Chapter Text
“On the contrary,” Will said, slotting the book he’d pulled to peruse back into its designated shelf. “I find the whole… Idea, revolting.”
He glanced outside where the curtain was still parted. It’s five past six in the evening but it looked like it’s ten at night. The sun went down at three today. The sky was dark enough to glimmer with snowflakes as they fell; infrequently, within the last hour.
The ground was partly white with shoe prints and tire prints. The snow on the road melted faster than that on the pavement. Will spotted his car in the parking lot, collecting a thin sheen of flakes like dandruff while Hannibal’s parked a row up front, wearing a coat of white. Telling the different length of time they’ve both been here.
Will huffed out a breath and brought his attention back indoors. Hannibal sat close to the fire at his desk working on a sketch. Two mugs of hot cocoa on the coffee table have long since lost their steam. Will could still taste the sweetness of marshmallows on the back of his tongue, recollecting the slight bitter-saltiness when he took the first sip and he craved for another time.
“This is good,” he said, finishing up the rest of the drink. He eyed the other mug, still half full.
“Not revolting?” Hannibal asked, eyes still cast onto the sketch pad. A small laugh falling out of his lips, teasing.
Will rolled his eyes and exchanged the empty mug for the half full one. He brought it to where Hannibal sat, placing it carefully on the upper right corner of the desk. Not too close to the edge or to the centre, minimizing the risk of spillage.
“Thank you,” Hannibal looked up. He put down the pencil and took the mug. Will watched his throat bob as he swallowed and explained himself.
“Festivities, get together; that sort of thing. Not hot cocoa.”
“Wouldn’t you consider this a get together?” Hannibal brought down the mug, licking the last of cocoa from his lips as he tipped his head. Eyes crinkled with teasing glint.
Will collected the empty mug with a huff. “Fine. A larger, more than two, social gathering exhausts me. Is that what you want to hear?” He glared from the coffee table as he collected the other empty mug as well.
“Would it hurt for you to admit that you are grumpy today,” he heard Hannibal call as he strides into the pantry. Will rolled his eyes even if no one could see.
He washed and rinsed the mugs, toppling them over on the drying rack and huffed out another breath. Hannibal was right: he was in a bad mood. It’s been a bad case for a terribly longer time than necessary, only to end up wrapping badly. One which no matter how many glittering ornaments or colourful fairy lights he saw can wash away the sour feeling. Or the most delicious hot cocoa in the whole planet, even.
He wiped his hands and slouched against the counter, getting his scattered thoughts back together. Regardless of how he felt, it’s unfair to punish Hannibal for it. That’s just reckless abandon.
He straightened up and walked out of the pantry. Hannibal’s shoulders are slightly hunched while he shaded at an awkward angle and Will stopped to admire the rare sight from afar. For a short moment he seemed blissfully unaware of another presence in the room. Sucked into a realm only he inhabited, with his pencils and sketchpad, drawing pictures out of memories.
Then he sensed Will and briefly froze before he adjusted his posture and addressed him. “Practicing in stealth, darling?”
“If it allows me to catch you off guard more often, I suppose I am.”
He closed the distance, traced an exposed vein over the back of Hannibal’s left hand before he took the hand and brought it to his mouth. “Sorry,” he murmured into the thin skin.
“Whatever for?” Hannibal asked, pausing only a second to observe the kiss before returning to his sketch.
Will patted his hand, put it back on the desk and admitted, “For being a dick lately.”
Hannibal smiled, rubbing a thumb over the pencil lines, smudging the graphite. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to reward my patience during our trip to Maine tomorrow.”
Will chuckled, poking at the logs to tame the fire. The flame licked at the iron, heated the metal and painted skin blood orange. He prodded one last time and returned the rod to its holder. Rolling his sleeves up higher, he flexed his hands and noted Hannibal’s eyes linger on them. Like the planets orbiting the Sun, he circulated back to his husband.
“How long?” He asked, placing a hand on his shoulder, tracing it down his scapula and squeezing the muscle there.
“Running out of patience?” Hannibal hummed, drawing straight lines with his newly sharpened pencil.
“Kinda hungry.”
Will sighed, swiping his palm over the satin of the waistcoat hugging Hannibal’s back. It’s neat, not a single crinkle in sight but that’s not unusual for Hannibal and his insistence in maintaining proper postures at any given moment.
Will on the other hand was the sloppier other half. His own shirt, blended cotton, betrayed him with all the harsh crinkles and to top it off, he got a new coffee stain from lunch. Hannibal would definitely bring it up because he couldn’t understand how Will could be clumsy even after all these years. But there wouldn’t be any resentment or disappointment in it.
“Hannibal,” he dragged his fingers through the short strands over the back of his neck, going against the roots. “Let's go home.”
“My work ends at seven, Will.”
“You have no patients,” he snorted.
“I had a patient -,”
“And she cancelled on you. I know, I heard. So just. Come on,” he gave a tug to the fistful of hair.
Hannibal stopped drawing. His eyes fell closed as his jaw went tight. “Will,” he warned, voice even.
“I’m hungry,” Will said, letting go with an audible exhale. He pocketed his hands and headed towards the chaise. He’s playing dirty and it's stopped working as effectively after the first five years. But Will refused to up his game. Because sometimes, Hannibal still bought it, so he reckoned there’s still hope there for him somewhere.
“There is food in the pantry, Will.”
He toed off the shoes and laid down on the chaise. One arm folded behind his head, ankles crossed at the other end and he closed his eyes. “You promised me dinner.”
“Already digested?”
“Keep talking and I’ll get hangry.”
The muted timbre of Hannibal’s laughter traveled, tickling out a smile on Will’s face. He let the humour stretch his mouth and settled lower into the cushion.
“How is Ms Katz?” Hannibal asked.
“Fine,” Will hummed, “Do you really wanna know or are you asking for the sake of it.”
“It is a genuine question,” Hannibal sighed. “I have twenty minutes to kill.”
“And I know a better way to do it. Rather than isolating yourself with a pencil and a paper.”
“Do you really abhor my hobby or are you merely jealous?”
Will cracked an eye open, saw Hannibal looking back and he rolled to his side to face him “Come here,” he crooked a finger. “Pick me over your villainous hobby for once.”
The twitch to Hannibal's mouth was gratifying to watch. Especially when it slowly gave away to a smile.
“Villaineous hobby?” He arched an eyebrow, fingers rolling the pencil as he regarded Will in his carelessly stretched form. “What do you propose I do instead?”
“Me?” Will laughed at the bad joke and sighed. Rolling over onto his back again, he spread out on the chaise, one leg hanging over the edge as he rubbed his hands down his face and let out a low groan.
“It’s been a tough day - Shit. Week,” he amended. “I just want to -,”
“Scoot over, please,” Hannibal’s voice startled him out of the self pitying bemoaning, coming from closer than anticipated and Will looked up at his husband waiting patiently for him to move.
“You’re so fast.” He scowled, “And quiet.”
Hannibal crowded himself on the limited surface of the chaise, slipping an arm under Will to pull him onto his chest and he tucked his head under his chin. “Comfortable?”
“It’d be better in our bed,” Will grumped.
“Shh,” Hannibal hushed him. “We’ll be home in a while. A bigger bed in Maine and it will be a week or more before I can tuck you to my side on a surface like this again.”
Will frowned, craning his neck to catch Hannibal’s eyes and he asked, “Is that why we’re lingering here? Because you’re going to miss this place?”
“I do have a wealth of memories here that can compete with the rest of my life.”
“Even our home?”
“Second to our home,” Hannibal brushed a stray curl from his face. “This is mine but also yours.”
“And our home?”
“Is also our dog’s,” he let out a sigh. It’s not apparent for anyone who didn’t know Hannibal as Will did, but it’s feigned disgruntled.
“You have no reasons to begrudge him after making sure he sleeps in his own bed every night.”
“Would you prefer he returns to our bed? Watch us make love.”
“Jesus,” Will snorted, throwing a leg over Hannibal’s extended ones. “I can’t believe you’re still jealous of Buster.”
The mildly affronted look he peeked at, made him muffle his grin into Hannibal’s collarbone.
“I am not jealous of our dog.”
“And I’m not jealous of your hobby,” Will countered with a grin. “What do you want to do in Maine?” He asked. Because it’s all Hannibal had been able to talk about since July.
