Chapter Text
Ten minutes into alternating between cuddling and kissing and playing fetch with his pack, Will is given a concerned pause. Buster, his excitable Jack Terrier, just sprinted after a thrown branch only to come to a screeching halt outside the door of the shed situated a short distance away from the house.
Will watches as Buster's demeanor changes, turning fearful and timid when he'd been high-spirited mere seconds before. With ears laid tightly back against his head, Buster takes halting backward steps, like he's too afraid to make a sound. Will strides after the frightened dog in the thick snow, placing a gentle hand atop his downy fur as he goes down on one knee. Will feels the exact moment Buster shudders in his hold, letting out a faint whimper before jumping into his arms, and burrowing his head against the safety of the empath's chest.
"What's the matter, boy?" Will asks the spooked canine, looking suspiciously at the locked shed door. Carefully, he maneuvers Buster, pulling him away just enough to hold him by both sides of his face, big brown eyes meeting his. "What are you so scared about?"
He receives a pitiful whine and a lick to the cheek before Buster takes refuge against his chest again. Leia, his mixed Collie and the oldest of the lot sits beside Will and licks Buster sympathetically on his back. He glances around and finds the rest of the dogs milling anxiously about him, Mira going as far as taking a mouthful of Will's sleeves as the mixed Pug-Tzu tries to pull him from where he's stooped on his knees.
The concern turns to worry at seeing the pack clearly unsettled by whatever it is hidden behind the door. Will pulls himself upright, still holding Buster and walks back to the front of the house with the pack following each step, all the while rubbing Buster's body to soothe him. Will's fingernails catch on something beneath the fur. Buster lets out a pained whine, Will stilling mid stroke. He approaches the porch and takes a seat on the rocking chair. He places Buster on his lap and inspects the skin of his back, and goes rigid at what he sees.
He recalls Lecter mentioning Randall Tier attacking the other Will in his home and that one of the dogs had been hurt. Will remembers getting furious, then thinking good fucking riddance. Tier is dead, after his double killed the lesser predator for daring to hurt his family, his carcass brought to Lecter like a dog proudly offering a dead racoon still clutched in a blood soaked muzzle to its master. That or a twisted version of a courtship gift. He didn’t think to ask how long ago that had been. Clearly, not too long ago if Buster’s pained whine is anything to go by. Either way, Will looks to the shed and is hit with clarity as to what is behind the door.
"Stay here," he instructs the pack and walks to the side of the house where the potted plants are. If Graham 2.0 is anything like him - he lifts a pot, digs into the earth and smiles as he finds the keys he's looking for.
He goes down the few steps and makes his way toward the shed. He glances once to make sure the dogs stayed put only to find Winston and Johann shadowing his move. He halts, turns and points back to the house only to get a bark of refusal in return. Will sighs and can't help but feel his chest warm as he sees the rebellious tilt to their heads for what it is. The rest are huddled around Buster like his own personal security detail while the biggest ones in the pack guards Will, tagging along to danger, protective instincts on full display.
With a shake of his head, Will allows Winston and Johann to do as they please.
The smell of bleach hits Will's nose as he works on the lock, the same lingering scent left behind whenever he and Hannibal hunt, coming from the butchering that happens in the basement beneath the manor in France, or from the different properties they own under their other aliases. Something died here or was dragged here, enough blood on the floor to warrant the use of a cleaning agent. And if it is indeed Tier's body, Will's surprised the FBI haven’t arrested him yet. The shed is not exactly a fortress, easily accessible to anyone who so much as suspects Will Graham of having anything to do with this particular killer's death, if they should decide to snoop around or kick down the door.
He can easily picture Jack doing the latter.
It’s apparent that other him is not thinking as sharply as he ought to be. He admires the confidence but it's childishly reckless. Also, perfectionist that he is, how could Lecter allow such an oversight to happen? If he cared what happened to Will, he should have made sure there was no damning evidence lying around.
Or maybe he’s getting ahead of himself.
Will steps inside and sees a boat motor engine part lying in the corner, unfinished with signs of tinkering, along with numerous tools haphazardly surrounding it. His gaze roams and he feels unimpressed. Will thinks of his own shed and deduces he wasn't this much of a slob. He glances up and is met by the sight of a monstrosity dangling from the ceiling. He sighs and grunts in disappointment, hand over his head.
There's that evidence. Practically gift-wrapped. Something has to be done about that, and soon.
Winston and Johann bark, growls rumbling like thunder as they too catch sight of the armor, lethal fangs bared ferociously, saliva dripping. Will clucks his tongue, a sound emitting from his throat that is meant to soothe the agitated canines. It takes two more tries before the dogs get anywhere near calm. "Go back to your brothers and sisters," Will tells them the moment their fur is no longer raised, no longer poised for a fight. "I'll be fine. Go," he adds sharply, whistling a command that has them reluctantly walking outside, tails hanging low after sending their alpha one last questioning look.
He ventures inside the shed, spots the freezer and discovers what he suspected all along.
