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Chapter Text

Will buys her scarves. Thick, knitted ones for the winter, and gauzy bits of material for the summer. Stripes, spots, delicately painted roses, she has one for every outfit, for every mood, in all colors and fabrics. Her favorite is a scarlet lace, delicate piece of cloth. She likes the way Will always has to do a double take at the blooming bit of red on her neck, and how Hannibal's eyes linger over it. It's the only scarf she wears in the house. If she's not going out, then she prefers to remain bare necked. She's not ashamed of the scar anymore, not for a long time now. It reminds her of how she came to be with them. Still, she appreciates the scarves, it's good to have a continual supply. Blood stains them so easily.

Hannibal teaches her how to hunt. She already knows how, with guns and arrows. Long distance killing comes to her naturally. He teaches her how to end lives up close, personally, with grace and knives. Her heart pounds viciously the first time, it feels like her blood will just pour out of her to spill amongst the already pooling crimson liquid of their prey. It's warm on her hands, staining them bright red. Her nose itches, and she wants to scratch it but she knows it'll smear across her face. She does so anyway. Hannibal tuts at her, wipes it away with a handkerchief. She likes his quiet fussing, the gentle movements that care for her and Will. However, it's the savage eyed destruction she loves, how his hands strangle a slim neck, so calm in the storm of his madness. It makes her shiver to think about those hands on her own neck, whether out of fear or lust she can't tell. It doesn't matter which in the long run.

Will tells her she should sleep in her own bed, but she points out the hypocrisy-Hannibal is right there Will-and he crumbles under her want. She clambers over him, into the small space that they leave for her. She doesn't mind the night sweats Will gets, so she nuzzles against his arm, ignores his protests at her arm that's wound around his chest, and wiggles the covers off her feet. He finally strokes her head, little pets that she craves. Will doesn't coddle her, not exactly. He doles out more physical affection than Hannibal, but he never touches her where she really wants him too. He watches her with longing plain in his eyes, but restraint tightening his lips. She doesn't coddle him, not exactly. She touches him more than he finds acceptable, but she never crosses the line. She waits for his restraint to break, she wants to see how far she can push before he gives.

Hannibal lets her sit on the kitchen counters. It’s not a large declaration of like, or trust, but she’s seen him kill a person for a lot less of an offense. It’s telling of how fond he is of her, that he sets her on the counters himself. He rolls up his sleeves to cook their meals, and even that bare amount of skin is too much for her. Her fantasies escalate, she squirms on the marble, her wetness soaking her underwear. His nose never flares, his demeanor never changes, but she knows he can scent her arousal. This in turn makes her flush and causes a loop of continuing lust. She wonders how much of their countertop act is because he enjoys her, and how much is because he enjoys teasing her. She imagines it’s a bit of both, he also enjoys multitasking when he can.

She kisses Hannibal first. He's just licked fresh blood off of his thumb, and the look in his eye, as if sampling a fine wine, makes her ache to know the taste. She puts her hand on his chest, a warning she hopes he'll understand. There's no going back if he doesn't move away. He stays put, amusement tipping one corner of his mouth up. She sighs as the first taste of death hits her tongue; so this is what she's been missing. Hannibal's tongue strokes alongside hers and she wonders if he's controlling the urge to bite down. The thought makes her moan, the sound of it causes him to crowd her against the trunk of his car. You don't have to hide from me, she thinks. She presses harder against him and sucks on his bottom lip. She wants to feel him beneath her hands, to see if he has any scars like her, to lick them if he does. Her stomach rumbles. He pulls back, laughs a sharp burst of warmth, and tucks a strand of wayward hair behind her ear. Right, the whole reason they were out here was to pick-up dinner. She hesitates over which hunger to feed, her stomach or her heart. She suddenly realizes how Hannibal feels all the time, and startled giggles fall from her lips. He doesn't say anything on the ride home, but she knows, he knows.