He hummed, the vibration of his tone reverberating from his chest into Will’s. A dull tremble that made him sigh and close his eyes. Long fingers carded through his hair, combing and massaging his scalp, alternatively. Will wound an arm over and under Hannibal’s chest, bringing it up behind his shoulder in an embrace.
“Abundant leisure and good food. Equally good spirit to rejoice ourselves for a brand new year.”
“I don’t know if we can stay until the new year,” Will mumbled.
His work for the past few months had become sporadic since he started consulting for the FBI. He knew Hannibal was not happy about it but he ignored the low grunt and focused on the steady breathing and heartbeat under his ear.
“We will make do with Christmas then.”
Will swallowed the apology and tipped his head to kiss the edge of Hannibal’s jaw. “Thank you,” he said instead.
“Perhaps next year?”
“Perhaps next year,” he promised, not sure he could keep it yet.
As if the true harbinger of all things worse, his phone rang from the coffee table halfway across the room. Hannibal’s fingers stilled in his hair, his breath paused along with Will’s.
“No,” he huffed, turning his head the other way. Hands gripping hard onto Hannibal as he put a lid on the unease that grew for as long as the ringtone went and eventually died. “It’s past five.”
Hannibal let out a small sigh, his fingers beginning to resume their motion when the phone went off again. Will gritted his teeth and got up.
It’s Jack. His face ID flashing irritably above the green and red call buttons. Will picked the phone and swiped to answer.
“What is it, Jack?”
He turned around to face Hannibal, who’s still lounging on the chaise. Rolling his eyes, Will traced his way back to him. Jack on the phone demanding his whereabouts.
“Home,” Will said, taking a seat on the cushion as Hannibal made room for him. He gave an appreciative squeeze to one of those endlessly long legs. “So you better have a good reason.”
“Okay good,” Jack grunted. “I need you home for Christmas. We have a new body.”
“I’m going to Maine for Christmas, Jack. I told you that a month ago.”
“You’re staying,” Jack denied. “It’s the Ripper.”
Will clutched the phone so hard he could feel the plastic digging into his palm. Under his other hand, he felt Hannibal shift and he loosened the grip on his leg. “Sorry,” he sighs.
Over the line Jack yelled. “What did you say?”
“I can’t,” Will spoke louder. “How sure are you it’s the Ripper?”
Hannibal sat up, sensing the mood. He went to stand up but Will kept him seated with a hand around his wrist. Stay, he tried to convey with his eyes. Hannibal remained, unwinding his hand and bringing it for a kiss.
“Surgical incision, missing organ. He painted a picture I’m sure you’ll like to see.”
Will bit the inside of his cheek and considered it. Hannibal traced the underside of his wrist with his lips and nose, prying his fingers open to fit around the side of his face and he kissed the centre of Will’s palm.
“Call me back when you’re sure,” Will gulped.
Jack cussed a string. “That’s what you’re for, Graham. I suspect while you counter check and make sure.”
“The evidence makes sure, Jack.”
“And the evidence says it’s him,” Jack insisted. He let out a breath that withered through the line. “Look, I know you and your husband made plans for the holidays. But if it’s the Ripper for real and we can’t afford to miss it okay. Are you in or are you out?”
Will swiped a thumb over Hannibal’s closed eyelid, the corner of his eyes and sighed. Heart squeezing painfully in his chest. “I’ll call you back.”
“Duty call?” Hannibal asked.
“Hmm?” Will checked the time on his phone: 19:03 on 23rd of December. Tomorrow’s Eve. They planned an overnight drive because Buster couldn’t stay quiet in planes. Christmas Eve, Christmas day and Boxing day in Maine.
That was the plan.
“Trouble?” Hannibal prompted, bringing his hand for another kiss. He’s so unassuming, eyes soft and patient, waiting for Will with a comforting smile. It made it harder to deliver the blow.
“They found a body. Here in Baltimore.” Will slipped his hand out of Hannibal’s grip and stood up, walking towards the fire. Guilt lapping hot at his skin more than the flame. “Jack wants me to stay. He thinks it’s the Ripper.”
He turned away. Couldn’t look Hannibal in the face and he pressed his own into his palms.
“What do you want?” Hannibal’s voice carried across the room, carefully controlled.
“Can we postpone?” Will winced. He thought it sounded bad in his mouth, but it’s even worse when it came out.
The silence from Hannibal made him turn. But his husband was no longer on the chaise, his coat left folded on the arm of his office chair. The overcoat’s on the hanger. Will stalked towards the pantry, biting his lip in quiet anticipation.
Hannibal’s washing the mug Will had already washed with a fervour. Will leaned against the doorway and watched him in silence. There were bubbles from the sud as he scrubbed with too much detergent, his hands quick and precise under the water, rinsing the mug twice then thrice.
Will moved from the doorway to turn the faucet off. He took the mugs and toppled them back on the drying rack. Then he turned Hannibal by his hips to face him.
“Tell me we shouldn’t postpone and I won’t.”
“Is that what you want or are you trying to ease your conscience by pushing the blame on someone else?”
“Does it matter?” Will sagged against the counter. .
“Of course it matters.”
He scratched at his beard and looked at his husband. Clenched jaw and pinched face, he’s clearly not happy.
“Okay,” Will said, grabbing his hand. “What I want is for you to be happy.”
Hannibal pulled away from him. “So do I, Will, and going to Maine will make you resent me.”
It’s not a question but a statement. Will couldn’t bring himself to negate it.
“What if it’s really him?” He muffled the words behind his palm.
Hannibal’s face cleared off all expression. “So you’ll stay,” he nodded. “I’ll have Mary know that we’re not coming.”
“I’m sorry,” Will said, but Hannibal had already walked away.
-
There’s a hairline crack on the wall between the windows that he can’t take his eyes off. It branches into two, about forty inches tall and the paint around it is bloated and chipping. They’ve dyed it just recently. A dull mourning blue over a sombre grey.
The gaggle of laughter coming from outside makes him sigh and turn in his bed. Back to the door, facing the crack on the wall fully.
He’s stuck in a private room, something upper class bought with his husband’s money and it’s two o’clock in the afternoon; time for shift-change between the nurses in the ward. It’s day four of his treatment. He’s been prescribed antiinflammatory drugs of some sorts - bags after bags of endless supplies that keeps him hooked to the bed - and a CRIB.
“Complete rest in bed,” the nice nurse had said.
He couldn’t catch her name still, it keeps slipping off of his memory - Which speaking of, feels very… Evaporative. Like droplets of water falling on a steaming hot surface, they keep sizzling away from him. Nothing retains following his ‘near brush to death’ as Hannibal likes to put it. Transient and Intermittent Antergrade Amnesia - He diagnose eloquently. Time bleeds and Will forgets the date but he’s trying his best to keep count. The windows help; daylight and night. The calendar does too. But nothing is as helpful as the daily memory therapy Hannibal puts him through when the day starts and ends. Even if it takes a toll on him and puts him in a very grumpy mood.
His extremities are numb but sensations are returning, maybe a centimetre a day. He keeps flexing them, moving them and this morning when he woke up after falling asleep with his arm bent wrong and couldn’t feel the entire limb, he freaked out. That’s the only reason why they’ve scheduled him for physical therapy now. Because otherwise he wouldn’t have told anyone. The scans they did never really highlighted the cause of those simple paresis.
It didn’t show anything about why his memory is shot either but Sutcliffe said it’s better that way. At least then they can be sure it won’t be permanent and there’s a potential for recovery. He also said it’s likely because of the seizure. Or multiple of it, happening in a short period of time. As far as Will understood, his brain got fried.
All of this… He only remembers because Hannibal keeps reminding him twice a day.
He’ll come at exactly six in the morning and eight in the evening with breakfast, lunch and dinner packed in a bag. He’ll start with a greeting - good morning, good evening, and promptly question Will for the date and where he is at the moment and why. When he stutters with frustration to recall, Hannibal fills in before he nods in satisfaction, claims that Will’s improving and kisses him on the forehead like he’s rewarding a pet.
After that, they’ll eat in silence and Hannibal will stay until eight in the morning and until Will falls asleep in the evening. He’ll read to Will; daily news of no emotional weight or the book that’s currently sitting on the bedside table, neatly bookmarked, until the time comes for him to leave.
Sometimes, he passes well wishes from their mutual friends and associates. But when Will asks about work, he’s quick to shut him down. With a single word (rest) and a look, Will cannot find the energy or courage in him to argue because he keeps being reminded why he’s here; the callousness of his own choices.