Will enters the house with Buster in his arms and the dogs congregated about his legs. He lets the Jack Terrier down and whistles, signaling the pack to lie down, and they do so obediently, ambling towards the unlit fireplace where they plop on their bellies. It continues to amaze him that the counterparts to his beloved strays listen to the same set of commands.
He hangs Lecter's coat by the door, on the rack that looks out of place from the rest of the house's decor. The empath shrugs, dismissing the peculiarity and begins dusting his clothes of dog hair and snow. There's an aroma in the air, something light and woody with hints of citrus. Will hears the sound of chopping and of something simmering on the stove, and makes for the kitchen. He takes a sniff and scents a fragrance of fennel. Will's stomach gives an impatient growl when he gets a whiff of scallops. God, it smells heavenly.
He makes minimal sound as he walks in, under no illusion that Lecter didn't notice his presence the moment he crossed the living room. He sees Lecter then, head down and focused on his task, body halfway facing the entrance to the kitchen.
All thought of Randall Tier’s frozen bits hidden in the shed’s freezer momentarily melts away from his mind.
The vision in front of him is arresting in its familiarity, like it was years ago when Hannibal constantly visited him through the bond while incarcerated, such that he half expects to see the man dressed in his usual gray prison jumpsuit. Will smiles fond, from the memory of Hannibal's distaste at the state of his kitchen their first night, telling him, then later more or less begging Will to buy cookware that Hannibal could actually use that won't risk Will of contracting some debilitating, bacteria-infested disease. Hannibal did always take pleasure in taking command of Will's kitchen whenever possible and Will gave in not too long after, helpless against the constant pouting.
The conversation with Hannibal at the nearest store selling kitchen amenities that he could find, where Will unthinkingly scared consumers as he appeared to talk and argue with himself over the practicality of spending such an exorbitant amount of money on a casserole, when he had a perfectly functioning one at home, will always be one of his fonder memories. By the looks of this kitchen, and the wares practically shining on the counter, as well as Lecter's familiarity with where everything seem to be located, Will suspects he's been in and out of this house for the past few days and has decided to upgrade the other Will's kitchen to a state that Lecter deems acceptable, while he can't be there to argue with him about how unnecessary it all is.
"So, come here often?" Will asks as he saunters in and leans a hip against the table, arms crossed against his chest and one fine eyebrow raised. "You seem awfully familiar, knowing your way around the kitchen, doc."
"William," Lecter says, head cocked, dark sanguine eyes brightening at the sight of him, but not bothering to grace Will's not-so-subtle prodding with an answer. "You're right on time my dear. I am nearly done."
Will lets out a breath, stares lovingly yet longingly at the intimate sight of Hannibal in his element, gaze automatically drawn to the inviting curve of his full lips. He steps to the side and takes a quick perusal of the fridge and sees it fully stocked. Will looks over his shoulder and is met with Lecter's still smiling face. He closes the fridge and straightens up.
"You did the groceries?" He gets a nod in reply and after a miniscule amount of inner conflict over what he's about to do, Will winds his arms around the older man’s waist, chin resting on his shoulder. "Anything I can do to help?"
Will's breaking the no touching rule, but since Lecter doesn't seem to mind, barely tensing from the unexpected gesture before seemingly melting against Will's embrace, he decides, fuck it. And really, what's so wrong about a bit of affectionate touching between friends?
Lecter turns his head just so for Will to feel his warm breath against his cheek. He's suddenly hit with a strong sense of melancholia at the familiar pose they're creating. He closes his eyes and can almost see Abigail coming through the kitchen doors, Micah still half-asleep in her embrace as she makes a face, the smile playing the corners of her lips always betraying her supposed disgust at the public display of affection.
No kid wants to see their parents make out, dad, she always complained with an exaggeratedly pained laugh.
Will resolutely shakes the heaviness in his heart, barely manages it.
"Set the table, if you would be so kind?"
It occurs to Will too late that unlike his husband, Lecter probably won't appreciate Will clinging to him like a limpet as he navigates around his staked domain. In any case, he's more than glad to see to the table. Will nods and is just about to turn for the task when his gaze catches on Lecter's forearms when he looks down and closer. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, as he's always wont to do when cooking in his suits, but the pale, unblemished skin Will expected to see is now marred by a line of multiple ugly stitches.
Will's hackles rise. First Buster, now this.
"What the hell is that?" Will exclaims and turns Lecter around. He grabs him by the wrists, putting a stop to the doctor's ministrations. Will holds both limbs to his face, and inspects the sloppy, though methodical wound. Lecter wouldn't have done this to himself, that Will knows without a doubt, impeccably vain and self-preserving man that he is, much like Hannibal.
"Ah yes, that," Lecter says and tries to pull away but Will holds on, steadfast and firm, stormy blue eyes drilling holes in Lecter's forehead, a demand for an explanation.
