Archive of Our Own

It was already late in the night, the snow looked almost gray in the dark and the clouds stretched like foliage over the bare trees. 

It was really late in the night and there were sounds on the front of Will's porch, and if it was not a raccoon it would better be Saint Nicholas with a bag of coal for him because if it's not a fucking raccoon it's–

"Hello Will," Hannibal said as soon as Will opened the front door, completely unfazed at being discovered sneaking in the middle of the damn night. 

"Give a good reason for why I shouldn't put a bullet in you right now, Dr. Lecter," Will answered. Bitter words doing nothing to trouble Hannibal's calm demeanor, neither did the rifle pointed at his chest. 

"Because you don't want to kill me," he answered, unmoving and still on the porch, regarding Will's lack of winter clothes. A cotton shirt, sweatpants and just one sock. (He was getting ready to knock himself off with whiskey and get in bed, for fucks sake.) Hannibal's eyes shifted from his face to the gun and then back in a second before he continued, giving a little nod in the direction of Will's rifle. Too fucking smug. "Not with that, at least. Too impersonal." 

Will's face didn't twitch, but something inside him must have done, because he pushed the gun away, placing it against the wall in the interior of the house but keeping himself in the door. 

"And what’s stopping me from calling Jack Crawford?" 

"Would you really want to bother him on Christmas eve?" Bella's figure came straight to Will's mind, then her coughing. He couldn't stop his brain from asking 'how many Christmas does she have left?'

No. He wouldn't call Jack Crawford. Didn’t mean he didn’t want to. 

"What are you doing here?" Will asked instead of answering. Hannibal clearly knew the answer even before he came to Will's house. "I thought you would be hosting one of your dinner parties." He said, tilting his chin up, still stubbornly standing in the middle of the door, refusing to invite Hannibal in but refusing to step outside completely. It was rude. Good.

“I used to,” Hannibal agreed, bowing his head slightly. “But not this year, and never on Christmas Eve. People often prefer to spend that time with their loved ones rather than attending a party.”

Will regarded him a moment. The chill of the air had started to get to him and he shifted from one foot to the other, trying to hide the slight tremors of his body. Very slowly he lifted his foot, trying to place the one without a sock on top of the rim of his sweatpants. 

“That doesn’t explain why you’re here, in my house.” He attempted to cross his arms, searching for some warmth in his own cold hands, and of course it didn’t go unnoticed. Hannibal Lecter, for once in his fucking lifetime, showed some mercy and didn’t point it out. 

Instead, Hannibal showed him a box. More tall than wide, wrapped in dark red paper with a bow on top that could have been a darker shade of red or could have been black. 

“If I were to be honest,” Hannibal started, ignoring the bitter chuckle that Will didn’t try to dissimulate. “I was planning on leaving you a gift when you discovered me.” 

It was almost innocent and almost endearing, and Will dislodged one of his hands from under the barely comforting warmth of his arm to accept the gift before he stopped right on his tracks. It was too innocent, and it sat uncomfortable on him. Discovered. The pendulum moved behind him without him summoning it. 

The Bentley was nowhere in sight, so Hannibal had to park it away and walk the rest of the way, surely to not summon the dogs, or announce his arrival with the headlights. Almost, almost, as if he didn’t want Will to realize he was there. 

But then, the Chesapeake Ripper wouldn’t have tripped with his feet, wouldn’t have stepped over the creaking step of the stairs that he surely knew was there. The Chesapeake Ripper was a master hunter. His prey wouldn’t know he was there until he had his arms around their neck. Not until he decided he wanted to be known. 

“Liar.” 

Will saw, not without some satisfaction, a flash of anger cross Hannibal’s features before it was pushed aside. 

“You almost tripped and knocked off a plant, Dr. Lecter,” Will continued, aiming his words directly at Hannibal’s pride like an arrow. “I didn’t surprise you. You planned it. If you hadn’t wanted me to discover you, you wouldn’t have made a noise.” 

“You continue to think everything is a manipulation from me,” Hannibal said, too matter of factly.  

“You don’t do things without a reason. What do you want?” 

“I already told you, I wished to leave you a gift.” If there was someone more stubborn than Will Graham in this life, it surely was Jack Crawford. But then Hannibal Lecter was a close second. 

“If you wanted to leave me a gift, you would have left it on the porch. We’re back on you wanting me to come out and see you leaving me a gift. I don’t think you’re foolish enough to believe a gift will make me change my mind about you. What do you want?” It gave Will immeasurable pleasure to see Hannibal Lecter’s impeccable demeanor be torn from him, to shred the person suit to ruins, no matter how briefly Hannibal stitched it back together. 