*****

Abigail insists they watch horror movies. He tries to reason with her that they see enough horror, do they need to watch more? Reasoning with her is difficult however, and she wraps Hannibal up in her every whim. Hannibal likes to point out that it was his idea in the first place that they have a movie night. Stability is what he wants for her, not more nightmares. Her pleading puppy eyes don't work on him, he knows when he's being manipulated, but her smile when she gets her way makes up for his guilt at bad role modeling. They watch Jeepers Creepers as Abigail leans into him, her feet rest on Hannibal's lap. She laughs so hard at one point that she wheezes with merriment. It's infectious, her tinkling peals of laughter. He starts to chuckle, which starts a loop of hysterical chortling between the three of them. Hannibal winks at him, and he can hear the- I told you so-hidden just behind the grin. He rarely wins with the two of them.

Hannibal leaves marks on him with frequency. Handprint bruises on his hips, bite marks on his collarbone, and scratches that sometimes leave thin trails of sticky blood. He doesn't like to admit that he savors them, presses them later when reality starts to slip away. He stops hiding them when he realizes Hannibal gets testy if they aren't visible. It's a claims sign, a declaration of staked interest, and a petty way to warn others off. It doesn't work on Abigail. She wears scented lotion on her hands and unsubtly touches any of the visible marks she can quickly get away with. She lays her own bid over Hannibal's, letting them both know she's not to be underestimated. Hannibal notices, of course. That night Hannibal fucks him loud enough that he knows Abigail hears. He can't help it, moans spill from him, adding to the cliche'd head board bangs, and the vulgar smacks of their skin. Hannibal wins this round, but he knows Abigail will chose her next opening move more carefully. He's prey that they play with.

Abigail teaches him how to track deer. Tracking humans isn't the same as animals, she tells him. She holds his hand and leads him to prints that have fresh droppings. Her eagerness fills him, reassures him that he isn't just responsible for her nightmares, but also her joy. She points out what to look for, how to step, but he ends up watching her more than the ground. The cold air has tinged her ears pink, and chapped lips a rust red. She finally stops to wipe at her face, and tilts her head in question. He ignores it in favor of examining a snapped fern frond, some things aren't ready to be voiced out loud. She allows him his silence, tugs him over to a broken tree. Just beyond it, through other smaller tree trunks, a stag stands. Visions of a raven feathered stag start to cross his sight but a small squeeze of his hand brings him back. She may be morally ambiguous, but she's the most grounding thing in his life.

Hannibal protects him from the worst of the killings. He knows very well what they are doing when Hannibal takes Abigail out for "hunts". It makes him queasy every time he sees their parting waves. What if this time they make a mistake? The pure relief he feels when they return should be telling of how far down into their madness he's gone. Hannibal's chaos clashes with Abigail's ever growing darkness. He breathes in their anger like a tangible thing that swirls around the room. Hannibal is always sure to cover their tracks, to bleach the bath tub every weekend, even if they haven't gone out. It's comforting in a way it shouldn't be. Hannibal takes care of him, the best way the serial killer knows how. Hannibal doesn't treat him as if he's fragile, but mindfully, always aware of his over-active imagination. It's been a long time since he's been taken care of.

He kisses Abigail when he shouldn't. They both have trouble sleeping, nightmares and dreams they don't want to be part of plague them. She watches infomercials to exhaust herself. He prefers alcohol or work, occasionally both. She's just nodded off, her feet curled beneath her on the couch. It's a cold night, the wind whistles through the trees outside. He tucks a flannel blanket around her, pushes back the hair that's fallen into her face. She stirs, and opens eyes so bright blue he could drown in them. His hand lingers over her neck, her pulse beneath his finger tips. A thousand dreams he's had of killing her, a thousand dreams of splattered blood, of sobbing hiccups, of her pale neck broken open. He tries to pull back but he can't, and she doesn't shrink away from him, just stares with twin pools of placidness. He cups her face, her mouth parts, and he's sliding his lips against hers. It's over quick, but from the storm brewing in Abigail's eyes when they pull apart, it won't be the last. He shouldn't do this, Hannibal won't blame him, Abigail wants it, but he shouldn't. He does so regardless of should nots, of not rights, of mixed morals, Abigail's a ferocious riptide and he wants to be swept away.