"This looks like it could have been fatal, Hannibal," the empath grits out, not entirely aware of the slip, his jaw clenching, anger bringing a flush to his cheeks. He swallows, helpless against the growing rage building inside him despite the doctor's soothing voice. He can't stand the thought, the audacity of anyone marking his husband, counterpart, whatever, in such a permanent, owning way. The fucker that did this better have died in the most painful way possible or so help him, Will is going to tear the bastard apart himself.
"Will, look at me," Lecter says, and if he hadn't just been chopping a moment ago, fingers smelling of spices and herbs, Will knows he'd be cupping his face, an attempt to comfort. The empath looks up and their eyes meet. Lecter leans, forehead to forehead and whispers, "Oh darling boy, there is no need to be upset. This happened a while ago. I am alright."
Will closes his eyes, takes a calming breath and opens them again, hisses, "Who the fuck did this to you?"
"Will, it's nothing to be—"
"Tell me," Will presses hotly. He's so angry that he's grinding his molars, near trembling with the effort to not strike whatever is nearest him. Lecter pulls back and sighs in fake reluctance, one that Will sees as clear as bloodstain but is too preoccupied with needing the name to Lecter's assailant to feel any affront from the subtle manipulation.
"If you must know. It was you."
The answer stops Will cold, dread filling his stomach. “What?” he asks, indignant. Without warning, Freddie Lounds’ words, her accusation of the things Lecter had done to the other Will and what that Will had done in return begin ricocheting in his head.
"It was only by proxy and perfectly justified. I hurt you-" the doctor pauses, considers and continues, Will’s heart twisting painfully at recalling what Freddie Lounds had to say about Abigail’s counterpart. "I hurt my Will and he found a way to hurt me. Consider it an act of reciprocity," Lecter says with a somber air, and if what Will’s been told happened was true, he and Lecter are going to have fucking words.
Will’s surprised that he’s not exploding in righteous anger from the jarring revelation of Abigail Hobbs’ death. But upon further inspection, finds he couldn’t if he tried. Knowing exactly how Hannibal's thought process works, having front row seats to seeing the world through his eyes like they are his own, makes it near impossible to fault him for his actions or dismiss his brand of logic.
Will understands his counterpart’s need to hurt Lecter for what was done to Abigail if he loved her even a quarter of how much he loves his own version of her. Yes, frighteningly so, that Will could easily see himself stringing Lecter up if he’d been the one framed for her murder. He has first hand experience of the kind of hopeless desperation the other Will must have felt, alongside the furious bite of betrayal. And yet, he also has a take on Lecter’s point of view, and finds, again, that he can’t blame him for what he’s done to ensure that he remained a free man. Seeing Hannibal behind his glass cage, restrained and domesticated looked wrong. He didn’t belong there. Just as Lecter wouldn’t belong confined in a jail cell.
Lecter's not Hannibal, and it can be argued that Will's insight into the doctor is singularly coming from what he knows of his husband and of the experiences they’ve shared, but Will believes he knows him all the same.
From what he read in TattleCrime while he was waiting to be discharged, there was an article citing the Chesapeake Ripper’s claiming of Will Graham’s supposed kills as the reason for his release. He can see an impression of the truth by what he knows as facts. Lecter might have initially intended for Will to be his scapegoat should he make the connection that Lecter was the Ripper, a very likely possibility with his work for the FBI, but he didn’t think Lecter would have preferred that outcome for Will.
Even when Lecter made certain that Will’s instability would work against him, so that should he swear up and down that Lecter was the Ripper, no one would believe his claims, it would not have been a favorable scenario.
He knows of Hannibal's loneliness, despite how he used to act as if he was above such a pedestrian emotion, Will could see how alone he felt for his uniqueness. He was one of a kind. No one could match him. Until he met Will and from then on never stopped short of showing Will just how much he is loved, treasured and worshipped.
Like him, Lecter would have found someone who he believed could fully understand him and see his kills for the masterpieces that they really are. But the other Graham would have been adamant in clinging to his fraying morals, refusing to entertain the side of him that sees the beauty in the way the Ripper elevates his victims, just like he once had. Lecter would have done his utmost to help him see and accept the truth of who he truly was. After all, isn't that what friendship is for?
The incarceration would have only showed his double how easily his so-called friends would abandon him if they knew of the darkness he has to constantly keep controlled under the surface. Lecter knew that and used it to his advantage as he fostered codependency, alienating Will from people not worthy of his brilliance. Being the selfish, increasingly obsessed, loveable bastard that he is, Lecter would have made sure Will wouldn't have anything left in his life that wasn't the doctor or the family he intended to carve for them in the world.
No. Lecter couldn't have killed Abigail, Will knows with sudden stone cold certainty. It doesn't add up.
He's missing something.
His Abigail had been accessory to her biological father's crimes. Jack had suspected her but it was around the same time Gumb began his kills and a senator's daughter was involved, the pressure from the media too overwhelming and so Abigail was left alone, perceived as a victim. But what if in this world, Jack kept pushing for Abigail as a criminal and the only way to protect her was to make her death as public as it could be? Her supposed death would give her a fresh start as it took the FBI off Lecter's scent in the same breath. It was for her own good. She needed to disappear. Now the other Will is out, no doubt angry at Jack's people for eagerly condemning him for crimes he didn't commit; with fresh blood on his hands. Lecter should already be re-introducing the idea of family to Will, but something is stopping him.
