stop. To not bring that home anymore, to stop cooking.

That, that he’d come by at great risks for himself.

You’re not allowed to love us. You’re really not good enough.

“That’s also a tool” Will said.

“A tool?”

“You can’t really leave him in this state, can you? It’d be like…”

“Kicking a puppy?”

Will looked at her. She seemed tired. “I know that. He knows that. We both hate it —and kind of secretly enjoy it. He needs me, which means he’s not leaving, and I can prove how much I care about him, which is self explanatory. It’s really just an unhealthy win-win situation.”

Will leaned against the bed tiredly. “Does it bother you?”

“A bit. Not that much, really. He’s perfect, I told you. He knows exactly how to make me happy —let me live my life without smothering me, help me without crippling my independence— he’s a perfect dad.”

She titled his head. “Why did you hurt him?”

Will hesitated. “He’d pushed Abbe to kill.”

“We both know who took that decision.”

Will swallowed. 

“You wanted to keep him all to himself, is that it?” Mischa said. “And not let him play with the other girl?”

Her voice sounded like the echo of guilt his Will’s mind. 

“You know, maybe I don’t like you that much” he said somewhat teasingly. “You’re too clever for your age.”

“I’m too clever for most ages” she replied. “Stay away from my brother, Willy-boy. For both his sake and for yours.”

Chapter Text

Mischa was downstairs with Hannibal, probably cuddling with him on the sofa, giggling when he tickled her, purring like a fat kitten fur ball when he kissed her on the head. 

He would be smiling, the bastard, blowing air into his sister’s belly like she was still a toddler, having her jump on his knees and hug her warmly, tenderness in his eyes. 

The jerk.

Will took another sip of whisky, tried to burp loudly, and failed. It didn’t matter; he’d only wanted to do it to piss off Hannibal anyway. 

He felt dizzy. 

It’d been a perfect week.

Hannibal eating quite easily what Mischa would feed him, small bites, with her kissing his face in-between mouth-not-quite-that-fuls. He beamed. Radiated love and care for her like a sun. Tired but gorgeous, smiling, grinning even when he took his sister carefully into his arms to embrace her tenderly as if she was something precious. Invaluable.   

Will stayed a bit after diner, thinking that he could go anytime, as he’d his car parked nearby.  

Then it was bed-time, and he listened Hannibal tell Mischa a story about the Aztec people and their amazingly arithmetic and heart-tearing abilities. She seemed to enjoy the mathematical data and the building of sharp angled pyramids just as much as how bloody their stairs would eventually get. 

Then Hannibal had kissed his sister goodnight, looking as if being parted from her then actually saddened him. Will said goodbye, got out of the room. 

Hannibal reached for him, laced his arms around him, and didn’t kiss him. He simply stayed there,  embracing him, warm against Will’s body, silent, quietly breathing.

“I have to go” Will said.

Hannibal let go of him. “Yes” he said, and turned away to go to his room.

That’s it?

“It’s not that polite not to say goodbye” Will remarked, following the other into his room. “As I recall, you’ve always been very against anyone being rude.”

“Do you need a bed?” Hannibal asked. “You can have Abigail’s. The sheets are clean.”

Are you asking me to sleep in my sister’s…

“Whatever game you’re playing, it’s not going to work on me.”

“I know.”

“Then stop it.”

“I am not playing.”

“You’re so playing.”

Hannibal smirked, and got under the sheets. “I think you want me to play a game more than I want you to want me to.”

“What?”

Will rolled his eyes, and Hannibal pat the upside of his bed. “Do you want a bedtime story? Mischa had one.”

“I’m not staying.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking if you want to hear about the cannibal tribes from the Caribbean. I’m pretty sure you have a lot to ask on the subject.”

On Tuesday, Will had woken up still dressed up, his hair a mess, with Mischa hugging her brother next to him under the covers. They looked adorable. 

On Wednesday, Abigail managed to squeeze both family time into her schedule and herself in-between Will and Mischa in the thankfully large bed.

On Thursday, they’d all went on a walk in the woods who almost surrounded the house, and discovered a beautiful abandoned house that made Will think of a boat on a lake. It reminded him of their old home. 

On Friday, he received the divorce papers. 

*

Hannibal entered the room slowly, quietly, and Will didn’t want to look at him.

“It’s your fault, you know” he mumbled while taking another gulp of sharp whisky. “If you hadn’t come to our house in the first place, you wouldn’t have gotten that sick, and I wouldn’t have had to come here at all.”

He was been hypocritical; he didn’t care.

Hannibal went to lean on the desk next to Will, not saying a word, just listening.

“She said she called at home, and never found me there, obviously. She said she deduced that I’d never left, breaking our agreement of me never coming here alone. She says she thought about giving me another chance, but that she knew I would blow it off again. Because I still love you.”

Hannibal titled his head.

“You’re wondering if I do, love you” Will stated accusatorially, taking another sip. 

The older man gently took the bottle away from him. “I know you love me, William.”

Will chuckled bitterly. “Love you? I wish you were dead.”

He shrugged. “If you’d died I wouldn’t be in this mess. I wouldn’t be wallowing in self pity about how much of an idiot I’ve been, because who risks a perfectly good mariage over a few stupid days of nostalgia with his family?” 

Without looking at the other man, Will got up and stumbled towards the bed. “I love her. I love Molly. She’s kind and determined and stable, she’s always trying to be honest and a generally good person, she’s clever, she’s gorgeous, she was perfect for me. I didn’t feel like a freak with her. I felt normal. Wanted. Loved. Fitting. And not fitting like I was fitting with you —a monster at home with a bunch of monsters hasn’t evolved much. I felt human.”

“You’re not a monster, William.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Will sat on the bed and rubbing his eyes tiredly. “I can’t believe I insisted to come here. I was so keen on getting closure from my former life with you. I thought a little indulging would be fine.”

Hannibal made a gesture to come closer.

“Don’t you dare” Will spat resentfully —Hannibal stilled. 