*****

There are dogs in their house. He never found reason to have animals, but he tolerates Will's penchant for picking up strays. They're not all bad acquisitions. Abigail, for example, was a good pick he likes to think. He's grown used to the shedding-the dogs, not Abigail-and their physical needs. The smaller terrier likes to sit next to him while he draws. They're companionable enough, providing Will an outlet when interacting with people becomes overwhelming. Abigail spoils them, never having a pet before makes her overcompensate. The first time he cooks for them, Will walks in on him spooning it into their bowls. Will's face kaleidoscopes emotions, settles on fondness. He's rewarded, for whatever perceived good job he's done, by the press of Will's chest against his back, hands loose on his hips. He washes the dishes like this, with Will breathing him in, and the sound of gulping canines in the background.

There are camouflage pants in his size on his desk. He studies them curiously. I'm taking you hunting my way, Abigail informs him with a flip of her hair. Will's stunned expression upon seeing him in full hunting gear lasts two seconds before the guffaws start. Will's laughter is still ringing in his ears when Abigail takes him deep into the forest. She holds a rifle in her hand with practiced ease, aims at the small specks of brown in the distance, and then the echo of a blast surrounds them. The shot replays in his mind, her poised stance, stilled breath, face determined, eyes sharp. It's one of the single most arousing things Hannibal's ever witnessed. She whoops with joy at finding the buck dead. It's an exercise in restraint, watching her dress down the animal, her lithe hands tear flesh away. When she finally stands up ready to go, he pushes her back into a tree, grasping her head in his hands and slotting his mouth into hers. A muffled sound of surprise escapes her. She holds the knife still, stuck between them when he pressed the line of his body against hers. It's reckless, the knife is sharp, he's just watched it slice into the deer, but he enjoys being reckless with her.

There are days that drag on for Will, too many conversations, too much work, too chaotic of an imagination. He's happy to be a distraction from it. Will walks into his office, bypasses the furniture, and straddles him in the rolling chair. Despite the tension in Will's body, the kisses are unhurried drags of lips. Thankfully Will changed soaps when they started co-habitating, so he licks the jumping pulse line of Will's neck. A whimpering sigh shoots pleasure to his groin. He holds Will's skin between his teeth, just the edge of too hard, but not quite enough at the same time. Will presses up into it, hips grinding down. He opens Will's jeans, sliding his hand in to grasp at Will's hardened length. He licks and nibbles his way around Will's neck, all the while stroking him with rough, quick, jerks of his hand. Will moans out bits of words-please, fuck, please-and he cradles Will's head with his other hand. Will's rocking into his hand, the chair they're in is sliding backwards slightly. Shuddering gasps of breaths alert him to get out his handkerchief, the silk feel of it and a well timed bite, pushes Will over the edge. Shocked little noises wind down to even breaths, then Will's kissing him again, fumbling at his zipper. He gently extracts Will's hands from his erection, nodding in the direction of the doorway. Will turns just in time to see the wisp of hair go by.

There's a devilish glint in Abigail's eye when she makes food requests. She likes to challenge him, to see if his culinary skills and inventiveness are truth, or just another face he adopts. This week she wants homemade candy. He shouldn't indulge her this much, one could almost say he spoils her. Still, he can't very well let her down, not when she's suffering from a sweet tooth. Her eyes go wide when he presents her with a rack of homemade lollipops, bright red, savory sweet, circles of melt in your mouth pleasure. She sniffs it cautiously-good girl, he thinks- and tries to figure out what's in it. When she can't deduce anything other than sugar, she pops it in her mouth. Her eyes flutter shut with a pleased noise humming around the sucker. He gives in to his own sweet tooth, nosing along her jaw. She smells like candy herself, smart girl started using sugar scrubs on a weekly basis. She taunts him in her own way, enticing him to have her. He takes the lollipop out of her mouth, slides it into his own, and leaves her craving more than just candy.