Hannibal breathed a long sigh, closed his eyes for a second, probably pondering the pros and cons of pulling a knife from inside the obnoxiously patterned suit he was surely wearing under his overcoat, and stabbing Will right there. 

“In 1914, during the first World War, the troops settled alongside the Western Front decided to make a truce for the celebrations,” Hannibal told him, offering the gift again. “I was hoping you would be kind enough to accept a truce, at least for tonight.”  

Will frowned, suddenly completely out of his depth. He shifted his gaze from the gift to the ribbon to Hannibal and back, trying to grasp some sense of the situation. 

In the end, he couldn’t, so he just asked, “why?” 

Hannibal just shrugged – no. Hannibal Lecter didn’t shrug. (Will would have called it a shrug out loud, just to see Hannibal’s left eye twitch, but he really had a more pressing matter to address right now.) What Hannibal Lecter did was to tilt his head to the side, barely moving his shoulder upwards just an inch. It was the most elegant and stilled shrug known to a man, if it could be called a shrug. 

“Because people often prefer to spend the celebrations with their loved ones.” 

Will groaned. It was too much to unpack in one single sentence, and it was too late in the night, and it was cold, and Hannibal Lecter was in his porch with a gift asking for a fucking truce as if Will could fucking forgive and forget everything he did for one night as if–

“Alright.” Will said, surprising even himself; feeling how the equivalent of a looney-toon’s comically large piano was lifted from his shoulders. And if making Hannibal Lecter frown gave him incommensurable amounts of satisfaction, to see him open his mouth like a fish and watch his eyebrows rise up to his hairline gave him such an amount of joy that couldn’t even be put into words. “You know what?” Will said, frowning and pinching his nose and releasing the air that had been trapped in his lungs for what felt like an eternity. “Yes, I could use a fucking night of not looking over my shoulder. Alright. Truce.” 

He deserved at least one day of peace.

It took at least five seconds, almost an eternity, for Hannibal to come back to himself.

“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal’s expression softened, the smile on his face made him look at least a decade younger as he offered the gift again and Will finally accepted it. 

“I didn’t get you anything,” Will chuckled sourly, suddenly self-consciously timid, even knowing he wouldn’t have bought Hannibal anything, even knowing that he hadn’t know that Hannibal Lecter would appear in his porch in the middle of the fucking night asking for a cease of fire. 

“You just gave me a truce,” Hannibal said, smiling wide as Will had never seen him, as he truly did give him the best gift in the world. Unbelievable. Hannibal’s face was caressed by a gentleness that Will had no emotional capability or even energy to acknowledge. 

“I guess,” he said, finally fishing a bottle of whiskey from the box. It wasn’t the cheap kind that Will bought for himself and he, very imaginatively, called whiskey-to-get-drunk. It was even better than the one he had spent a lot of money on and had on his cabinet for special occasions. This was the Hannibal-fucking-Lecter-making-an-obnoxious-gift kind of whiskey. 

“You’re a practical man, Will,” Hannibal said when Will let his head drop to his chest, obscuring his face. “I thought of buying you other things, but in the end I opted for what I thought you would enjoy.”

“How magnanimous of you, to think about what I want. Would have been hard for you,” Will said, incapable of taming the grin that pulled at the corner of his lips, knowing how rude he was being. “What else did you plan to buy me?” 

“A new dog wasn’t an option, I know you prefer to rescue them,” Hannibal answered, looking through the door where the pack was sleeping inside, except for Winston that blinked at them. Observant and curious. Good boy, Will thought, taking care that the cannibal doesn’t eat me. “Or stealing them.” Hannibal amended. “I also thought of buying a new after-shave.” 

“Now you’re pushing it, Hannibal.” Hannibal didn’t bring up the change of Will calling him by his name, but he beamed so bright that Will thought for a moment that he imagined a wagging tail behind the doctor. And for fuck’s sake, Hannibal fucking Lecter seemed to be able to fucking shrug like a normal human being. The night was full of surprises. 

“Come on,” Will said, schooling his face at last, gesturing with his head to the bench close to the window. “I don’t want you inside my house, truce or not, but let's have a drink. This must have cost half a fortune, at least one of us should have working taste-buds to honor it.” 

Hannibal smiled again, softer, and even under the poor light that the moon gave them behind the clouds, he could appreciate how wrinkles decorated the corners of his eyes. 