“You think you’re so special, do you?” Will muttered bitterly. “You think you’re what’s best in life well grand news —you’re nothing, nothing as compared to Molly. She was being herself alright, and that didn’t include killing people. She was living her life fully, and that didn’t include hurting others. You’re a crook. You’re a teenager with a god complex who’s convinced he’s doing better than all of humanity combined since the first person who decided to walk on rear feet, brush their teeth and call that ‘civilisation’.”

Hannibal decided to approach him carefully. 

Tears were running down the young man’s cheeks. “I can’t believe it’s already over” he whispered. “I had the perfect life, and the perfect wife, and a son, and seven dogs on a beach, and that didn’t even last one month. I was going to be happy” he said, lifting up tearful blue eyes, trembling and clear, heartbreakingly innocent looking. 

Hannibal sat slowly next to him, looking into those beautiful eyes, lifting a gentle hand to stroke his cheek, comfort him. Will leaned into the touch. Tears rolled down when he closed his eyes like pearls of cristal. 

Hannibal pressed his forehead on Will’s, breathing in the other’s scent, stroking his face with both hands, his hair, his shoulders, his back. 

Drunkenly, Will nuzzled him, his face, found his mouth with his lips. 

Hannibal closed his eyes. 

The young man gripped the other’s hair tight, then grabbed the fabric on his chest with a hand to roughly pull him and drag him on the bed, covering him with his body. His kisses turned hungry, desperate. 

Tears were still running down his face.

Hannibal ran gentle hands across Will’s hair, on his neck, on his back, to soothe him. He tried tender kisses and embraces, to comfort and reassure him. 

Will pinned his wrists on each side of his head to access his mouth more easily.

Then he fumbled with Hannibal’s waist to unzip his pants and get the annoying fabric out of the way. Hannibal straightened up to get his vest off; Will unbuttoned part of his shirt before turning to the nightstand and look for any slippery substance, hand cream perhaps —he was surprised to find an actual bottle of almond scented lubricant, barely used. 

Hannibal hesitated at that. “We do not have to go that far that fast” he pointed out, reaching gently for Will’s waist, sliding fingers under his T-shirt. He kissed him warmly on the side of the neck, sucked on his skin a little, caressing his chest with a hand. 

Will mumbled, pushing him back on the bed, then started unzipping his own pants.

Laying on his back quietly, Hannibal looked at the beautiful young man who was getting rid of his T-shirt above him. He’d quite grown up, still gorgeous and slim yet with more defined muscles. 

“You’re beautiful” he whispered, reaching up to kiss him —Will turned away in annoyance. “Stay still, damn it!”

Maybe he was to drunk for it. 

Hannibal gently laced his arms around the hurt man. “You’re tired, William. You should sleep it off, then we will talk again.”

“Fuck, I need this” Will said in-between his teeth, firmly grabbing the other’s thighs to maneuver him in a more practical position. Hannibal noticed with some annoyance he’d spilled lubricant on the sheets. 

“I’m not sure you’re in the right state of mind to pursue this course of action” he tells the other man nonetheless, gently cupping his face with both hands. 

As he cannot use arms to embrace and comfort him, he wraps his legs around Will’s waist. 

But then he feels warm flesh pressing against him, Will’s hands positioning it dumbly —and he has but a second to decide if he’ll let Will do that to him in this state or not.

Half-a second later he notices he’s let him, and it hurts. He tightens his hold around the young man, trying to dull the pain by having him closer, this warm body he loves so much. He breathes in and out slowly, reminding himself of articles on relaxation he’d read once. 

Will’s rutting in and out of him mindlessly. It is not very pleasant.

He hugs the younger man, strokes his hair gently, tries to convey reassuring warmth to him. 

He knows losing Molly hurts, but it was a necessary evil. Now they’re together at last. It took some time, but they’ll make up for it. They love each other. 

Will suddenly stills and starts trembling before letting himself fall on top of him. Hannibal deduces he’s had an orgasm. He will be calmer, now. 

“Do you feel better?” he whispers in Will’s ear gently. “Or do you need more?”

“Do shut up” Will grumbles, pushing himself up with an arm on Hannibal’s chest, and grabbing one of his legs by under the knee to bend it towards Hannibal’s upper body and gain better access to the lower half of it. He starts pounding in again and, after a while, he grabs the other leg to push it up too. That’s their whole points of contact, two hands and some knees and a dick.  

Hannibal notices Will hasn’t taken the time to remove his pants at all and feels vexed by it. He is not very sure why. He simply doesn’t enjoy the notion; it feels tasteless. At best, it’s not that aesthetic. 

He makes a point of ignoring the pain, gritting his teeth through the whole ordeal, thinking he was right of believing sex is entertainment only for the lower masses. He is starting to revise his judgement on allowing oneself to have it in order to please his beloved. It is really not that enjoyable. He kinda wishes it were over already. 

After a while of pondering he decides he would enjoy it much more if Will would allow them to touch. He doesn’t like this position. Maybe he’s old school after all.

He would also like it better if it hurt less, he thinks. Maybe if Will decided to go slower. He’s about to suggest it to him when the younger man closes his eyes for his second coming —his head bent backward, he’s so beautiful this way. On his lips, a whisper, soft, tender and desperate: ‘oh, Molly’. 

Afterwards Will stays still, recuperating from what Hannibal assumes is what people call the aftershock. 

Hannibal stays immobile too. 

He knows Will loves him. He knows it. It’s been proven. 

He knows it’s over between Molly and the young man, and that he’d played his part in the deal.

What he doesn’t know is why it hurt so much to hear that name get out Will’s lips. 

He knows it’s in the past, that it ever so barely existed. He knows that. 

Yet it doesn’t feel like the truth. 

Will crawls next to him on the bed, then gets under the sheets. Hannibal tries to understand. Will loves him, but he doesn’t act as if he did. People can be confusing, lying to themselves.