He teaches Abigail how to properly stalk people by having her accompany him follow Will. Abigail doesn't ask why they are tracking Will, it's understood by both of them that they have to protect their quarry. They tag along until Will reaches a coffee shop where he meets Alana Bloom and Jack Crawford. There's protecting, and then there's smothering. He has no desire to unduly upset Will, but Abigail seems reluctant to leave. He ushers her home despite her protests. She's still complaining about leaving Will that she doesn't notice her surroundings until he pushes her onto her bed. It's covered with clothes, rumpled, and unruly, a setting that betrays her composure. He tampers down the urge to start organizing it for her, instead he channels his restless energy into an equally pleasurable pastime. He drags her until her butt is resting on the edge of the bed, legs hanging over the edge, but flattens her down so she’s on her back. Her breath stills when he glides her dress up her thighs. She opens her legs wider, giving him space to press heated kisses up her inner thigh and winces when he nips at the delicate skin. It’s a shock when he licks her in one long motion outside of her underwear. She moves her hands to push it aside but he bats them away. Instead he continues to press his tongue against her, through the cotton, delicious circles around her clit that make her hips strain to meet him. She’s whimpering when he stops, he’s edged her close to orgasm for a while now, and confusion furrows her forehead. He orders her to not touch herself, he wants her frustration to boil over. Then he leaves her to start dinner.

*****

They have an obsession with her scar. At first she thinks it’s her scarves that are drawing all the attention but other instances start to add up. Will holds her neck over her scar when he fucks her, his grasp just shy of choking. Hannibal will rest his hand there, fingertips playing with the raised bit of flesh. Even she touches it often; she’s caught herself stroking it when she’s anxious. Eyes, fingers, lips, all linger over it. They take the ugliest parts of her and make them exquisitely lovely.

They argue a lot, over silly things most of the time. Their favorite argument stems over whether they should move or stay put. Will is usually the first to raise his voice but this time Hannibal’s even tone has growled out his disapproval. He thinks leaving would be more suspicious, though she’s pretty sure he only wants to stay because he relishes making things complicated. They circle each other around the kitchen island, on even footing for once; there are enough reasons to stay and to go. She sips the last of her tea out of a delicate cup, and listens to them get progressively louder. Their shouts don’t faze her, anger doesn’t frighten her, not since she’s learned to use it as fuel. Will flicks on the electric teakettle on their seventeenth round around the island. With an almost orchestrated sense of her needs, Hannibal gets out her favorite tea as Will takes her empty cup. She gets a cup of fresh tea on their twenty second round, and bored when they hit their thirtieth. She deftly disrobes, tosses her discarded clothes in their faces and makes her way to their bedroom. She could not care less if they stayed or left, as long as she’s with them she’s always home.

Chapter Text

Abigail brings home a stray cat one day. Cleverly, she introduces it to Will first so that he can get attached. Will isn't as fond of cats as he is dogs, but the purring that starts the minute he touches it is encouraging. Hannibal takes one look at the one-eyed mangy calico and sighs quietly. She deciphers this as a-yes it can stay- and proceeds to lavish attention on it. It's one thing to have dogs around, dogs understand boundaries, and Will's dogs are expertly trained. This cat has no personal boundaries, nor does it listen very well when told not to do something. In fact it almost always does the opposite. How Abigail found a cat as stubbornly resistant as she is baffles Hannibal. Little toy mice end up in places that set Hannibal's forehead vein throbbing. Even worse when he hears Abigail cooing at it, calling it the perfect little hunter. The cat leaves a previously live mouse in her bed one day and she practically glows with pride. The next morning she wakes to a dead person in the bed next to her and her outraged yelps makes Hannibal grin.