Hannibal feeds him guilt like a clockwork. Will just wishes he’ll fit some love in there as well.
Because he knows he’d messed up. He lied. He went to a scene despite promising to not and he signed himself out of recommended therapy when he could have still afforded to avoid these unnecessary complications.
He’s given Hannibal grievance he can’t retrieve and it’s unfair because Hannibal already has a preexisting fear of losing a loved one. So it’s fine that his fault is being rubbed on his face twice daily because that’s better than witnessing real time whatever Hannibal went through while Will was out of it.
Small mercies he supposes, but he misses his husband like a lost limb and even though there are shared meals and conversations, they don't feel the same like they used to. Hannibal’s clearly hurting and his ache infects the whole room when he walks in.
At fifteen past two, there’s a knock on his door. Twice, and he knows it’s the cheery nurse before she even pops her head in. Will smiles at her, as wide as his mouth is willing and attempts to sit up because she usually has stories that help distract him. The tag on her uniform reads Annette.
Today she tells him about her clingy boyfriend who cried to sleep because he’s suffering from a toothache. She tells him how she’s about done with telling him to go get it checked while he’s constantly refusing and it sounds way too familiar that he wonders if Hannibal puts her up to it.
Until she pulls up a picture of her boyfriend on her phone, curled into a lump under the sheets and Will admits with prickling shame that he’s not better than him.
“Good lord,” she tells him. “Your husband is a saint and I know that because he’s still bringing you those delicious home cooked food. If it was me, I would have let you survive on hospital food so you learn your lesson.”
“Thank god I’m not married to you then,” he mumbles sheepishly, and she smacks him lightly with her board for the trouble.
“Any chance he could make us those cookies again. They were so good and Farah ate like ten so we’re all out.”
“I’ll ask,” Will promises. She leaves after handing him a lemon candy which he stares at for a long time after she leaves, not really knowing what to do with it and when he opens the top drawer to deposit it there, he sees a few more of the same candies in there. He doesn’t remember putting them there.
Hannibal visits at seven.
He brings his usual warmer bag, packed with today’s dinner and Will wakes up to his touch on his face. Recognition comes quickly, as well as the smile on his face and he rolls onto his back, blinking the last of his sleep away.
“Hi,” he says, his face feels strained from how widely he’s grinning.
Hannibal simply holds him, one hand pressed to his cheek as he looks at Will for what feels like a long minute and Will lets him have this. Lets him take his fill, even if it is in complete silence because at least this way, he can feel a trickle of affection seep into his skin from the contact.
“I missed you,” he sighs, nuzzling into that touch.
Hannibal draws a thumb over his eyebrow before he pulls him by the back of his neck and tucks him into his chest. The button on his waistcoat bites Will’s skin but he welcomes it gladly, wrapping his arms around his waist in a tight embrace and he breathes in every molecule that’s soaked into those expensive fabrics. Searching for that scent that’s truly Hannibal underneath.
And he doesn’t want to let go even after Hannibal loosen his hold so he settles to combing Will’s hair with his fingers, careful with the tangles and he bends to press his mouth to the crown of his head. “Dinner,” he murmurs.
Will hums but he doesn’t let go until after another minute.
“There’s a supply demand for your cookies,” he tells Hannibal as he places the dishes in front of Will.
They share the bed, Hannibal with his legs hanging over the edge and body half-turned as he blows on the spoonful of porridge before he feeds Will and eats his own fill in between.
“Is that so?” He laughs. But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes and Will lifts a hand to poke at their corners.
“You’ve been losing sleep,” he says.
Hannibal doesn’t comment.
They finish the porridge between the two of them and while Hannibal’s putting away the dishes, Will sips on his glass of water and asks: “How was your day?”
“Nothing remarkable,” Hannibal tells him.
“How’s Buster?”
“As usual,” Hannibal turns to him, zipping up the bag and he bestows Will with a small smile. “He misses you.”
“I miss him too,” Will sighs, putting down the glass when Hannibal takes his seat on the visitor's chair next to his bed. Readying himself for his daily memory therapy.
“My name is Will Graham,” he tells him. “I’m thirty nine years old, it’s April third of 2013 at ten past eight in the evening and I’m admitted in the hospital for Autoimmune Encephalitis related complications.”
“Who am I?”
“My husband.”
“Name, please.”
“Hannibal Graham-Lecter. Doctor. Currently practising psychology, previously trauma surgery.”
“Very well. There is no need for my titles. How are your extremities?”
“Fine.” Will says. Upon Hannibal’s levelled stare, he heaves out a breath and elaborates. “The tips are still numb but it’s getting better.”
“Not worse?”
“No."
Hannibal nods, satisfied for the time being. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I told you last night.” Will huffs. “I told you the day before as well. Nothing changed. It’s the same.”
Hannibal sighs, crossing his left leg over the right. “Anything new that you recall?”
“No,” Will gruffs. Eyes flicking towards the drawer and he opens his mouth before snapping it close. “No.”
“Will.”
“What?”
“It’s best if you’re honest with me.”
“What? Like you’ve been honest with me?” Will snorts.
Hannibal stares. Will sighs. “I’m fine,” he says for the umpteenth time.
“I see. Shall I leave you to it then?”
“Leave me to what?”
“You seem averse to conversations at this moment and I do not know what else I can offer to appease you.”
“Appease me?” Will scoffs. “I don’t want you to appease me, Hannibal. You’re capable of staying with me without any conversations so why can’t you just do that? Why do you have to make it so rigid and focus on trying to make me better? I don’t fucking care about that. I don’t fucking care about trying to remember or trying not to forget because it’s all I fucking think about when you’re not here and then you’re here and you make me think about those same shitty things and when I don’t want to, you want to leave.”
“Can we not do that?” Will seethes, breathing in deep to gain some control over his rage and he says as evenly as he can manage. “I miss home and I miss Buster and I miss you. I know I fucked up. But I really want you here with me now. I just -”
He stops. Unable to say anything more. Eyes trained on the lump of his feet under the cover and he claws at the sheet underneath, focusing on breathing. His throat aches, his nose and eyes burn. The top drawer is visible in the corner of his eyes and he remembers what he saw earlier. All those candies and he keeps glancing there every minute or so just so he can remember they’re there tomorrow morning.
Because he’s terrified he won’t and he’s terrified what it’ll mean for the rest of his life if this is all the better he can get.
The clearing of throat catches his attention and he looks up to see Hannibal standing next to his bed. Suit jacket and waistcoat folded over the chair and Will scoots over so he can fit next to him. Hannibal throws an arm over his shoulder, pulls him until he’s curled around his body and it’s not the most comfortable position in that restricted space but Will couldn’t be bothered about it when his heart feels so swollen to burst and his throat clamps and he clutches onto Hannibal’s shirt front, buries his face into the curve of his neck and breaks.
-
He buried his nose into the scarf, breathed through his mouth to create a small cocoon of warmth and closed his eyes. It’s freezing. The late evening hush of drowsy whispers filtered around him as officials dragged themselves through their designated tasks.
The scrunch of snow grew closer until it came to a stop next to him. Will kept his eyes shut even though he knew who it was by the scent, counting the seconds he could get away standing still.
“So.” Jack spoke. Thirty-nine, Will noted. “What do you think?”
“The Chesapeake Ripper,” he breathed, opening his eyes. “Look where we are, Jack.”
“You think he’s mocking us?”
The frozen Patapsco river stretched in front of them, branching into the city from Chesapeake Bay. White ice so thick that it’s opaque and apparently, sturdy enough to withstand five hundred pounds of combined ice-sculpture and human body weight.
The centrepiece stared at them with all of its grandiosity. Artistry like no other, as it had always been in the Ripper’s case, only this time, it’s elevated on purpose. Mockery, Will thought, might as well be the reason.
He shrugged.
The ice stood ten feet tall, sculpted to hold the body of the Ripper’s latest victim like a coffin erected vertically. The inside stained pink with blood, dripping to pool on the ice of the river, freezing in different shades of red.
The body itself was arranged to look like a sleeping corpse; eyes closed in peace, face inexpressive, skin grey and blue waiting for accurate dating to mark the time of death and in the cusp of the victim’s hands was a bouquet of out of season, water-blue, forget-me-nots.
It was beautiful.
“He took the brain,” Jack said, and Will dragged his eyes from the shiny oxford shoes, formal black and white suit and ghastly pale face of the deceased to the hemisphere of his folded open scalp, missing the top of his skull. And the brain.