Goddamn! It’s a fucking test.
"Did you have a Matthew Brown in your world, Will?"
Will stares uncomprehending for a second, resurfacing to reality like a drowning man.
"Umm, the orderly?" he clarifies, squinting as he does, struggling for even ground as he tries to process what he's discovered, how he'd been immersed in profiling his and Hannibal's counterparts. He forces himself to focus on Lecter's question. He's not one to ask or care for any hospital staff, but it had been inevitable to know of Barney and Brown's names in passing when he'd started visiting Hannibal at the BSHCI during the profiling of Buffalo Bill.
A few months after their escape, Hannibal told him how he had grown quite fond of Brown and Barney during his stay. Apparently, Brown in particular found his husband fascinating, and had a tendency to talk nonsense about hawks. It still grates on his nerves, the thought that if the bond didn’t happen as it did, Hannibal would have made his escape with the help of Brown. The fact that Will had unwittingly taken the name Matthew, chosen by Hannibal as his first alias, remains to irritate him on a daily basis.
"Ahh, so he exists. And you know of him."
"Brown was one of the orderlies assigned to Hannibal. Night watch." Will's eyes narrow, feeling a spike of self-recrimination, not for the first time, for not bothering to put a face to the name. "Lounds said I tried to have you killed. Did - it was him, wasn’t it?"
"Yes."
Will looks down at the healing stitches, tracing each raised scar tissue gently, carefully. The irony that in this world, Matthew Brown, a man for whom Will has always felt a sick sense of jealousy, for having caught Hannibal’s attention no matter how short lived, was fascinated enough by his double's incarcerated ass to readily go after Lecter's neck by his orders is not lost on him.
The pendulum swings again, coming to him as easy as breathing and it doesn’t take long before Will is seeing the nightmare for what it is and promptly feels sick to his stomach. "He tried to bleed you out."
"Mr. Brown tried. He was quite enamored with what he perceived to be Will's dark, twisting labyrinth of a mind and, I believe, wanted to impress him. Will played him like a finely tuned instrument," Lecter says with barely concealed pride. He pulls away with little to no effort to sprinkle the spices he'd prepared for the meal appetizingly sizzling by the stove. He adjusts the heat and rinses his hands by the sink all the while looking like a world renowned dancer as he moves about the small space, grace in every flex of muscle and tendon.
Will runs a hand across his face, teeth gritted, annoyed. Of course Lecter would look at Will's capability for dark things, manipulation and murder more so than most, as something to be proud of, even if the attempt had been on his own life. "I ought to give my counterpart a piece of my mind."
"William." Lecter glides back to him, blood-brown gaze soft and doting. It would be a shame, such a waste if this world's Will Graham didn’t get to experience this tender side of the Ripper for himself. "I do not blame your counterpart for his actions. Not when it resulted in such exquisite metamorphoses."
Well, he can’t really argue with that.
Even Will had been betrayed by Hannibal, had literally enacted murders using Will’s body without his consent and yet, they found a way to move past it, be stronger on the other side, two sad sacks of dark impulses who thought they’d never find someone to see and accept them completely as they were, only to be proven wonderfully wrong. Their life in France, their counterparts could have that as well, even better, without the constant pressure of making sure the authorities remained oblivious to their presence. If other him could just give Lecter a chance, he knows it’d be the best decision he’d ever make.
But didn't he already cross that line? Even if it can be construed as self-defence at first, he didn't actually have to mutilate Tier and chop him into chunks of meat ready to be cooked. That could only mean that his counterpart had forgiven Lecter for what he’s done, understood and accepted that no one could get him the way Lecter did and decided to finally join him. Whether it be a thirst for companionship. Friendship. Love. He is not certain what his double’s driving force is but it’s already proving to be a good start. That his daughter's double is actually alive will only serve to drive the point home.
"Is Brown dead at least?" Will asks, expectant. Lecter goes silent again, a measly three seconds’ worth of quiet but it's enough to let Will know that Brown is very much alive.
"No. He is housed in The Ohio Asylum for The Criminally Insane. I've been meaning to give him a visit."
Will mentally jots down 'Kill Brown and make sure he watches as I feed him his own intestines' on his to-do list. And if Will going for Matthew’s head is mainly derived from an unrequited hate due to unsavory associations that the orderly's counterpart had with Hannibal, well, he can hardly be blamed for his actions. If he’s still stuck in this world when that time comes of course. He really fucking hopes not though. He’d rather be home in the next breath if he could.
"Take me with you, if you do," Will says, a promise of pain glinting in his storm-blue eyes. He looks to the ugly marks on Lecter's forearm and feels a renewed spike of possessiveness and protectiveness for this man that shares his husband's face. "And when we do, we're not taking trophies. We're not going to eat vermin , Doctor Lecter. But what I do want is to see this bastard choke on his own flesh and blood before I watch the light leave his eyes," he says, voice dripping with burning contempt.