Will entered the house and came back with two socks on his feet before the left froze, two muddy boots that he used to walk the dogs, two glasses and a thick blanket, because they had a truce and whatever . He did his best not to think much about it.

“Cheers,” Will said, trying to at least sound cheerful, passing Hannibal one glass of whiskey and throwing the blanket over their shoulders. 

“Cheers, Will.”

They nursed their drinks in silence, sending furtive glances when the other didn’t look. One drink became two, then three, and they should stop, because Hannibal would have to drive back to Baltimore at some point, and wouldn’t it be funny? The Chesapeake Ripper, evading the FBI for years just to die in a car crash because of him.

Will didn’t laugh, and he tried to wash the bitter taste in his mouth with more whiskey. The sudden sting behind his eyes wasn’t welcome in the slightest, nor was the way he started to shake, his leg bouncing with pent up energy, his knuckles turning white when his grip in the glass tightened.

“It’s cold, Will,” Hannibal rushed to say, “you should go insi–”

“Why?” Will spat the word, frowning at his reflection in the half a finger of whiskey remaining in his glass. Hannibal’s silence gave him no pleasure, no sense of satisfaction. Just another rush of bitterness in his mouth as if he had swallowed his own venomous thoughts. “Why are you here, with me?”

Hannibal didn’t fidget. He didn’t bounce his leg like a nervous kid or pick at some loose thread of his overcoat. He was still as a statue, moonlight accentuating the sharp lines of his face.

“Is it so unthinkable for you that I find you dear to me?”

Will huffed, irritated, but refused to roll his eyes.

“To be honest, Hannibal, I have plenty of reasons to think that you hate me. Do I have to make you a list? I can start with untreated encephalitis, as a little entrée.” Will barked at him, truly he sounded like a rabid dog even to his own ears. He winced, finishing the last of his whiskey and flinched, not at the taste, but at how hostile and resentful his words sounded. Even for him. Even if he was very entitled to be resentful. And hostile. And bitter. And–

“And I think, Will, that I also gave you plenty of reasons to convince you of the contrary,” Hannibal told him, chin up, letting the comment slide as if he was over it. 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Of course the narcissistic psychopath would think of himself as the victim. 

“Do we start the list with the whiskey?” Will asked, aiming for mocking and landing in sorrowful. Hannibal just sighed, leaning further back on the bench. 

“Why did you accept the truce, Will?” He asked instead, far too peaceful. Or maybe he was aiming for peaceful. Will thought it sounded sorrowful too. But that could be the whiskey messing with his empathy.

Will didn’t want to mimic him, but he also didn’t want to drink another glass of whiskey. No, in fact, he did want to drink another glass of whiskey. Maybe the full bottle. Knock himself out for at least two months. But he ended up mimicking Hannibal and leaning back on the bench, looking at the old, empty beehive that he still had to remove from the corner and trying to keep his leg still.

“Because I really needed at least one hour without worrying about you messing with my head.” 

“Have you succeeded?” He heard Hannibal’s smug smile, and he smiled in kind.

“To be honest?” 

“Preferably.”

Will chuckled. It sounded like a sob. 

“No. Honestly, not at all.” And honestly? He was tired. Tired of playing cat and mouse. Tired of corpses and blood and omissions and manipulations. He wanted to lay in his bed, preferably with his dogs. Preferably. He looked to his side, observing Hannibal’s profile. Preferably.  

“Why did you ask for a truce, Hannibal?”

“Because I wished to spend the night with you.”

“Because I’m dear to you.” 

“Yes.”

Will sighed. He was tired, and cold. And they had a truce. He should take at least something good from it apart from the expensive whiskey and anxiety. He dropped back his head, fidgeted with the glass in his hand, made a mental note to remove the beehive. 

Decisions, decisions. Will hated making decisions because he always made the worst ones.

“I’m cold, Hannibal.”

“Of course, my apologies,” he sounded truly apologetic, and that must have been the most surprising thing of the night. Hannibal moved to stand and Will grabbed him by the arm before he could lift his fucking ass from the bench.

“Have you ever been a teenager, Hannibal?” Will asked, a laugh bubbling inside him. It was weak, but it was a laugh. “I doubt it. In fact, I can picture it, a little Hannibal Lecter, coming out of the womb already dressed in plaid. Surely your first word was something pretentious.” 

The sigh that came from Hannibal was the final straw that pulled a real laugh from Will’s throat.

“I don’t enjoy being teased, Will,” Hannibal said, but he didn’t move, nor did he stab him. So he couldn’t be truly offended.