Will covers for them even though he doesn't like to. Alana's polite but insistent inquiries to where his housemates were always going off to sound like thinly veiled accusations. Dread fills his stomach as easily as lies fill his mouth. She frowns, but nods in acceptance, and he's suddenly not sure who he's protecting. It would be disastrous for his-family, lovers, murderers-if Alana ever puzzled out exactly what went on in their home. Even worse, if they found out she suspected their activities.They would make him eat her, of that he's sure. It wouldn't be malicious, no, Hannibal would claim necessity, and Abigail would grab hold of the violent protectiveness that she has recently been using as her excuse. Neither are true. They would want to give him the consummation he wasn't able to have in life, for what could be more intimate, than devouring her in death?

Hannibal watches Abigail with pride, and lust, and wariness. She's not tightly wrapped control like he is, she's volatile wrath lashing out not for the pleasure of it, but to prove she's alive. She appreciates a perfected kill, but it's not what she craves. He takes it as a personal challenge to take her messy kills, the ones she can't help but give in to, and remake them into something beautiful and untraceable. He keeps her uncontrolled nature to himself, not seeing a point in upsetting Will. He wants to keep her darkness for himself, wonders how far he can push her, how far she can push herself. Mentoring is something he had never thought about, not until he held her slim neck between his hands as her blood tried to gush out around them.

Abigail window hunts in coffee shops the way a window shopper doesn't purchase anything, she doesn't kill anyone but she daydreams about it. A lot. Sometimes she'll even strike up a conversation with a particular quarry, all too wide smiles and deceiving eyes. It's easy to flirt and look interested when all she's envisioning is the bloom of blood and the splatter of its warmth against her skin. On rare occasions her prey will give her a business card, and she'll dutifully pass it on to Hannibal. That's not her method of hunting. She prefers a short chase, a quick reel. She doesn't follow them like her legs itch to do, but she watches intently and wonders if they can feel her desire. Wonders if they can feel her knife in their gut the way she feels butterflies in hers.

Will wonders more than once if he should leave. They're going to get caught eventually, their luck running until it's dry. He's not sure whether it would be better to go down with them or against them. Either way he loses. And yet sometimes, when he's driving home, he'll get these sudden thoughts to just keep driving, to make the turn onto the highway and not stop. It's always a flash, a second of unsettlement before he turns onto the correct street. If Hannibal was still his therapist, he's sure that he'd get told to follow his instincts. As much as the burst of fear in his gut tells him to run, there's a stronger feeling, one of loyalty and love that keeps him tethered to them. It'd be pointless to leave anyway. Anywhere he'd go, they'd just hunt him down.

Hannibal snaps, something taut breaking between them, something unsettled and raw, vulnerable in a way that catches him by surprise as his hands close around Will's neck. Oh, he's thought about it, Will's death, in many scenarios, but this, now, is all wrong and he can't seem to stop. Will is scrabbling at his shoulders, hands gripping him, confusion in his eyes, and he can't help but squeeze a little tighter. He's rewarded with a shuddery sound, choked out and delicious, a wet gasp that unclenches a bit of the feverish desire. Abigail's scream is deafening and if Will could've yelled at her to run he would've, but he all he can manage is a gurgle that is drowned out by the sound of her distress. Hannibal doesn't hear it at all, it's muffled by his focus, all he can hear is Will. Which gives Abigail an advantage as she launches herself at him, running on instinct she shoves into him and sinks her teeth into whatever flesh is available to her. He ignores the jolt of pain in his neck and tosses her aside as if she were a flimsy doll. The coffee table breaks under the force of her weight plowing into it. Will's fingers go for his eyes and he turns his head in time to see a marble bookend slam into his face, and then- he wakes up suddenly. Will's back is pressed into his and Abigail's breath wafts across his neck. He's not sweating, although his heart is pounding. He presses a kiss to Abigail's forehead and vows to start teaching her hand to hand combat. If the need ever arises, he'd like her to give a better show at taking him down. Satisfied with his newly appointed task, he holds her a little closer and listens to Will's quiet breathing as he falls back into pleasant dreams.