Lecter responds, looking positively enraptured. “If you so wish it, my dear.”
Will nods, then stares at him, the fire in his eyes simmering down to a warmth, only to fall straight to sub-zero coldness. "Now, about Abigail," he says, and the chillingly calm quality to his voice is all Hannibal. Will takes one step closer, fingers sliding up Lecter's chest before settling on his tie. “That was very rude of you to let other me think his daughter's dead, Doctor Lecter.” He tightens the knot enough to restrict airflow, watches with dark gratification as Lecter swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. “What’s to be done about that?”
The food is great, bay scallops with mushrooms, pepper and grilled Italian sausage - whether it's an actual Italian, Will's still 50/50 on that - served with a helping of herb butter sauce, complimented with an unassuming bottle of Pinot Noir, lightly chilled. Normally, Will would be nothing but praise for his husband or, as the case may be, for a version of his husband's cooking, especially since the meal was prepared with his fast recovery in mind to build up his strength, but after the things he'd heard come out of Lecter's mouth, he's too annoyed to bother feeding the man's already inflated ego.
Will spears a particularly enticing looking sausage like it's personally offended him.
"Are you imagining the sausage to be my neck, William?" He doesn't bother to answer, only glares at Lecter across the table and chews grumpily. There's a sigh, and the sound of cutlery kissing porcelain before Lecter speaks again. "Do you intend to give me the silent treatment for the whole duration of the meal?"
Will’s glare intensifies. If looks could kill, Lecter would be nothing but a puddle of blood on the floor.
"You know it had to be done."
Fork held in a white-knuckled grip as if ready to strike, Will finally bares his teeth and grits out, "You mutilated our daughter, Hannibal." For one hateful second, he pictures stabbing the man across him right in the eye. They stare at each other, time seemingly standing still until Will deflates. He hunches forward, elbows on the table, hiding his face behind his hands. "Shit. Sorry," he eventually says, letting out a heavy breath. "You're not - you didn't mutilate my Abigail, and it's none of my business what you do with your version of her."
"You feel strongly wronged for the mirror image of your daughter. I understand," Lecter soothes and reaches out to pry Will's fingers off the knife and fork in his grasp. He places both down on the table and tilts Will's chin, his dark gaze imploring. "Are you angry with me?"
Will takes a steadying breath, eyes closing at the tender touch, pretends that he's with Hannibal for a moment. "No," he says, sad gaze fluttering open. "I know what you did was for her own good, that it was in her best interest to disappear. But she already has to carry Hobbs' scar for the rest of her life, did you have to disfigure her?"
Another scar to add to an already abundant list, physical as well as emotional, and he detests the very thought of that far-from-innocent but sweet girl having to live with the constant reminder. His Abigail already hates having to see the scar Garrett left behind every time she sees her reflection in the mirror, he can just imagine her reaction if Hannibal introduced such a ludicrous idea of chopping off a part of her, claiming it was for her own safety. She's a survivor and would definitely try to stab Hannibal in the neck at least once and Will would be compelled to side with her, at least for the first five minutes.
"It was either that or her fingers. And I could not allow such an atrocity to happen. I have every intention to teach Abigail how to play the theremin and harpsichord once we are, all three of us away from this place."
Despite the sharp spike of irritation, Will can't help but thaw a little upon hearing the hopeful wonder in Lecter’s voice.
Will knows Lecter's not entirely sold on the other Graham choosing him over Jack yet. And rightly so. He has every reason to doubt the other Will's sincerity. After all, it was his masterful manipulation that caused Will's counterpart to end up in a jail cell with everyone questioning his mental state, a situation that he's dreaded all his life coming true. Just because he understands why Lecter did what he did, doesn't mean he's not partially angry for what his less-stable twin had to go through. After the encephalitis - which his Hannibal chose to not be a dick about, thank fuck, telling Will that he was ill when his health seriously started to fail him, Hannibal's love weighing so much more than his damned curiosity and penchant for manipulation - Abigail, and the wrongful incarceration, it's inevitable for resentment to linger. Will knows that Lecter understands he went too far; that there's a chance his Will is going to sell him out to Jack or stab him in the back the moment he lets his guard down.
He could, of course, just outright tell the truth about Abigail, which would highly increase the chances of his double opening up to the idea of family, but Lecter's pride won't let him. If the other Will is to come with him, it has to be because of Lecter and not for anyone else. The egotistical, closeted, insecure asshole.
With a deep exhale, he lets his personal feelings for his daughter's doppelganger go. The girl is not his and Hannibal's. And as long as Lecter continues to protect her from the FBI's grubby clutches, that's all he really cares about. Though, he'd rather like to see her at least once while he's stuck in this place.