Or is Hannibal wrong? Can he be wrong? He always seems to read people accurately. He’s never been proven wrong. Maybe Will doesn’t love him. But this seems impossible. Not with how he acted until then. 

Then he remembers, it’s not love, it’s desire. 

Like everyone as some point in their lives, Hannibal had fooled himself into believing what he hoped to be true. 

*

He did not move for a while, listening to Will fumble next to him until the young man fell asleep.  

Afterwards, he silently dressed himself, took a clean change of clothes and went to shower in the farthest bathroom. 

Mischa and Abigail were playing tennis outside. 

“Can I speak with you?” he asked his younger sister. 

“Yeah, sure!” she said, sweaty and smiling, while Abigail retorted she wouldn’t let her run away from losing to her. 

Hannibal led Mischa inside the house, in the kitchen where he poured her a home made smoothie. “What’s going on, berry?” she asked after a sip. “This is real good by the way.”

“I need to hear the truth.”

She put her drink aside, slow and serious. He waited for a second. 

“I would like to know if you think Will loves me.”

She didn’t move, but he noticed her swallowing and the slight tension in her jaw. “What has he done?”

“Please, answer me.”

She looked away. “He’s only known you for what, four years? And he hadn’t spoken to you in twice that amount. I’m not sure he knows you enough to love you.”

“But do you think he does?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, I don’t. I think you are obsessed with him, because for some reason you’re convinced there’s no-one else in the entire whole world who can understand you; but I don’t think that man loves you. Not in the way you deserve to be loved anyway.”

Hannibal pondered. “Are you saying he does loves me, in a way?” 

“If by ‘a way’ you mean that every time he’ll feel like making a little change in his life he’ll come to you to play around, then yeah. He knows you’re a sure deal.”

Hannibal frowned. “I am certainly not.”

“Have you welcomed him no matter what with open arms?”

She put a hand on his arm, gently, when she saw him pout. “You’re very sweet, bumblebee. But you’re convinced that when you love something, you give it you whole, and that when you don’t, you don’t give it the first damn. Not everybody thinks like that. Will certainly doesn’t. He likes you, probably; but he doesn’t love you. Not in the way you should be loved. I’m convinced he’s still the horny teenager Abbe’s told me about. You should stay away from him. Better yet, you should look for someone who’ll love you for who you actually are, and not who they wish you to be.”

“You are aware it is not that feasible.”

“If you stop doing illegal stuff, I’m sure mostly everyone would fall for you head over heels.”

He reflected on that. Then he cautiously kneed on the (very clean) floor of his kitchen, taking his smaller sister into his arms, putting his head on her shoulder. 

“I feel wounded” he murmured, “yet I am not sure why.”

She embraced him warmly. “You will find somebody to keep you company when I’m gone. I’ll help you if you want. Just not that man. I can tell he isn’t good news.”

He smiled a little. “Sometimes I wish my mind would reason in the same terms other minds do.”

“You’d probably find that boring.”

“Perhaps it would seem less lonely” he replied. He kissed her on the hair and got up. “I need time to reflect. I will go to Matthew’s, to clear my mind. Please enjoy the rest of your afternoon without me —and thank you for your honesty.”

She pocked him in the belly. “Yes mister television-add-voice man! Now go have fun.” She smiled to him and kissed his cheek. 

Seconds after the front door closed behind him, she was running towards the stairs. 

*

Will woke up suddenly, freezing and soaked wet. 

He was half naked and curled up in a corner of Hannibal’s bedroom. 

“What the fuck?…”

Mischa threw something at him, harshly. 

It bumped hard on the wall next to his head and rolled under the bed; it was a bottle of lubricant. What was that doin—oh gods. 

“Yeah, what the fuck, that’s exactly what we’d like you to explain, Will” Abigail asked in an ice cold voice. 

She had seized Mischa by the arm and forced her to stay by her side. The furious thirteen year old had tears in her eyes. 

“I told you to stay away from him” she was saying, her voice breaking. “You know he’s defenseless against you. Why would you do something like that?”

She let go of the empty water bottle from the nightstand she was carrying in her other hand to wipe some tears. 

“I’m sorry” Will automatically uttered. He was trying to remember what had happened. Something he would not have agreed to sober. “I was so drunk.”

“Then you don’t. drink!” Mischa shouted, visibly wounded. “Have you any idea how hurt he is? He probably thought you two were doing that out of love. How could you take advantage of him like that?”

Will startled. Hannibal being taken advantage of was a brand new concept. “I didn’t…”

He was going to said he hadn’t pressed him to anything, but suddenly he wasn’t so sure. 

He remembered being unnecessarily harsh and rude, manhandling the other man without respect or compassion. To hurt him. Punish him for his own pain. 

He got up, in shock. “Where is he?”

“That is not your issue at the moment” Abigail said. “Now we’re talking about what happened that upset him that much.”

I’ve upset him. He’s upset. 

Then, for a second, I’ve had sex with Hannibal. 

The blunt horror of what he’d done suddenly painted itself vividly. 

“I have to find him.”

“You tell us what happen then we decide if you get to see him again.”

“I have to find him!”

He jumped on the bed to grab his T-shirt on the other side and put it on quickly. His pants were undone too. 

Sex with Hannibal. Who’d never done that, with anyone, ever. 

Who was ‘waiting for him’.

Abigail moved in front of the door. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“You want to know what happened?” he blurted out impatiently. “I’m a jerk, that’s what happened. I was hurting and I hurt him. Now I have to find him and fix this, before it’s too late for him to even trust anyone again.”

“You’ve…” Abigail started, afraid to finish the sentence.

“No! Of course not, not really; but I was… I was a jerk, I was a jerk about the whole situation, so please, please tell me where he is—” He realised he didn’t need them for that, and pushed his sister aside to run out of the room, looking around and shouting for Hannibal.

“He’s not in the house” Abigail told him. 

Will pulled on his hair. “Then where?” 

 *

The water was cold but invigorating. 