“Yes,” he said. His gaze flicking back to the velvet petals of the bright red rose pinned over the man’s chest. “What do we know about him?”
“The ripper?”
He shook his head. “Him,” he nodded at the display.
“Jack Thatcher. 29 years old, white, male. Works full time at a convenient store. Nothing else. Clean record.”
Will nodded. “No motives.”
“Isn’t that usually the case?”
“Usually,” He parroted, stepping out of his stand still and onto the icy river. He tested his footing before placing another foot in front. There was no give at all. The river seemed frozen half-through this early in the winter which was quite abnormal. But a lot of abnormal things were unfolding around him today anyway.
He cocked his head, examining the rose from a closer distance. The droplets of blood-stained melted ice hung beneath the coffin-shaped ice, frozen in their fall and they sparkled when the red, white and blue lights bounced off them. Some of them thawed and dribbled onto the river where they froze all over.
The velvet rose petals begged for his touch but he kept his hands fisted in his pockets, moving his attention towards the bouquet of forget-me-nots instead. His breathing and heartbeat threatened to pique back in rhythm and he closed his eyes again. Under the layer of his glove, his thumb found the warmth of his wedding ring and he hung onto it.
When Jack’s unfiltered cigarette stench followed him there, he turned around. “I suppose we’ll regroup tomorrow?”
“You’re not staying?”
“I don’t know what else I’m good for here.”
“You haven’t told me what you saw.” Jack pointed out.
“Young male, another ripper victim. Probably offended him by making some insensible comment. I suggest you look into his background, maybe we can find more leads from there. But I think the display is quite obvious. Don’t you?”
Jack’s arched eyebrow was judgemental but Will didn’t waver under his stare. “You’re distracted.” Jack said.
“I’m sleeping on the couch tonight, Jack. No thanks to you. Do I need a better reason than that for being distracted?”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“Don’t,” he warned. “He’s not happy and I’m not happy and I’m blaming you entirely for this.”
He shot one final glare at Jack and marched out of there.
-
“Your shirt’s all crinkled now,” Will tells him after some time. He doesn’t release the iron clad clench he has on the shirt front though. Simply fists around the material even tighter than before.
“It seems to have fulfilled its purpose,” Hannibal murmurs, fingers carding through Will’s curls in a soothing pattern. His lips brush the topmost of his head when he speaks and he breathes so evenly to make Will fall in tandem with him. The rise and fall of his chest is the most familiar thing of all. Along with the thrum of his voice under his palm and ear, pressed right over his pulsating heart.
“You don’t like it when it’s all crinkled.”
“You remember that.”
“I remember a lot more.”
“Like what?”
“Things,” Will sniffles, voice lowered just between them, squirming closer and he tips his head to look up. A frail tug to the corner of his mouth, a beginning of a smirk on his blotchy face.
Hannibal smiles down at him, brushing his hair back from his face as his eyes search and he coaxes. “Do share.”
“You don’t like milk in your coffee.”
“Good coffee needs no vehicle to deliver.”
“You like pickles.”
“I do.”
“Cabbage pickle.”
“Sauerkraut.” Hannibal chuckles.
“Sauerkraut,” Will nods.
“A good source of probiotics,” Hannibal tells him. Brushing a thumb under his mouth, he takes Will’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, tips his face up and kisses him.
Soft and slow at first. Tentative and careful like everyday since Will has woken up in the hospital. But then he sighs, pauses and he rolls Will onto his side, cradles the back of his head and kisses him deep and rough. One knee slipping between his thighs and he’s pressing him back on the bed with most of his weight on top of Will. A little slip and stop in the kisses for quick breaths before he resumes with the same or more heat and Will holds onto him. Wanting. Needing. Aching for him.
“Miss you,” he whispers hoarsely. Bucking up into the tantalizing friction between their bodies. And it shouldn’t be difficult to have this. Especially when they’re legally married for years - Share a last name - Even if it’s hyphenated. But it’s made difficult when the door clicks open and Hannibal tips him neatly onto his back, propping himself alongside Will with an elbow supporting his head and he smiles genially at the nurse checking up on them. The quick shift in his expression, from intense to nothing, is remarkable.
“Is everything - “ She begins, stopping short when Hannibal lifts a finger to his mouth, shushing mildly. “Oh.” She halts, lowering her voice immediately “Is he sleeping?”
Will sees Hannibal nod, posed elegantly on the bed next to him. Visible entirely to both Will and the nurse but efficiently keeping Will hidden from her. At least the upper half of him so she buys the lie and lowers her voice.
“Just making sure everything’s okay Doctor. You know how it is. Sorry.”
“No worries at all,” Hannibal tells her. Voice lowered to keep quiet and Will waits to hear the click of the door shutting close behind her to pull him back down by his shirt collar.
-
New Years passed unceremoniously. No parties, no twelve o’clock kisses or bubbling champagne in glass flutes with strawberries dipped in chocolate.
He stared at the already made bed in the master bedroom - Forgot when was the last time he wasn’t sleeping on the couch and let out a long exhale. Hannibal’s already at work, presumably. Himself, still groggy after an all nighter he pulled, looking through files after files on the Chesapeake Ripper.
Every time he thought he was getting somewhere, he found himself at a dead end. Jack Crawford on the other hand wouldn’t take no for an answer at all. But there was also the matter of personal interest. Like a game one got addicted to - Finding the Ripper felt incredulously frustrating but with every case he read through, the desperation grew tremendously.
Bending over, he picked the stray chew-toy Hannibal probably missed under the bed and threw it on the dog bed. His knuckles bumped into something cold and hard. Scratching idly at his stomach, he crouched to take a better look at it.
It’s a keepsake box, by the look of it. Solid iron, heavy to lift and carved with intricate patterns that must signify some importance or another. He traced the symbols on the lid and rounded the keyhole that’s empty. He looked up, wondering where Hannibal could have stored the key for this and started with the bedside drawer.
Nothing.
The bureau, dressing table, under the bed again and maybe above the cupboard. Nothing, nothing, and nothing.
Then suddenly he knew where it might be.
He’d only glimpsed it once or twice, brushing it for the casing of yet another decoration item his husband fancied to collect. But now that he thought about it, why would he keep a casing?
Taking the stairs at two, he headed down to the study and straight to the working table. Top drawer to the right and there it was; velvet bright red like the perfect petals of roses in drawings or picture animation.
The brass key gleamed at him when he opened it.
He took the box with it upstairs and worked on cracking the box open. It only took one try. Inside there were letters in envelopes. Some were simply folded into two and others were trinkets. Little bracelets, rings and what looked like baby shoes. Frills around the ankles. Probably Hannibal’s late sister, Mischa’s.
He blinked at the treasure and picked at the notes and letters.
Hannibal, they read. Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal. Each and every one of them signed by Chiyoh and if Will hadn’t met his husband’s cousin at their wedding, he would be burning with jealousy. Because their exchanges might have not been romantic but they were definitely intimate.
Spoken in codes and references to previous or other interactions that must have taken places outside of pens and papers. Will stopped reading after the second letter, giving up on their secrecy. He’d never really understood their dynamic to begin with. Sometimes, it seemed as if Chiyoh hated Hannibal but at any sign of threats to his wellbeing, she’s there first and foremost like his loyal warrior.
He put all the letters and notes aside and arranged the jewelleries one next to another. Every little ring, bracelet and anklet. Socks and shoes - All seemed to have once belonged to Hannibal’s sister. Beneath them all, there’s a locket. Inside it a picture of a man and a woman stood side by side and on the other page of the locket it’s a baby - Mischa. He tried to identify all the similarities his husband shares in features with his parents and put that aside as well.
Sighing, he began to stack all the notes and letters at the bottom when he noticed that the cardboard slid with motion. Retractable he realised, tipping the letters back out and picking at its edge with his bitten nails. It came off after a few tries and Will tipped his head to the side when he saw a shiny silver key inside.
Frowning, he took it out and put the rest back in, locking the box and sliding it back under the bed, hoping his husband didn’t notice Will went snooping until he realised the silver key was missing.
-
“You seriously -,” Will whispers, unable to keep his mouth off of his husband’s.
“We shouldn’t,” Hannibal says, even as he slips his leg back between Will’s and starts a slow grind. His face is flushed, hair falling out of its neat coif from Will yanking at it too hard and he tips his head down to hide in the space between Will’s neck and shoulder. His breathing hitching.