"If your Abigail is anything like mine, you should be very proud. She's beautiful. Graceful. Ruthless,” Will says with pride, fingers closing around the stem of the wine glass as he scents it before taking a small sip, savoring the rich flavor as it bursts on his tongue. He puts the glass down and meets Lecter's riveted gaze. Will watches as those dark eyes follow the soft glide of his tongue over his bottom lip and his breath hitches.
He fidgets in his seat, stamping down the sudden flare of arousal for being so intensely watched. It’s really not fair that he’s seeing Hannibal’s face and can’t get intimate in all the ways he’d want to.
"I hope our Abigail will aspire to be as cunning and vicious as yours." Lecter says with a small smile, clearly finding Will's discomfort amusing as he offers up a toast. "To new beginnings."
"New beginnings," Will murmurs, toasting along as he mentally curses his body’s reactions.
Will's never been completely cut off from sex as he is now. Always attuned to Hannibal's desire as much as his own, they always, without fail, meet in between. It didn't always have to be physical either. Being intrinsically connected as they were, the merging of minds, fantasies and sensations shared is already a heady aphrodisiac and is just as gratifying and powerful as the physical release itself. Lecter's presence is both a balm to his heart and a source of frustration for his body.
But he's nothing but patient, Will tells himself. Had learned even more to be for all the years he'd taken up the knife with his husband.
Fishing required a certain measure of patience, but hunting took it to the next level. Impatience can make one sloppy, get someone with their sort of hobby killed; it's an important and crucial trait to keep certain urges in check while on a hunt. Of course, he has enough self-restraint to not let his libido overrule his brain. Will takes a breath, shakes off the desire to reach over and go down on the man opposite him and focuses on the offered sumptuous meal instead.
The conversation ceases, comfortable silence falling between them. He'd always loved it about Hannibal, his ability to read Will's preference for peace and quiet without needing to be told, which Lecter also seems to share. They eventually move towards the living room, wine glasses still in hand. Will's pleasantly buzzed. Good food and even better company and the cocktail of drugs no doubt still lingering in his system making him drowsy.
They take a seat on the living room couch, Will gravitating to and leaning against Lecter's side, cozily soaking up his warmth. He watches with a lazy smile the heartwarming scene his pack makes on the carpeted floor before his gaze darts toward the newly repaired window and mutters asshole under his breath regarding Tier before taking another sip of wine.
Will sighs, tilts his head back just so and feels Lecter's lips nuzzling along his hairline, his steady breathing lightly ruffling the generous curls on Will's head as long, deft fingers stroke up and down the arm not currently pressed against Lecter's form. Once more, he's reminded that this man is not his Hannibal and is very soon caught in a web, a looping and confusing cycle between happiness from what Lecter’s mere presence brings and debilitating depression about the reality that he has yet to come up with a plan for getting back home to his actual other half.
They'd talked about it, he and Lecter, when Will was in the hospital after they'd revealed what they knew of the other. Lecter had been greatly worried. He hadn’t shown it but years of perfecting that expressionless mask couldn't hide from Will how unsettled the man came to be over the words he'd given voice to. But it had to be addressed. He honestly has no idea if the other Will is even in his world. Logically, it would make the most sense with how he ended up here, but it's still speculation at best. And if by some miracle he figures out a way to return to his world, it doesn't ensure that his doppelganger would also return to this dimension.
One thing is for sure, however, this mess is tied to that young woman he tried to save. Jesus, what Hannibal must have felt the second the connection broke and he could no longer feel Will.
It doesn't seem like he can do much, or anything at all from this end, but Abigail had been there, and Will sincerely, dearly fucking hopes she made the smart move of not going after the woman, staying away from her reality-tearing hands, and phoned Hannibal instead at the earliest given opportunity; that they are currently working on a way of getting Will back to where he belongs.
Then there's Micah.
Will's been away from his son five days and counting. Micah's never been away from his side or his sights for longer than forty-eight hours. He swallows thickly, something like hopeless desperation and anger clawing at his insides as he imagines Micah crying his eyes out asking for his Dada and Will. Can't. Fucking. Get. To. Him.
"Lost in thought?"
Will struggles to center himself, slowly tilts his head up, throat tight. "Not lost. Just thinking. Wallowing."
"Will."
"I miss my family," Will reveals and takes a shuddering breath. He bites his lower lip enough to bleed and continues. "I miss my husband, my daughter." A pregnant pause. "My son."
"Micah?" Lecter asks and Will doesn't miss the barely-there hitch in his voice as he says the name.
It's very close to Mischa's name, being that he was named after her, Hannibal's dear late sister. And if Lecter's history went exactly as it did Hannibal's, Will understands why saying the name sounds as if it’s in prayer.
"Yes."
"Would you tell me about him?"
Will shakes his head. Doesn't think he can bear talking about his little boy with the possibility hanging over his head that he's never going to see him again.