“You’re doing better” Matthew shouted to him from the shore where he’d just arrived. 

Hannibal fell rock rasp his knees and crawled to the shore. The other threw him a towel. 

“I guess that means you’re eating again” Matthew says, taking a sip of energizing sport beverage from a branded sport drink plastic bottle with a small teat hole at the top. 

Hannibal’s trembling uncontrollably. He rubs himself hard with the dry towel, trying to fight the cold. 

Matthew makes a point of choosing a towel which is always ever so slightly too small to fit the grown man, and when he does, he accidentally drops it half in the water when throwing it the first time. 

“I am better, yes” Hannibal replies while drying his hair. 

He puts his swimming googles aside, on a big rock next to the lake. 

Matthew comes sit next to him. He’s probably prepared a new way of humiliating his psychiatrist —Hannibal is very amused by his inventive attempts at sadism. He has a fondness for the patient, if not for the man. The man is very plain. 

“Better drink a bit before going back into the water” Matthew says, producing not the usual sport bottle but a baby’s bottle, filled with what Hannibal assumes is his usual liquid supplement.

“Well, it’s white” Matthew says, grinning —Hannibal is amused by how proud he feels of his little trick. He straightens himself to sit next to the man, not too close to the ripped abs that Matthew tends to show off a little bit too much for his own taste, and lifts a hand to take the bottle.

“Ah ah ah!” the man tuts, “sorry shrink, that is not how one drinks his milk.” 

Hannibal is almost relieved when the other pushes the soft bottle teat in his mouth. He is still quite weak, and swimming plus the cold have made him exhausted. Matthew is unwillingly being quite helpful. 

The liquid throughput is too slow for his taste, though. 

He sucks on the rubber absentmindedly, until Matthew grabs at the hair of his neck to control better the suddenly increased flow; their eyes meet. 

He is an handsome man, Hannibal supposes. He has a fit body. His irises are very prettily blue, and his hair is dark enough. 

He has murder in his eyes, which fascinates him. He’s looking at Hannibal like a spider watches a fly —although, quite wary of the type of insect it’s caught. 

Mischa’d said to look for someone else. Maybe this man could do. He’s entertaining enough, though quite predictable. 

At least he is lonely, too. 

Has he already killed? Hannibal is unsure, but that could be arranged. 

The bottle is empty; Matthew pulls it out of Hannibal’s mouth and notices the tip has been cut by his front teeth. He chuckles. “You’re full of ressources, are you, doctor?”

Hannibal decides he enjoys being called a doctor. Someday, perhaps. 

Matthew releases him, and Hannibal leans back on the stone pebbles of the shore. He is quite tired, but he would like to swim across the lake a third time before leaving. 

Matthew stands up, steps in-between Hannibal’s feet, probably to intimidate him —Hannibal can’t help but slightly spread his thighs appart. 

It’s not very important anymore who goes in there; he’s already determined that he’s a sure deal. 

Part of him wants someone to act as if he’s not that contemptible. 

Another part of him doesn’t really think about it. 

Matthew smirks. “Feeling breezy, are you, Mister Lecter?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, doesn’t bat an eyelash. Mischa said lots of people could want him. 

“You’re not really my type though, big guy” Matthew says. A drop of lake water is running down his abs. “I prefer my meat raw and bloody.”

Hannibal is reminded of a newspaper’s article about ‘The Hawk’s Last Victim’. Maybe Matthew has killed. 

A noise on his right; someone’s coming their way. 

“This is private property!” Matthew shouts nonchalantly. “Go away!”.

Hannibal doesn’t even care about straightening up. He’s spent and hurt, he deserves the rest. 

He turns his head away when he sees who the passerby is. 

“I’m sorry, sorry, I’m looking for— Hannibal.” Will stops abruptly, startled at the sight —Hannibal laying down at a stranger’s feet. Both in swimming trunks, almost naked. 

Hannibal realises he can’t even stand to hear the young man’s voice. 

He slowly gets up, takes a few steps towards the lake. 

“You should kill him” he says out loud. 

Then he goes into the water. 

Chapter Text

“The fuck are you doing here?”

Mischa was about to add to that when she noticed the state he was in. 

“Will…” Abigail started, startled. “What… what happened?”

Will wiped his brow from the blood that was dripping into his eyes. He limped towards the house door, leaning on the low wall in front. 

“Where is he?” he asked.

Abigail paled, and staggered, almost falling down in shock. 

She probably thought Hannibal had done that to Will. 

That Hannibal was just like her father in the end.

“Inside” Mischa answered. “What happened?” she repeated, slowly.

Will didn’t answer, went to the front door, limped towards the kitchen, where he knew he’d find Hannibal, freshly showered, preparing some gastronomically insane dish. 

Carpaccio of aubergines with sweet potatoes crisps and a carrots and tomato mousse. 

Hannibal barely lifted his head when he heard him enter; barely glanced at him. 

He was wearing the expressionless mask he used in front of strangers. His glance was dry and intense —a warning, do not approach. 

Will stopped. He grabbed at the nearest chair to stay up, both furious and devastated. 

What had they done to each other. 

Hannibal had stilled, too. His look was exactly the same one he’d given Will countless times —although harsher in its disappointment— when waiting for him after school on Friday nights, patiently, in the cold in the wind in the rain on his motorcycle, waiting for him to come back, to come home. 

Will remembers meeting those brown and red eyes, feeling guilt gnaw at him, and avoiding them, look away, take a detour to escape the hopeful man and go back to his pathetic little room with a broken lock and the smell of mold under the sink. 

He remembers the hurt look in Hannibal’s eyes each time he turned away, washing over the welcoming warmth of his smiling face. 

Again and again, the smile fades away. 

Until one day, Will noticed an absence, feeling both relieved and betrayed when Hannibal didn’t show up —not understanding it had too do with how thin the young man had grown to look. 

Then all the phone calls he’d ignored. 