Will pulls him closer and grunts, “Don’t stop.” One leg thrown over Hannibal’s hip, spreading himself wanton as he tries his best to keep an eye on the little window carved to the door leading into his room. “Just. Keep -,” he urges with stuttering breaths, a needy whine begins and ends in the back of his throat.
He wraps himself around Hannibal, arms, legs and every bounding pulse of his overwhelming desire. For the first time in forever, he feels vibrantly alive and despite the dour setting and the weeping sky outside this building, despite the anger that feels so old now after everything and despite the raindrops kissing ends and sliding down the window on the wall - Left slightly ajar for fresh air, and thank god, Will thinks. Thank god, they left it open a bit or the sheer humidity from their illicit activity will fog up the glasses in this whole room.
And Annette will know. Which means the whole ward will know and inevitably the entire hospital.
“Fuck,” he lets out, grunting as he bucks up. Again and again because the thought of someone looking inside and finding them like this is in a twisted fucking way - Erotic.
His breath quickens into loud bated pants. A moan slips out and Hannibal slaps a hand over his mouth. Will grabs handfuls of his rear end and squeezes, face heating up in the cusp of warm palm. “I’m gonna come,” he gasps. “I'm gonna -,” his breath hitches again and again. "Sweethea -” he stops. A shadow passes outside the door. Someone walking by, he thinks and exhales.
“You’re going to let everyone know,” Hannibal tells him, his hand over Will’s mouth pushing him down. “You’ll like that won’t you?” Teeth nipping at the skin where his ear meets jaw and Will shudders under him. A strangled cry ripping out of his throat as he goes tight and tight and spills; hot and sticky inside the hospital sanctioned pants.
“Christ,” he lets out. Going lax within the next second. Melting flesh and bone like a goop of slime while Hannibal ruts hard and fast on top of him. Twenty beats of his racing heart before he goes incredibly still. Will turns his head to press his nose into the tousled hair. The familiar scent of a day old hair gel and aftershave makes him sigh and he presses a kiss there.
“You’re gonna help me hide this pants,” he says later. “If someone didn’t see us, this would be damning evidence.”
Hannibal mumbles something into the pillow.
“What?”
“You wish someone saw us,” he says again. Louder, clearer. Resurfacing from the tight space he hid with a lazy smile on his pretty face. “Exhibitionism does entice you.”
Will doesn’t even try to deny it anymore. Rolling his eyes as he shoves at his chest, huffing, “Off,” to Hannibal’s breathy laughs.
He watches Will shuffle to rid the pants, another hand thrown blindly searching for tissue on the bedside table or in the drawer until Hannibal picks the hem of his discarded pants and gently wipes him clean.
He kisses the tip of Will’s nose, the apple of his cheek and the edge of his jaw with soft sighing breaths. Retracting his hand from where it was busy down there to cup his face and Will doesn’t need to hear it to listen to the fear he’d faced at the brink of a loss. Every shadow of it clouded his whiskey brown eyes darker. All the I miss you and I nearly lost you and How dare you and I’m so glad I still have you and I love you, I love you, I love you -
“I know,” Will says, feverishly pulling him into a kiss. Not caring that he’s still naked below his waist and there are still people walking back and forth outside the door. “I know,” he whispers, kissing all those resentment away or tries to because God knows he gets it.
Knotting one stitch after another in the back of Hannibal’s knee while he was slumped in the bathtub not too long ago, having just survived a fight with Tobias Budge - He fucking gets it.
“It won’t happen again,” he swears.
Hannibal pulls away and tells him, “Do not promise what you’re not capable of keeping.”
-
Death by bees in the meadow distracted him. It wasn’t even the Ripper’s but his attention was brought back to the rose and forget-me-nots in late December. Despite the early summer scorching sun licking the back of his neck bright red, a chill rattled his spine into a shiver.
“You okay?” Beverly elbowed his flank and asked.
“Yeah,” he told her. Working a smile that stretched like a grimace across his exhausted face.
She winced at him and looked ahead at where Jack is conversing with Price and Zeller. “Trouble in paradise?”
Impulsively, he wanted to snap. But the very same words coming from her and not Jack Crawford made him reconsider. “What makes you say that?”
“You look like you haven’t slept well for ages. Which could mean two things: sex marathon or sleeping on the couch.” She smirked as he snorted. “Ah. Judging by that look on your face, it’s the latter.”
“You think.” he grumbled.
“The wise choice is to blame you rather than your perfect husband,” she said.
“You could pretend to be less wise in that case.”
She turned back to him. Brown eyes, darker than Hannibal’s honey tinted ones, gleaming mischievously as she suggested. “Good food and good sex. Even better men have fallen for those.”
He rolled his eyes. “Except mine is not just better but the best, remember?”
“Hey. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“What made you think I haven’t?” He scowled. Last night wasted dinner and a flagged erection still smarted his ego worse than a whiplash.
“Yikes,” Beverly winced. “I’ve got nothing to offer then.”
He heaved out a breath. “Neither do I.” This time he managed to smile. Albeit pinched and Beverly patted his back in quiet solidarity as they walked towards the group of men gathered around the victim’s body.
“Maybe a dog?” She tried again.
“He doesn’t even approve the one we have.”
“Wasn't he the one who rescued Buster?”
“Complicated man, my husband.” Will told her.
“Surely not that complicated,” she skipped over a hole in the ground. “I mean. Men are men, are they not?”
“You’re insinuating that we’re simpleton.”
“Yes! Which is exactly why I think the Ripper is a she. No male species’ brains can come up with ideas that brilliant.”
“That’s a very general assumption.”
“I’m simply stating the fact.”
“What fact?” Zeller asked when they reached there. Seemingly eager to get away from Price’s lecture about bees.
“Nothing,” Will mumbled, scuffing the dirty sole of his shoe on the grass.
“I find that hard to believe,” he scowled the same time Jack turned to address them.
“Katz, Graham -,” he paused, glancing at Zeller and asked, “What are you talking about?”
“The Ripper,” Will said.
“Will’s husband,” Beverly said.
Jack looked between the two of them and snapped. “Which one was it?”
“Both? Either? Neither?” Beverly shot her million watts grin at him, shrugging as she moved past Jack to where Jimmy Price stood. Will glared at her.
“What about the Ripper?” Jack poked.
“It wasn’t -,” Will began snappishly, recollecting at the look on Jack’s face and he sighed. “Beverly thinks the Ripper is a female.”
Jack crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot. “Well?” He prodded. “Do you?”
Refraining from rolling his eyes, Will walked past him to where the forensic trio gathered, poking at the body. “I don’t know, Jack. I’m not scanning for gender am I?” He muttered under his breath.
“You’re scanning for an UNSUB that best matches the Ripper’s profile.” Jack followed with his smoke roughed voice, grating at Will’s frayed nerves. “That means you’re scanning gender, color, background and everything, get it?”
This time, Will did roll his eyes. “I’m doing what I can.”
“You’re not doing enough.”
Will whirled around. “What do you want from me, Jack? What do you think I have that I haven’t already given to solve these cases for you.”
Jack stared, stone faced. “Clearly you have given so much, at least according to your husband.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Look,” Jack said, pulling him aside. “I’m sure you’re a big boy and big boys don’t need their mama or their lover looking after them do they?”
“What do you mean?” Will yanked his elbow out of his grip, seething. Jack put his hands up, placating.”
“Look. Last night. I’m just gonna ask you this one time, alright? Are you doing well or or not?”
Will simply glared at him, realising where this conversation was headed too. “He was worried,” he hissed. “I went missing in the middle of the night and he was worried. That’s all there is to it. So let’s just agree to drop it.”
Jack nodded, a sneer pulling at the corner of his mouth and he said. “Maybe next time he’s worried, he can watch his words.”
Whatever amicability still left for Jack Crawford vanished right then and there. “No.” Will whispered. Tired of his strings being pulled left and right by this man and now he thinks he can do the same to Hannibal? He scoffed.
“You don’t get to say what my husband does and doesn’t, Jack.” He shook his head. “You have your wife for that. My husband is mine.”
-
Buster greets him in the car.
His small body vibrates with joy as his tail tries to channel as much of that with its incessant wagging. Will’s face splits into a wide grin and laughter spills out of his chest at the sight of him. Hannibal smiles as he loads the back seat with Will’s bags and stuff that have piled up during his stay in the hospital.
“I thought you despised the dog fur,” Will says when they’re both buckled. Buster sat on his lap, standing to circle 360 degrees now and then. It’s the Bentley, which has never admitted Buster inside, except for that one time when Hannibal rescued him from the road side.