"Don't dwell on the less than savory possibilities," Lecter whispers as if reading his mind, as if feeling Will’s emotions, and for one heart-stopping moment, he thinks the impossible before the gnawing emptiness inside him rears its ugly head in the open, reminding him that no, nothing is still right in his world. The same long, deft fingers rake through Will's hair, forehead resting against the warm skin of his nape. "You would want to hide but you need to fight the bleak, forlorn thoughts and focus on the beauty of reminiscing, the good memories you have of your child."
Will stays silent, doesn't say a word for a long while but Lecter remains a steady presence beside him, holding him close, comfortable and warm.
He opens a door in his memory palace.
Opens his eyes.
Will smiles a sad little smile when he sees Hannibal in the next breath, occupying the spot next to him on the bed, a one year old Micah in their midst fast asleep. Will feels heat gather behind his eyes as he reaches down and strokes his son's plump, high cheekbones. He looks up at Hannibal, sniffs and lets out a quiet half-laugh. "He looks so much like you," he says, and can't help but choke on a sob. "I miss you."
"Comes back to us, mylimasis." Hannibal says, the same sad gaze matching the empath's own.
"I'm trying, love." Will's eyes water, reaches out and kisses Hannibal passionately, fervently, wishing with all his heart that he's real. That he's truly back in France with his family.
Micah fusses between them, forcing his fathers to let each other go before looping chubby arms around Will's neck and settling against his chest. He mutters Dada under his breath, unconsciously and effectively blocking Hannibal from going any further with Will. Merely a year old and already as possessive as his tevas.
Will decides to tell Lecter how Micah came into their lives, mindful in not mentioning their Sensate connection. Will still doesn't see the point of explaining it to the doctor.
It seems like it was only yesterday when Will had wanted to give Hannibal a family, back when Abigail hadn't yet decided to permanently come with them. The time they spent together during those first few months in Italy had been nothing but euphoric, their honeymoon phase so to speak, but there was always something missing.
The feeling only intensified when Abigail first visited, a short vacation she had to take in association with her studies. Then came the anniversary of Mischa’s death and Will finally realized what it was he needed to do.
It took a long while, a lot of factors had to be considered if he was to have any hope of pulling his plan off. There’s the studying, searching for viable candidates, background checks, putting contingency plans in place and ensuring that Hannibal did not get suspicious to the point of ruining the surprise. A feat considering how insightful Hannibal was - but that only meant Will had to be ten times more careful. Six months in and he finally found the perfect donor, a Victoria Lambin of Italian descent that could pass up as Will’s sister, for his and Hannibal’s child.
It was vital that the donor share, if not the same, then close enough physical traits with Will. Hannibal was never short of marveling and waxing poetic about Will’s beauty and if Will had to give him a child, then he or she should resemble them both.
Just because Will couldn’t physically carry Hannibal’s offspring, didn’t mean he was willing to leave it lying down, to rob him of the chance to be a father. It was there every time he looked at Abigail, talked about Mischa; Hannibal’s longing to have a child with Will, one they could both love, nurture and protect.
It wasn’t all selfless intentions on Will’s part either. He wanted a child of his own as much as Hannibal does, maybe even more, to be able to settle down and have a family that did not consist of a well-meaning but drunkard father and a neglectful, heroin-addicted mother.
It was easy enough to get the specimen from Hannibal with how frequently they got intimate. The hard and complicated part came in getting his chosen registered egg donor to cooperate. It would be all orchestrated as happenstance, a simple meeting in a bar where Will would act the depressed, slightly-drunk man who would unwittingly tell Victoria about his and his partner’s life story. Of two middle-aged men who wanted to have a family but his fussy partner did not want the anonymity that came with clinic donations, reasoning that not knowing who the eggs came from was risky and they couldn’t have a child coming out riddled with defects, condemning him or her to a hard life of ridicule from all the rude, insensitive people of the world. Stressing in particular how they did not have female relatives, and the few female friends they had did not want that kind of complication in their life.
Will was able to create a strong connection with her after that meeting, bleeding heart that she was. They quickly became friends, Will’s empathy doing what it does best until she volunteered, deciding to help him out of his misery.
It was a trying time however, with Hannibal increasingly getting agitated by Will spending time with this supposed friend that Will refused to give the name to. Their connection served to make matters worse since Hannibal can sense Will’s emotions, feels the sudden burst of elation and guilt in equal parts whenever he leaves the house. At one point, Hannibal accused Will of having an affair which Will of course outright denied, then told Hannibal in no uncertain terms that if he couldn’t handle Will having a life outside of their little murder bubble then they might as well go their separate ways. He’d never seen overwhelming panic cross Hannibal’s face before, yet Hannibal did not waver.
That had been a tense couple of weeks. They did not talk, always made sure to avoid the other which proved to be it’s special form of torture, putting a massive strain on their connection. Will felt the most guilt for hiding such an important thing from Hannibal, but he already made up his mind to see it through. They could feel the other’s longing, the righteous anger, the sharp sense of betrayal and murderous impulse coming from Hannibal’s end that would only marginally simmer down after a solo hunt.