All the letters, the e-mails, the birthday cards and presents he’d put away, never deleting them, never opening them, except once —and it had been horrible, looking at this perfect gift, the fishing rod he’d always dreamt off, the exact one he would have picked for himself, that Hannibal had thought of, looked for, selected carefully among thousands of others and picked up to match perfectly Will’s estranged taste.   

One present per birthday, eight in total, which Will had carefully put away in a box, along with the gifts he had purchased himself —carefully wrapping them up, never sending them. 

There is blood dripping from a cut in his hair. 

He wipes it away. 

Hannibal is back to cooking. 

He pointedly ignores Will, pretends he is not even in the house. 

Maybe I was a brat, Will thinks.

Then he remembers the murders. 

The murders and the hugs. The cuddles. The dinners. The presents, the smiles, the kind words of encouragement, the little touches, in his hair, on his arm, soft and warm. The tender looks. The goodnight stories. 

Maybe he is a brat because he doesn’t know how to be a child, he thinks.

All his anger is melting; warm tears on his face. 

He is so tired. 

You tried to have me killed.

Or, you tried to have me kill.

He rubs his forehead.   

Hannibal acts as if Will weren’t here, yet all his moves make a point of being both sharp and concise, showing just as well as words that he isn’t in a talking mood.  

Will turns away. 

He goes out, passes by his sisters and their questions, goes to his car, starts the engine. 

He knows it is broken. 

His immuable bond with Hannibal is no more, it shattered on the floor like a fragile tea cup, beyond repair. 

He doesn’t want to pick up the pieces. 

That tea cup was damaged anyway.

* Eight months later *

“Hanni-booh, pick up that phone, I can’t take it I’m in the shower!”

“You are decisively not” Hannibal answers as his little sister runs past him with a towel in her hands. 

“Shush, big boy.”

He smiles and goes for the phone. The thing has rang more than five times; he doesn’t think it is Matthew. Matthew isn’t very patient. 

“Good evening” he politely declares; “this is Hannibal Lecter; whom am I speaking to?”

There is a silence, a shy intake of breath, someone holding their words.

“Hello?” he insists, vexed to have to use such an inane word. 

“Hannibal” he whispers softly on the other side —and Hannibal wants to hang up.

He wants to hang up, but it’s the first time in nine years that Will has called him, and he’d hoped for it so much before it hurts.  

Will doesn’t speak, and Hannibal resents him —being called, then having to do all of the effort, to take the first step, as always.

“I hope I am not imposing. »

The correct world in this case would be intruding, but Hannibal doesn’t remark on it. 

“I wanted to talk to you.”

This is so trivially obvious Hannibal feels boiling anger rise up instantly. He should definitely hand up. 

“Actually, I want to ask you out to dinner, if you let me.”

He blanches. 

He doesn’t know where this came from. He doesn’t know if he heard it right. 

Maybe there isn’t anyone on the other side of the phone. 

“I thought about it” Will says. “I thought that we never had a chance to properly meet, and…”

He hesitates. Is he going to pronounce an embarrassing word?

“I would like to woo you, if that is the correct expression.”

He is making efforts to enunciate. Hannibal notices the knuckles on his phone holding hand have paled. 

“I would like to make reservations for dinner at the Firenze on Friday night, if you are available.”

Hannibal wants to answer, but he notices he has gone mute. 

Just like when he was a child, when he hadn’t uttered a word for two years. 

He remembers the doctors had hesitated between declaring him officially mute or psychologically unstable. 

It just happens to some people, one of his teacher had told him —Miss Murazaki, such a kind, elegant woman. Such a lady. 

It happens to some autistic persons, she had told him. It happens in some psychological cases. It is not a big deal. 

He tries to remember how to speak, but the emotions he is feelings are too intense for him to both overcome them and take action. 

He hangs up. 

A few minutes later, Will receives a text message. 

“9:pm.”

*

 At nine o’clock sharp, Will is on the step of Hannibal’s door. He is wearing a tuxedo he had tailored especially, and carries a huge bouquet of gorgeous flowers —all white and snobbish, sort of a symbol of purity that got itself, by being slightly overzealous, into ridicule. Massive orchids, huge lilies, and tiny, delicate webs of delicate flowers.

He spent ages on picking them up. 

Ages, and quite some money. 

He cut his hair and bought a better vest, a long, grey one that looks quite well on him, he has been told. 

With the money he saved from working for the FBI, he acquired the abandoned house nearby. He retired from the field quite definitely, telling Jack to fuck of and that he’s really fine being just a teacher. 

Now, he is standing on the step of Hannibal’s door with an armful of flowers and a small wrapped present in his pocket —something he’d gotten years ago. 

Then the door opens. 

“You are late” Hannibal says. 

He is impeccably dressed and perfectly combed. His face is fuller, sharp yet rounder, he’s taken some weight. He’s not the startlingly thin man Will left nine months ago.

He looks well. 

“It’s nine o’clock sharp” Will remarks. 

Hannibal’s face doesn’t move. Will should have known something was off then. 

But he hands him the flowers, and Hannibal can’t help his taste for the beautiful or slightly extravagant and instinctively takes them, holds them, close and cautiously like one holds a baby. 

His brown eyes linger on the intricate vegetal patterns. 

Then he says, quietly: “I meant, you are too late.”

The door opens in full and the scared face of Matthew Brown appears on the other side. 

The scar is thinning, but Will sees it because he put it there. 

“Ready for our big night out, yummy cheeks?” 

Will reads in the minute cringing of Hannibal’s eyes that the man is annoyed by the nickname. 

He notices Matthew knows, and that he likes it. 

Hannibal hates the vulgar. 

“Get your sweet ass moving, or we’re going to be late” Matthew adds, relishing in the other’s irritation. 

He’s so happy with himself Will guesses he doesn’t manage to success that often. 

“Matthew and I are out to dinner” Hannibal explains tranquilly. “I thought this would be more explanatory than a long conversation.”

Will notices the way Hannibal carries the flowers. 

Like they were something precious. 