“Why discount your joy when we can afford the deep cleaning.” Hannibal reasons, starting the engine.
“Thank you,” Will says, placing a hand over his thigh and he keeps it there the entire ride, anchored even as he naps for most of it.
Hannibal wakes him up when they’re home, lets Buster leap and waddle through the already opened front door and collects the bags before he takes Will’s arm.
“I can walk fine,” Will sighs. But there’s no distaste in his voice and he leans into the touch.
“Allow me anyway,” Hannibal hums, placing a kiss on top of his head.
Dinner’s still catered for a sick person. Will scowls at every scoop of soup and every bite of lightly toasted bread he takes himself until Hannibal takes the spoon from his hand and relieves him off the duty.
“You’re very grumpy,” he comments as Will chews on his bread.
“I’m sick,” Will says. “This is sick-man's food and therefore I’m obligated to be grumpy.”
The small smile he sees on Hannibal’s face makes his inside fluff with pride. Hannibal wipes the crumbs off the corner of his mouth with the napkin’s edge and tells him, “You’re obligated to be nothing but happy.”
“That’s your job to make me happy.” Will sips on the soup he’s fed and smiles back beatifically.
The small smile on Hannibal’s face disappears. He puts the spoon back into the bowl and leans in to press a kiss to the side of Will’s head. “As it is your job to make me happy in return.” he murmurs before he pulls back. The smile reappears, now tighter and dull as Hannibal commands simply: “Finish your dinner,” as he goes back to his own.
Will watches him tuck in and gathers his unfinished bowl. A single piece of toast is still left on his plate and he takes that too as he stands up. He can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him as he leaves, bringing the dishes to the kitchen with him and not soon after he’s joined at the sink by Buster.
He offers the toast to him but Buster simply sniffs before recoiling with disgust. Will didn’t expect otherwise since it’s rubbed with garlic but he has this unspoken deal with Buster where he lets the terrier have a sniff of whatever he’s curious about so he doesn’t feel like he’s missing out on anything.
He throws the toast into the trash can and turns on the faucet.
-
It’s the flowers that stuck with him.
From late spring to the beginning of autumn, he couldn’t stop thinking about them. Forget-me-nots imprinted behind his eyes. A shade paler than the water-blue spilled on the hind car seat. The morning sun rose in early spring and bathed the whole town golden. But it was as white as his wedding suit on the top of the hill when they touched Maine that day. Hannibal by his side with a red rose pinned to the lapel of his black suit.
The silken petal that fell on his mouth as Hannibal fucked him, slow and steady like the first time they made love and all the other times in between them, and he’d kissed that rose on Will’s lips. Between heavy breaths and lust blown eyes, his tongue swiped that petal into Will’s mouth and, “Swallow,” he’d said.
Will remembered that.
He remembered the way Hannibal bit his lower lip and drew blood. He remembered the sting and his hiss and the scent of the rose and the iron of his own blood, flooding through his system as he drew close. And the wine on Hannibal’s tongue as he kissed him through the fall.
Eyes dark like the blackest night sky. Pupils shining like stars where the sun hits right.
He remembered the hunger he saw in them. A void so large as if he could be sucked into it to an unknown land and he’d thought, with all of his swollen heart and lust clogged brain then, that it’s not too horrible of a faith to befall him if on the other side, he’s meant to meet his husband.
Always, he’d thought. Always, he’d remember.
So it did shock him to see those same species on a Ripper’s victim. Mid winter, out of season and yet, preserved to perfection.
How? He thought then. How? He thought still.
After Miriam Lass was found. After he stood behind the one-way mirror in the FBI interrogation hall and heard the loud bang of Jack’s gun shot a bullet through and through Frederick Chilton’s face. Miriam Lass’s shaky hands wrapped around the handle, but she didn’t miss the head shot except for a single centimetre.
What’s the correlation of pale blue forget-me-nots and velvet red rose to Frederick Chilton if he was indeed the Ripper. Because it didn’t make sense.
It didn’t make sense until August when Hannibal came looking for his silver key.
The silver key Will had stolen. The very silver key Will sometimes gripped as tight as he did his wedding ring, in the middle of the night, when he’d awakened by carpets of water-blue and red velvet.
“Did you go through my belongings, Will?” He’d asked, voice as even as if they’re discussing the weather while he scrolled down his i-Pad in the living room. Just after breakfast on a clear Saturday morning.
Will abandoned the coffee he brought to his mouth to drink and asked, “Why?”
Hannibal looked at him above his low riding reading glass. Perched precariously on the middle of his nasal bridge as he goes back to the screen. “I’m missing a key,” he says.
Will put the mug down, missing the coaster then picked it right back up and brought it to his mouth again. Hannibal’s gaze flicked back to him as his lips met the rim.
The thing was, he thought. The thing was, there was no reason for him to be this anxious about it but there he was. Nervous. Because suddenly, it wasn’t just about a key. It was about something entirely different. Something so significant that it could fundamentally shift everything else with it.
So he met that piercing gaze steady on and asked, “What’s it for?”
“The basement.” Hannibal told him.
“The basement?”
“Below the kitchen,” he said. “I store some utensils I use infrequently there. The temperature is stable enough to warrant optimal results for all my preserves.”
“Preserves?”
“Preserves,” Hannibal affirmed. “Meat, vegetables. Our breakfast hams and sandwich pickles.”
“I don’t eat pickles.” Will stated.
“No,” Hannibal laughed. Taking off his glass and putting the I-Pad aside. “But I do, don’t I?” He held out his hand, waiting. “Now, please darling. Return the basement key to me.”
It’s not that he didn’t trust Hannibal. How could he? This was his husband. The man he loved and swore would love even after they’d left the earth. But things haven’t really been smooth between them lately.
Ever since Will broke his promise. Ever since December when he found forget-me-nots preserved in frozen hands.
They talk, still. They eat and sleep under the same roof but he’d forgotten when was the last time they did something together because they wanted to do it together and not because of some tradition upheld for the last five years or a habit.
It’s that, he told himself firmly. Because the alternative would be to admit that he suspected his husband was hiding and he couldn’t just face that fact let alone the reality when it was unrevealed.
When, he realised, not if. Because he was so damn sure the other shoe was going to drop. This gut feeling of his which made everyone in his field look at him with awe and Hannibal with pride - not for the first time and he was sure it wouldn’t be last - he wished he could just dig inside his stomach and rip the whole length out. Fuck with that gut. He rather not be haunted by this crippling anticipation that made him so restless when he’s with the only person he trusted in this entire world.
But -
He must know. “I’d like to see.”
Hannibal blinked, something flashing in his eyes for a split second before he nodded. “Of course.”
-
Hannibal’s presence is only felt when he’s gently guided aside, with his soap soaked hands still dripping onto the counter as he’s replaced in front of the sink. Hannibal takes his hands and rinses them under the water before wordlessly handing a dry hand towel to him.
“You’re still angry with me,” Will states, standing next to him. Rooted by the tension running between them. “I’ve said my sorrys.”
Hannibal stays silent.
“Tell me how to fix this.”
The water runs, the soap swirls down the drain and the plates stack up in the drying rack - in front of the bowls - followed by the glasses while Will simply stares and stares at the side of Hannibal’s face, stubbornly waiting for his answer.
When nothing is said and Hannibal makes to move after drying his hands, Will grabs him by his elbow and stops him. “This is not fair,” he tells him. “You’re not being fair with me.”
The hand that peels his fingers off one by one is as cold as its person. The shock of that rejection burns Will worse than fire. Like icicles, crawling up his blood stream and freezing his heart until it threatens to shatter. He thought they’d got over this. He thought they’d kissed and made up. But it feels like they’re back to square one.
“Hannibal,” he whispers.
His hand stays in Hannibal’s hold, grasped with neither purpose to keep nor discard. As if he doesn’t know what to do with it like he doesn’t know what to do with Will either and in that moment, Will understands that feeling all too well.
Nostalgia comes in nauseating waves of memories from the night when he planted his fist on Hannibal’s cheek.
He remembers the pain on his knuckles and the bruise that yellowed half of his husband's face. He remembers the hurt he witnessed then and he feels the same hurt gnaw at his ribs now. He recalls the crossroad he was facing then; between calling Jack or hiding Hannibal from the whole world and he wonders with a sickening twist to his belly, just what kind of crossroad his husband is facing at the moment.