Several times, their eyes would meet across the room and both could read the other’s thoughts by that one look alone. Hannibal wanted to hurt Will for hurting him with his damned secrecy, as much as Will wanted to hurt him for not trusting him enough that he would never fucking cheat on him.
Eventually, their love for each other won out after they sat down and actually took the time to talk. Apologies were exchanged, Hannibal making it clear to Will that he’s not a prisoner, that they were equals in this relationship and as long as he remained true to what they have, then Will can keep his friend. There was still resentment there, and Will decided to give him some degree of the truth, assuring Hannibal that whatever it was he was doing now, it was all for him, for the family that they wanted to build and all he had to do was trust Will, and it was going to be worth it in the end.
Hannibal acquiesed, respecting Will’s wishes and their day to day life continued as if the argument never happened. Nobody had to get stabbed after all, much to Will’s relief.
As soon as Will gained possession of what he needed from Victoria, he told Hannibal to pack, telling him that the first stage of his plan is complete and they had to relocate, right after telling Victoria some excuse about a family emergency, promising to keep in touch with her only to never see her again. They decided on Copenhagen as their next destination and Will did not waste time. He got right into arranging the legalities involved with the surrogacy, under a different alias naturally, nitpicking and ensuring that the actual woman that was to carry their baby to term passed all psycological tests. The child was his gift to Hannibal, the physical manifestation of Will's love and devotion to the man, only revealed once the surrogate was able to give birth and he was not about to have the surrogate change her mind in the end and fuck it up for him.
After Will had made sure she was well looked after, constantly checking, providing for her needs, wiring money to ensure she lives comfortably during her pregnancy, Will’s meticulous planning finally bore fruit. At last, the fateful day came when Will arrived home, vibrating with excitement and giddy with happiness with the newly born baby boy nestled protectively in his arms.
That Micah came into the world with the exact same shade of Will and his biological mother's eyes, blond curls crowning his head, with Hannibal’s distinct mouth, the shape of his nose, his round, plump face, young but undeniably still Hannibal was everything Will hoped for it to be.
Will’s eyes flutter open and for a second he feels displaced when he sees the unfamiliar image of a ceiling, before memories come rushing back and he has to squeeze his eyes shut, grit his teeth as he forces the tears back, valiantly trying to keep himself together.
He recalls his conversation with Lecter, recounting fondly about Micah's conception before apparently falling asleep. Will rubs the grit from his eyes and runs a tired hand over his face. He checks his surroundings and frowns at the now somewhat familiar walls.
Did Lecter carry him up the stairs to the second floor bedroom?
He turns in bed, sees a single white paper sitting on the nightstand and reaches out for it. He squints at Lecter’s neat calligraphy informing him that Margot’s brother had called and he had to regrettably leave, and if Will would be so kind to join him later for an evening meal. The dogs had also been taken by one of the boarding kennel’s personnel, sent to Lecter’s residence in Baltimore to stay for the duration of the two weeks time recommended Will also spend in the doctor’s company. Lecter says he need not worry, that he already made necessary adjustments to the house's sparse back lot in order to accomodate the pack.
Will makes a face, a tad annoyed that Lecter didn’t bother waking him up to at least inform him personally. His gaze travels to the lower part of the paper and he can’t help but grin foolishly at what is written there.
You looked so beautifully peaceful, my dear. I did not have the heart to wake you. H.L.
“Bastard,” he mutters under his breath, heat rising in his cheeks as he hugs a lumpy pillow to his chest.
Will yawns, stretches and rises to his feet, sees a pair of black slacks, a dark gray suit jacket and a teal blue long-sleeved shirt hanging by the dresser. He looks to the foot of the bed and sees a packed bag. He picks up another note attached to it.
William,
I hope your taste in clothing will prove a lot more refined, being that you’ve spent years with my counterpart. I’ve packed all that I believe to pass as somewhat acceptable from Will’s closet. It is a disappointingly low number.
Nevertheless, if you need anything in particular, you need only ask me. I am greatly looking forward to seeing you tonight.
Alana will be joining us. It is time we clear the air, yes?
H.L.
Will tosses the paper on the bed and has to refrain from crumpling the letter in his annoyance at having to read Alana’s name written in Hannibal— no, Lecter’s calligraphy. There’s still that spike of jealousy that he can’t seem to permanently shake off. But either way, he appreciates Lecter’s resolve in keeping the record straight. He’s all for any plan geared towards making sure that Lecter won’t have some daft, starry-eyed tart invading his space.
He glances at the clock and sees the time is just a little over four. Plenty of time to get ready, to dress to kill - hopefully - for the night. He’s just about to go downstairs when movement by the window catches his attention. Will goes over to the window sill and looks down, just in time to see a blur of red walk into the shed.
Shit.
“Fucking Lounds,” Will curses under his breath as he quickly makes his way down the stairs. She’s always butting into people’s lives, putting her nose in places where it’s not wanted. It seems that no matter what dimension it is, she always excels at one thing in particular, getting on Will’s nerves, aggravating him and driving him to murder.
Well, she’s gonna get what’s coming to her.