He should be furious, but he is not afraid. 

He has much to make up for after all. 

He leans in and whispers softly in Hannibal’s ear, so only he can ear: “I am not giving up on us.”

He notices the slightest intake of breath from Hannibal’s part —the fact that his pupils turned black. 

Then Will turns away. 

Loosing a battle isn’t loosing the war —and he’s aiming for peace. 

On his way back home he feels light and elated, dizzyingly glad, relieved from the burden of loving too wrong. 

Now comes the time to make it right. 

Chapter Text

“Dinner was perfect” Hannibal declares, actually satisfied of his evening. 

He is always in a good mood when he’s able to enjoy food. 

Not that he is entirely cured; but he has had more occurrences of muteness than of starving lately, and rather enjoys the change. 

Matthew throws his vest on the floor, missing the chair by a hair —on purpose. Hannibal is not amused. The man has done that already. 

“You know what would make this night even more perfect?” the man asks.

Sex, obviously. Hannibal almost yawns of boredom. People are so predictable. 

Matthew takes him in his arms from behind, presses him against his chest. “Do you want to hear about my latest hunt?”

That is more like it. 

Matthew starts whispering softly in his ear how he’d planned his last murder, while swiftly disrobing them both. 

Hannibal focuses on the words, not caring much about the rest. He loves hearing Matthew talk like that, even though, there and then, he notices he doesn’t kill for the same reasons Hannibal did. 

He kills out of dissatisfaction and pain, just like everybody else. 

He doesn’t enjoy it at a hommage to life, as a work of art, as a gift to nature. 

He doesn’t enjoy it as the most beautiful act there is, giving life through death, offering the most intense experience, the kindest gift to undeserving foes.

Matthew kills to prove he is better than others. 

Hannibal killed because he is alive, and one cannot live but through death. Same face of a coin. 

On the other face are inanimate things. 

Matthew is kissing is neck, which Hannibal enjoys. He knows this won’t last, because Matthew enjoys more finding a way to irritate him —as he is a sadist. So we will stop kissing him and bite instead, of become sloppy and messy and wet, even drool on him if he feels like annoying him a lot. 

But the man also knows Hannibal is fascinated by his murders more than by the sexual act. He knows he must be eloquent and creative if he doesn’t want to have to fight to get his pleasure —Hannibal has taken weight, mass and muscles; it is becoming harder to bend him to his will. 

So he talks. 

Hannibal, in exchange, lets him to what he pleases with his body; he doesn’t care much. 

Sometimes, it is fascinating and new; usually, it is quite boring. He asks Matthew about his darkest thoughts to keep himself distracted. 

Matthew is not very attracted to him, but he’s convenient. 

They’re both making the most of the situation. 

This time, Matthew is surprisingly caring. He lavishes Hannibal in kisses and slow strokes, just what he likes. He isn’t brutal, or rough, or vulgar. 

He manages to pleasure him enough to let Hannibal forget about the murders, and think about the sex instead. 

Then he gets out the handcuffs —Hannibal chuckles. 

But the scheme was clever enough for Hannibal to indulge his lover, and let himself be cuffed to the bed to endure his rough assault afterwards. 

It’s not that it hurts, it’s that Matthew gets out all the pleasure, and Hannibal most of the effort. 

Only not this time. 

Hannibal is starting to get suspicious. It feels too good. Matthew is plotting something. 

Not that he minds being gently covered by a bigger body than his, and being slowly stroked to the verge of pleasure. Matthew takes him against his chest, runs his hands slowly on the inside of Hannibal’s thighs. 

It does feel good. 

Hannibal closes his eyes. Lets his head go against the other’s clavicle. 

“You are being agreeable tonight” he remarks. 

Matthew smirks. “I thought it would do you good to be reminded that I do actually like you” he softly hisses. 

The other frowns, amused. “Are you feeling possessive, Matthew?”

Matthew gently bites the meat of his neck. “I am feeling betrayed. Your little show for that tiny man didn’t please me one bit.”

“It cut him deep” Hannibal remarks. 

Matthew stills and tightens his grip around his lover. “People only hurt people they give two fucks about.”

Hannibal smirks. “Have I hurt you?” he asks.

The other man smiles, then gently, oh so gently, leans in to kiss him. Hannibal closes his eyes. 

Matthew pushes him on his belly on the bed, moves slowly against him. It does feel nice. 

Hannibal moans. 

Hearing himself make this sort of sound always surprises him. He both enjoys the loosening of his control and despises himself for it. 

Matthew had never been so tender. He starts speaking about murder again. About what he imagines Hannibal murders would look like —Hannibal never told him about his past as the Chesapeake Ripper. 

Trust is not his forte; caution is. 

He insists that Hannibal’s kills would be gorgeous and full of meaning, like a bouquet of flowers. Brutal yet gentle, cruel yet merciful, both horrible and marvelous. 

It would have been so good if Hannibal loved him, instead of that other one. If he could bring himself to care at all for that man who wanted him for who he was —although Matthew had never been quite interested in caring after Mischa. 

That was his main flaw, not caring about Hannibal’s sister at all. 

Will…

That man, he cared. He would protect her, if she needed it. 

Matthew might hurt her if he felt like it. If he felt like truly hurting Hannibal after all. Or if he wanted to spice up the game. 

Hannibal pondered about keeping them both, Matthew as a hunting partner, Will as a babysitter. 

Although Matthew would probably try to kill Will at some point. 

The man did something quite agreeable with his hands, and Hannibal decided that he might enjoy sex after all. Maybe Matthew could become his lover, if he decided to play a little less the part of a sadist and a little bit more with Hannibal’s epicurean taste for the sensual. 

He turned on his back to look at Matthew. 

Matthew was looking grim. He watched Hannibal with thoughtful blue eyes. 

“What is on your mind?” Hannibal asked.

“That’s a shrinks’ question, shrink” Matthew answered. 

Hannibal tilted his head, and the other sighed. 