Letting his hand slip out of Hannibal’s hold, he says, “Go ahead. Do what you think is right. I won’t hold it against you.”
The scoff that falls out of Hannibal’s mouth is uncharacteristic. So is the derision in his tone that follows. “And what exactly do you expect me to do now, Will?” He turns around to face him. Face marred with the same pain Will saw reflected in the mirror not too long ago.
“Put my hand on you?”
“You’re too stuck up for that.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Should I kill you then?”
“Sounds more like your speed, don’t you think?” Will sneers at him, feeling his own hackles rise despite knowing why they are where they are right then.
It feels inevitable that he lets his temper fly and for Hannibal to look as menacing as he does in this instance. In a way that Will has never seen before in all those years they’ve known each other. The silver of the knives glints as if summoned and Will grabs for one of them. His sneer shifts into a smile as he grips it by its blade, its handle out for Hannibal to take.
Hannibal eyes the weapon, motionless, and it makes Will itch for action. He takes his free hand and wraps it around the handle, thrusting the knife into his hold. The blade slides down his palm, slicing through the skin. “Go ahead,” he tells him. “Do it.”
A part of him feels anxious but mostly, he’s resigned. There’s no better end than in one’s lover’s arms, isn’t it?
But the knife falls with a loud clatter when he lets go. Hannibal’s lovely fingers splay wide open midair and they both stare until the knife settles on the kitchen floor. Its silver is so meticulously polished that it reflects both of their faces when the light hits it. Gaunt with defeat and stained with blood.
Buster’s nails clack as he comes running, wanting to sniff and the mundanity of that moment breaks Will out of his stupor.
He leans heavily against the counter, head in his bloodied hands as he hunches over and Hannibal comes to him like there’s nowhere else for him to go but to where Will is. His arms wrap around him with a kind of desperation that can never be translated into words and he clings onto Will with all that he has.
“How could you?” He accuses. Fierce with betrayal.
-
There were preserves in the basement. Along with a number of different kitchen utensils and some other apparatuses that looked too advanced to belong in a house, but Hannibal had always been like that. Striving for perfection and stopping at nothing to achieve that - Which translated to him acquiring whatever technology (advanced or stone-aged) in order to yield the result he deemed up to his too-high standards.
Will never argued with him in regard to that. He teased once or twice but Hannibal had never fumbled, always handled the errors with a grace that was too captivating for him to watch than continue making fun off. So he did. Watch in the sideline as Hannibal fiddled with his fancy stuff until years passed and Will stopped doing that at all.
Which was probably why this particular hobby might have bypassed him. Probably or probably not, Hannibal might have mentioned his intent with the basement when they moved in here. Probably or probably not, Will paid attention to it and then forgot about it entirely the next instance.
Now as he stood in the middle of the basement with a steel table in the middle, and shelves after shelves of preserved food stocks on them; vegetables, fruits, meat? - He found himself wondering just how much and how long had he stopped paying attention to his husband.
“When did you get time for all these?” He asked, checking the jar in which he suspected meat and it was meat. Cubes of them in soaking all the pickling juice. He made a face at the display.
“A little over a long time,” Hannibal chuckled, passing a hand over the back of his waist as he headed towards the end of the space.
The whole room is kept fairly clean. There are barrels at one end, he noted. A tall wine rack with labels printed with their surname. He was aware of their existence, but he simply assumed that Hannibal had a land elsewhere with people who specialised in producing them. After all, his husband’s wealth was immeasurable, passed down with the title and apparently he thought wrong.
Voicing that would only further his embarrassment so he moved to the other side pretending as if he already knew that.
Rows of cured meat tickled his nose with something acrid. Just a subtle scent of the process but enough to make him wrinkle his nose at them.
“Not a fan of the scent?” Hannibal asked, and he startled at the sudden proximity.
He spotted a cleaver, larger than the usual they keep in the kitchen, in his hand and nodded. “Found what you were looking for?”
“Yes.” Hannibal smiled, turning the knife so its silver gleamed. “I was given a particularly large thigh of a cow by the butcher yesterday. This will do, I think.”
“Might need an axe, if it doesn’t”
“That wouldn’t be a problem, we already have one upstairs,” Hannibal laughed. “Come,” he beckoned. “Let's go.”
Will took his hand and let him lead the way.
-
Several things happen at once.
Will pulls back to look Hannibal in the eyes and he’s about to say something but Jack Crawford stands alone at the end of the kitchen, gun held up to fire and he instinctually pushes Hannibal aside.
The bullet flies. He moves. His right ear burns like it's been set on fire but Will doesn’t care. He’s scrambling to relocate Hannibal but he’s no longer on the floor. Another shot is heard. He ducks and takes cover behind the counter and he hears grunts. Objects fly. The platter of fruits get knocked down to the floor and he sees the apples roll. An orange comes to a stop next to his hip and his ear is still ringing.
Overhead, he hears muffled gasps and pants and the collection of knives comes raining down. Will sees Hannibal being choked by a hand towel on the gleaming silver and he grabs the broadest blade from the floor.
“Jack!” He yells.
“Stay out of this, Graham!” He’s ordered.
Hannibal barely spares him a look, swinging left when he’s lunged for. The butcher’s knife is in Jack Crawford’s hand now. A chopping board smacks him on the head and he hurls a stool at Hannibal in retaliation.
Will stands there frozen with the counter separating him and them. His hand, still sticky with his own blood, had left a stain on Hannibal’s pristine white shirt. A bright red handprint on his broad back and it hit him like a freight train right then. That this is his husband. His man. His person. Flung over the counter with fresh blood streaking down his beautiful face and he’s Will’s to save and Will’s only to kill if time comes when.
So with the knife still in his hand, he lunges and drives it through Jack Crawford’s chest. Shocked eyes looking down at the weapon before they land on him. A stroke of clarity drains all the color off Jack Crawford’s skin as he staggers back, gurgling blood.
“You,” he chokes out. Hand reaching to grab the knife’s handle in slowed motion.
Will stands before him, jaw clenched, refusing to regret his action. “I can't let you hurt my husband, Jack."
As soon as Jack grabs the handle, his eyes bulge with another bout of hurt. Blood splutters out of his mouth and onto the counter. Metal skewers lodged under his breastbone, aimed upwards and left, crossing the tip of the knife; stabbing right through the apex of his heart.
Jack Crawford stumbles back and falls, shaking the foundation of their home.
Will stares at his mass, breath caught in his chest, until life bleeds out of Jack’s eyes. Until his name echoes loud and he turns to look.
“Come,” Hannibal calls, his hand outstretched and waiting. The wedding band gleaming red with blood and Will takes it. Going wherever he takes him.
-
The thing was, Will never bought that Chilton was the Ripper.
The thing was, light therapy was also practised by his husband dearest. Unconventional, Hannibal had declared - Of certain methods of treatments but Will had come across damning documentations in the past. Things that were… Suspicious. Things that made him stop and question ethics but he’d always brushed it off in the end. Because he knew Hannibal was curious. In his mind, his husband probably gained explicit consents before he studied those patients.
Plus, he was distracted by one thing or another. And it was his husband - It went without saying that he trusted his husband.
Up till the point when doubts started leaking in. Trickle after trickle like the melting ice-diluted blood onto the frozen river in December. He began stopping more often and hanging onto those questions for answers.
Epiphany, when it came, never did strike as much as tightening its death-cold fingers around his throat and squeezed the last breath out of his lungs. When the last piece of puzzle slotted into place, he simply breathed out an exhale. It felt more like relief than victory. But it was also coated so thickly with betrayal that it made him sick to think about Hannibal.
Stood naked in the bathroom, he clutched the sink until his hands ached and breathed deep. Everything, he realised alas. Everything pointed towards his husband after months and months of just almost everything. All the puzzle pieces awaited for the final one and he’d finally found it.
The letters from Chiyoh. Every single one of them with their previously seemingly elusive, cryptic messages began to make sense as the soap washed off of his skin, along with denial. The shower scalded hot, burning the truth like a brand onto him.
There was a reason why Hannibal never shared those letters with Will. There was a reason why he kept them in a box under the bed but locked - just out of reach but not truly - because he understood Will, and in all his years of knowing him, he was confident Will would ask before prying.
Smart - Typical of him, of course, to then acknowledge Will’s intrusion by asking for what was missing, and then going overboard to show him that there was nothing so secretive, but only the illusion of it. He must have thought it would have made Will feel guilty and stay away altogether but he forgot just how shrewd his husband could be when he’s wearing his detective lenses.