“That day, at the lake… You were actually talking to him, right?” 

Hannibal looks away in ponder. “I was talking to both of you” he replies eventually. 

“And we both lost” Matthew said. “Because he knocked me unconscious before I could kill him.” 

Hannibal’s lips slowly turn, from a pout, into a sly smile. 

Matthew looks upset. “I don’t like that you like him.”

If his hands weren’t tied, Hannibal would stroke his face, the side of his jaw, gently. He enjoys the other’s jealousy. 

“I actually despise him dearly” he replies.

Matthew snorts, then looks away. “That’s even worse! What is he, an ex of yours? That stupid, tiny man with a baby face!”

 He is upset. 

“You’re my companion hawk” Matthew adds. “Not his. You don’t get to fly with him. Ever, got it?”

Hannibal smirks. 

Matthew slaps the bed next to him. “That is not a laughing matter, you idiot! Why would you long after a sparrow when you can have me?”

Why, indeed. 

“He would protect my sisters” Hannibal replies, wondering if the truth would bend Matthew to his own will. “If anything happened to me, and they needed it; he would care after them.”

“What, and you think I wouldn’t care?” Matthew snaps, sitting up briskly. 

Hannibal looks at him.

“Yeah, right, I wouldn’t. At least, I’m not going to start caring unless you start caring.”

Matthew sits on the side of the bed. “You think I’m just a replacement? A mock up boyfriend? We’ve been going out for eight months. Whatever shit we had going on when we started this, it’s turned into something else. And I’m starting to get fed up with your ‘nonchalant’ attitude. You’ll have to acknowledge that I’m happening to your life some day or another.”

“Maybe another” Hannibal replies with a smirk, satisfied with the brief expression of pain his words cause, quickly replaced by one of annoyance. 

“I’m not saying I love you” Matthew retorts. “I’m saying I’m not your pet, or some piece of furniture your life moves around when it wants to redecorate the living room.”

It strikes Hannibal then —how these words describe his feelings towards Will. I don’t exist to your convenience.

“Now, I’ve thought about it” Matthew says, “and I think I know how to truly get your attention. You’ve dared me to prove myself to you, and I failed; this time, I will not. You stay here and wait for my return.”

Hannibal pulled tentatively on the cuffs that restrained him to the bed. 

“I won’t be long” Matthew promised. “And your sister should come back at some point anyway if I run late.”

He pulled the cover up over Hannibal’s nude body. “I’ll bring back his heart” he said, then leaned in to kiss Hannibal’s forehead.

Hannibal closed his eyes.

He opened them back when he heard the entry door closing. 

Promptly, he jumped up of the bed and started to pull it towards the chair where his vest was neatly folded. He always carried a needle and string around in case of an emergency. 

Pick-locking the cuffs open didn’t take as long as he had expected. When he was done, he carefully dressed himself up, then went to the bathroom to comb. 

Afterwards, he left for Will’s. 

He crossed path with an ambulance on his way there, and with two police cars. He wondered what he would find. 

Had Matthew proved himself by killing the other? Had Will?

Hannibal wasn’t sure what would please him more. He didn’t like thinking about Will’s death, but the idea of sharing his life with a man who valued him as much as to risk his freedom for him was somehow appealing. 

He would start looking at Matthew in a brand new way if the man had succeeded.

But Matthew wouldn’t have called the police. 

There were muddy tire tracks next to the entrance of Will’s house. 

Hannibal rang its bell.

Matthew wouldn’t have called an ambulance. He would have taken his time killing. He would have let the body rot. 

The door opened; Will was wearing a pack of ice on his head and fresh cuts on his right cheek.

Matthew wasn’t as trained as a former FBI agent after all. 

“How is he?” Hannibal asked.

Will startled at seing him at his doorstep; he frowned at the question. 

“On his way to jail” he answered nonetheless. He paused. “Do you care about how I am?”

Hannibal tilted his head. He wasn’t quite sure about that. 

Will sighed. “Come in”, he said tiredly. “I’ll pour you a glass.”

The house was tidy at least. Of course Will had as much taste as a boiled raccoon, but he had the decency of being neat.

Hannibal didn’t sit down. He took the glass Will handed him —red wine, richly scented and probably expensive— and observed the room while sipping it. 

“He seemed to believe that that would make you love him” Will stated while sitting down on an absurd green couch.

Hannibal took another small sip. The wine tasted good, but he wouldn’t be able to drink the whole glass. 

Will’s head leaned back on the top of his sofa. “Why is this so hard for us?” he asked. “We are in love, in fact we are crazy about each other —why can’t we make this work?”

“I am not in love” Hannibal remarked. “This time has passed.”

Will smirked, tired. “And I wasn’t; just look at me now.”

He took a mouthful of whiskey and looked at the ceiling. “We’ve hurt each other so deeply, yet we only wanted to love the other.”

Hannibal doesn’t reply. He is thinking about Matthew, about the one man who liked him for who he was, and that he’d lost.

“There is something I need to show you” Will says. 

“I should actually be going.”

Will jumps on his feet. “There is something I will show you before you go.”

He goes to fumble in a drawer and comes back with an old red folder. 

Hannibal recognizes it: he has seen it before, years ago, when Abigail and Will had blackmailed him with it —a recollection of his crimes. 

Only the thing is bigger now. 

Will opens it, goes through the pages, gently stroking the numerous articles about the Chesapeake Ripper’s killing with light fingers. 

“I hate that you hurt people” he said. “I can’t stand people being hurt. But— and I’ve never told you, because I didn’t want to admit it to myself—”

He pauses. 

“I have always admired the way you did this” he confesses, in a low, almost revering voice. “I can’t help but to find it beautiful, in its meaning, in its display —it is your artwork, like it would be a sculptor’s.” He pauses again.  “I’ve hated myself for this, for admiring this.”

He hands the folder over to Hannibal; there are hundreds of articles in there, carefully selected and displayed. The pages smells of cheap glue and of newspaper’s ink.

“You were right when you said I didn’t love you, and you were right to get upset with me” Will said. “I mistreated you. I wanted you to be someone else —someone who doesn’t make me question my own moral values. I wanted you to be mine… instead of being with me.”

Hannibal tilts his head. 

“I want to start this over” Will said. “I want to take you out to dinner, treat you to the Opera, to charities and posh buffets —I know how you’ve always dreamt of these. I want to cook you fine dishes and dress you in silk. I want to spoil you. You deserve to be spoiled.”

He looks away. “The question is, do you still want to give me another chance?”

Hannibal puts his glass down on the table. He remembers the hurt and humiliation —the betrayal and indignity.

“No” he says. 

But when he feels Will’s arms wrap around him from behind, he closes his eyes. 

“I am sorry I hurt you” Will murmurs in his ear. “I was a brat, a spoiled brat, an entitled one. I took you for granted.”

Hannibal looks at the wine in his glass. Red, deep red, just like blood. 

He looks at the nearby knife laying on the table. 

“I hurt you repeatedly, just because I didn’t want to admit to myself that I was the kind of person who would cover up for a murderer. It wasn’t fair to you. It wasn’t honest. I helped you escape the law, but I hurt you in its stead. I’m sorry.”

Hannibal turned around to look at the smaller man. “I asked Matthew to kill you.”

Will looks away. “You asked one of us to prove ourselves to you. To prove that we deserved you. And we both failed.”

“You failed again today.”

“And I will fail always.”

Will puts his hands gently on Hannibal’s shoulders. “I will not kill people, Hannibal. No matter how much you want me too, I won’t. It’s not that I don’t love you enough to do it, it’s just that I’m not that kind of person.” 

“Everyone is that kind of person.”

“Not me. And this is why I called the cops on Matthew when he showed up today. I could have killed him. I thought about it. About murdering him and bringing back something of his to you —his heart maybe. But I don’t want to. Just as much as you don’t want to stop killing, I don’t want to start doing it. And I won’t.”

“Nothing has changed, then.”

“Yes. I changed. I grew up to realise I would love you no matter what, and that it was time to stop pretending I couldn’t stand you being a killer —because I can. I have accepted it, I have covered for you all these years —I only mind what it makes me, and all the hurt people it entails. But you, you…”

Will looks down. “Please give me another chance. Even if it’s the last one.”

Hannibal looks at him with an indecipherable expression. Then he lifts his hands, towards the knife, and takes it. 

Will’s lets out a sharp intake of breath. His pupils have dilated, dark inside the pool of blue, but he stands still, his hands still on each of Hannibal’s shoulders. He looks at the knife. It is a sharp one. 

Hannibal bring the knife to him, near his eyes. It is a sharp, pointy one.

He lifts it to Will’s throat. 

He can see the younger man’s heart beat maddening on a vein of his neck. 

Will doesn’t move. He lifts pleading eyes to Hannibal’s expressionless mask of a face, then gives up, closes his eyes, grips at him tighter. 

He is afraid. 

Hannibal loves that. 

He presses the cold blade on soft skin, hard enough to carve a thin line of blood in the tender neck. 

Will lifts his head up at that, eyes closed, with a gasp. 

But he doesn’t move. 

Hannibal presses harder, cutting red; a string of blood slides out. 

That face. 

He leans closer, pushes the knife harder, notices warm liquid pouring out on the other’s trembling throat. 

Will hums. 

He is freezing cold, terrified beyond imagination, yet he hums in pleasure. 

Surrender, at last. 

Hannibal withdraws the knife, and leans in to lick at the blood, to gently suck on the wound. 

Will moans more audibly, slides shaking arms around Hannibal shoulders. 

He was so scared he peed himself. 

Hannibal lifts him up gently by the waist and carries him to the bathroom, puts him in the bathtub and switches on the shower, testing the water until it is warm. 

He then showers Will. 

His head first, which sticks the darks curled hair to the puppy eyed face and makes him look like a charity poster model.

The neck then, and he removes the vest. 

Will lets him do it, doesn’t make a gesture for himself. 

The shirt, the pants, which Hannibal carefully disposes off in the washing machine to get rid of the stench. 

He rubs his hand on Will’s back to both clean and reassure him. He puts the shower-head away and massages shampoo into the younger man’s hair. 

Then Will grabs his vest. 

“Do you want to get in?” he pleads.

Hannibal stills, pondering. Then, very slowly, he gets unclothed, tidily putting away his clothes on a nearby shelf. Will takes the opportunity to get rid of his wet socks and boxer.

Then Hannibal gets into the bath tube, and starts washing the other again, rubbing him soothingly with soft soap and shampoo. Everything smells clean. 

He stills when Will touches him. When he runs, tentatively, his hands against the side of his belly. 

“I love you” Will says, pressing himself against him, though avoiding contact on his wounded throat. 

Hannibal slowly puts his arms around the other. 

He is still hurt. He can feel it inside, roaming, screaming, raging, his pain. 

“I love you.”

He closes his eyes, presses his forehead against Will’s clavicle, and it’s the other’s turn to caress him clean.  

The water is warm, the stokes soothing. He hates that he’s not in control of his feelings, that the betrayal cut so deep he cannot push it aside. 

Such a trivial emotion. 

“Kiss me” Will whispers. 

There is blood running on his chest, melting with the transparent water on the white of the bathtub. 

“Kiss me.”

Hannibal turns his head away. 

Will looks at him with concern. 

“If you want to, kiss me.”

Hannibal looks up, back at him, into the beautiful blue eyes and the gorgeous pink lipped face, water and black curls falling everywhere, he looks at the man who is gently holding him, under the warm stream of the running water, and who is waiting, or hoping, that he will press his lips against his. 

Will waits and waits and then, he leans in, slowly, stops near the other’s face, looking at him interrogatively, expecting a movement, a sign, a hint of agreement that would let him do this. 

Hannibal closes the gap and kisses him hungrily.