A trapdoor under the cabinets full of jarred pickles? Duffel bag with plastic overall and a different set of car keys?
It took only a blue light to shine the evidence - bright as they were on the clear plastic suit - but even then he still refused to buy it. He wanted to think through, make sense of it all, because it can’t be his husband, can it? Maybe it was animals’ blood - God, he wished it was animals’ blood.
But it wasn’t.
And it hurt. His stomach lurched violently and he retched nothing into the sink. He looked feverishly pale in the reflection, water and sweat pressing his hair flat to his face and he scrubbed it down until it felt hot.
Downstairs, he could hear puttering in the kitchen. The clacking on Buster’s nails as he circled the bedroom beyond the door while Hannibal prepared dinner for them all.
-
The water runs pink at the end of its stream. Hannibal caps the bottle and ties a cloth around his hand.
“This will do for now,” he decides, walking back to the driver’s seat and he discards the bottle in the footwell of the back seat. Buster stays alert but silent inside his carrier. Two duffle bags sit next to his emergency travel bag, one for each human, and they continue their journey up North.
“Chiyoh will meet us there. We’ll board to Europe before the sun rises.”
“How did he know?” Will asks, adrenaline catching up to him much later. He dabs another trickle of blood down his ear; the bullet-grazed wound, albeit not so serious, still hurts like hell.
“Are you alright?” Hannibal asks following his wince.
“I’m fine,” he bites out, crumpling the used tissue into a smaller ball. “I’m still trying to figure out what happened.”
Fifteen minutes lapse in silence before they merge left into the freeway. Hannibal says, “Bella Crawford passed.”
“What?”
“Morphine overdose. Jack Crawford suspected I had something to do with it.”
Will turns to him. “Why would he think that?”
Hannibal’s eyes flick to him for a second before they go back to the road. The road’s poorly lit and they’re speeding 90mph in the middle of the night.
“She’s a patient of mine. He suspects coercion.”
Will studies the side of his face, his own tingling from another dribble of cooling blood and he ignores it. “Did you?” He asks.
“No.”
“Then why was he at our house tonight, Hannibal?”
His jaw clenches, knuckles going white under the black night sky. Will takes a deep breath and asks one more time. “What did you do?”
“A simple reciprocation for all those times he stood by and watched you slip away from life. I watched his wife do the same. Then I sent him a condolence card with a bouquet of blue forget-me-nots.”
“Bastard."
Hannibal looks straight ahead as he simply states, “You can hardly blame me for it.”
-
“I’ve fished the coriander out of your bowl. They barely left any aroma behind.” Hannibal glanced when he walked into the kitchen. Buster on tow and truly, the only thing that’s keeping his wit in assembly when he’s this close to losing it.
He watched the terrier waddle up to his bowl of beef dinner, likely extra from Pho toppings that’s been prepared for their own dinner. His tail wagged in excitement and Will felt his eyes burn from focusing singularly on him.
“Will?” Hannibal called for his attention. “What is wrong? You look ill.”
He snorted weakly. Because the genuine concern in Hannibal’s tone was what made him feel ill. Fisting until his nails bit into his palms, he clenched his jaw from saying blurting something damning.
But everything already felt damned as it was. When Hannibal touched him, he flinched.
Hannibal froze.
Will dragged his eyes from Buster onto him, and whatever Hannibal saw in them, made him understand. His pinched face flattened into smooth nothingness and for the first time since he’d known him, Will felt revolted by him.
Silence settled like dread between them. Seeping into the walls until it weighed down everything and Buster whined when he’d turned from his finished dinner. A pitiful grating sound that scratched at Will’s conscience and forced him to speak.
“You have anything to say to me?” He choked out, strangled by emotions.
Before him, Hannibal stood steadily with his hands by his side. Apron around his waist, tied neatly, white as if he’d been doing nothing. He remained still and spoke with clarity. “Nothing of essence, I believe.”
“Really?” Will scoffed, feeling the anger brewing. “You really have nothing -,” he stopped to pull in a breath. His ribs stuttered as rage swelled with Hannibal’s cool pretense. He gritted his teeth and looked away, only to look back at him. Eyes burning from unshed tears and fury.
“You killed people. For years. Before we met. Before we knew each other, and you don’t think that’s something of essence? Something I should know?”
“Would you have changed your mind then? Would you have ran?”
“I would have known.” Will bristled. “You blinded me.”
“I saved you the trouble of pretense.”
“You hid yourself from me. You lied, you pretended, and now I don’t even know who you really are anymore.”
“I never pretended to be anyone else but myself around you, Will.”
“And how would I know?” Will barked out a laugh. Dry and frustrated out of his pounding chest as he paced back and forth in the kitchen. “You live a whole other life than the one you share with me.”
“I share my whole life and nothing less with you.”
“Don’t lie!” He whirled around. Forefinger pointed out in accusation as he seethed. “Do not fucking lie to me anymore.”
But Hannibal remained stoic as ever and he said, “I never lied to you, Will.” Which was probably what snapped that last thread of control in him.
His fist flew and connected with a crunch on Hannibal’s cheek.
The tension in the air shattered around them. Buster’s nails scraped the floorboard as he ran and Will stopped, horror-stricken at what had become of him. He looked at Hannibal, head swung to his side with his eyes still closed from the impact and he wanted to blame him for it. Look what you made me do. Look how you turned me into my father. You -
“You lied to me,” he says again. Every word that rattled out of his chest dripped with accusation.
Hannibal stood tall despite his hung head. “I never did,” he insisted.
“Don’t,” Will begged. “Don’t lie to me.” He pleaded.
Something seemed to crack in Hannibal then. He nodded. Head still hung, eyes meeting nothing but the floor under Will’s feet and he muttered, “I’m sorry. I never meant to -,” but Will shook his head.
“You did it on purpose,” he started to pace again. “You put those flowers there on purpose. You chose the date and time on purpose. You chose the person and place and the way you displayed your victim on purpose because you do everything on purpose, Hannibal. You’re the Chesapeake Ripper.” He stopped and glared, feeling his whole body shake and he clenched his muscles trying to contain the rippling shiver crawling out of his skin.
“You left me no choice. You were willing to torture yourself to death over these cases and I had to put a stop to it.”
“Oh don’t you dare -”
“I did it for your best.” Hannibal still said it and Will drove his fist into the wall second time around. “Fuck, Hannibal!”
His hand throbbed when he tried to open the fist. When he felt the ring ride up his raw skin, he involuntarily hissed. Hannibal’s by his side in a second. The wall’s caved in a fraction, paint ruined and Will stared at the red of his knuckles, then at him.
“Was I on purpose too?” He asked numbly. His chest ached with threatening grief and he held onto it until it was confirmed. “Was our marriage on purpose? This - This whole… Thing. You and I. Am I a part of your calculated plan?”
Hannibal looked up then. Eyes clear and focused and he said, “You are my end and my beginning.”
-
“We are not being followed,” Hannibal assures after he checks the side mirror for siren and lights for the nth time. “Jack Crawford is on his sympathy leave. He was alone. Presumably acting on his own. You don’t need to worry.”
“I don’t need to worry? Did you have a death wish?” Will snaps at him. “Why did you out yourself like that?”
“I never confessed, Will.”
“He didn’t exactly figure it out on his own, did he?”
“There is no evidence.”
“Is now,” Will grumbles and glares. “Did you forget his body in our kitchen? Our fingerprints - They’re gonna issue warrants for our arrest.”
“We’ll be long gone before then.”
A hand lands on his lap. Will stares at the red stain on the gold band and looks away.
“Darling,” Hannibal says. “All will be well. We’ll be untraceable before tomorrow ends.”
And it dawns on him then that all of this is planned. Of course it’s planned. He’s married to the Ripper after all, and he doesn’t like being on the blind side but there’s a confidence that comes from knowing that Hannibal’s plans are yet to fail. He may be the most wanted criminal of all time but he’s Will’s husband first and foremost, and to hear him call him darling again instilled a certain calmness in him. Trust - as old as the years they’d known each other - swathes him in comfort.
He glances at the rear-view mirror and sees that Buster has curled into sleep. The hand on his lap lays heavy and waiting. Will takes it because there’s no point pretending he has a choice about it. Going forward, he knows that it won't be the same. That they won't be the same. But he can't imagine a life without Hannibal beside him, and anything is worth risking as long as he comes home to him. After all, he did say in sin and hell.