“But I enjoy teasing you. Let’s add ‘letting me tease you’ to the list of reasons that you give to not think you hate me.” Hannibal sighed again, but made no comment, and Will thought of it as a victory when he resumed his previous position on the bench. But he still could push a little more. After all, pushing boundaries was Hannibal’s way of showing Will he was dear to him. It was time to get a taste of his own medicine. “So, never been a teenager?”

“I’ve been a teenager, Will.”

“Doubt it. If you were a teenager you would know that when someone tells you that they’re cold you should put your arm around their shoulders.” 

Hannibal finally looked at him, square on the face, tilting his head and raising an elegant brow. “Are you a teenager, Will?”

Decisions, decisions. Fuck. He needed more whiskey. Will closed his eyes.

Baby, it’s cold outside. Will hummed the old tune in his mind. This evening has been, so very nice…

“I think I drank enough whiskey to make a decision stupid enough that even teenager would know it’s a bad idea.” It was a bad idea. The worst of the bad ideas that had once crossed a person’s mind. He couldn’t have a worse idea not even if he actively tried. Fuck it. Will focused on the warmth sensation that the whiskey left inside him, the cloudy state of his mind, he rolled his head, opened his eyes and looked at Hannibal’s face and let himself forget everything else for a miserable fucking night.  

“I’m cold, Hannibal.” 

Hannibal was so still that he didn’t even breathe. He blinked, once, as if he had just remembered he had to. Then, very tentatively lifted his arm, and very, very slowly, as if scared that the universe would destroy itself at any moment – or maybe that Will would bite a chunk of his face if he touched him – Hannibal placed his arm around Will’s shoulders. 

When Will thought about it, thought of Hannibal touching him, (in those sparse moments of loneliness and alcohol and high hours of the night) he didn’t think about how he would feel. He thought about how it would feel. Hannibal’s strong hand on his shoulder, the warmth of Hannibal’s body that he seemed to emanate as if he was a radiator. Would Hannibal’s shoulder be comfortable enough to rest his head? Would Hannibal mind if he did? Would he rest his head over Will’s?

Will thought a lot of things. But he wasn’t prepared for how he would feel. The sigh of relief that was torn from him at feeling Hannibal’s hand on him, the strong body against his, the sting of tears coming back in full force, the way his stomach turned upside down and his heart started to throw itself against his ribcage, as if trying to escape and jump into Hannibal’s arms. 

With the same tentative, slow pase, Will moved closer to Hannibal, resting his head on top of his shoulder and fuck, he didn’t want this truce to end. Will tried not to think in how he squirmed in place, how he shivered from something that wasn't the cold anymore, how he curled in himself and placed his own arms the best he could around Hannibal. He tried to ignore the way Hannibal sighed, the wounded sound that came from the older man as he traced his nose across the skin of his temple, brushing away the curls. 

Will didn’t really want to know how they ended up cuddling under a blanket in the middle of the night. But they did. With Hannibal's nose buried in his hair, Hannibal’s arms around him, and Will resting his head on top of him, every inch of their bodies in close contact with the other. 

The tip of Hannibal’s nose was cold when it brushed against his temple, but his fingertips made gentle circles over his shirt, pressing softly on his flesh. Hannibal’s cologne was the strongest in the collar of his shirt, close to Will’s nose, and Hannibal had smelled him more than once, Will couldn’t care if Hannibal noticed him inhaling deeply against it. 

But at some point he felt dizzy, and Will needed to breathe air that wasn’t heavy with Hannibal’s warmth and scent. He raised his head up softly, eyes casted down, observing his own soft gasps that materialized themselves in the air. 

“This is nice,” Will whispered, a weak smile appearing in his lips, and another twitching in Hannibal’s. 

“It is,” Hannibal answered, as soft as him, and Will couldn’t tear his eyes away from his lips but he could feel Hannibal’s gaze on him, Hannibal's condensanting breath caressing his mouth, and it made Will lick his lips instinctually. 

In the enormity of the cosmos; in the insignificance of his actions, and after this stupid, horrible bad idea, and dumb choice… what was another one?

The grip of Hannibal’s finger tightened on his waist, there was a near imperceptibly tremor on it, in the way his hand shook trying to keep Will close to him. 

Accepting Hannibal’s truce was a bad idea, but it probably was the best one of the night. Cuddling with Hannibal Lecter was a really bad idea, but nothing close to the idea that had settled now in his brain. 

Fuck everything. Fuck Jack Crawford. Fuck the cannibalism, the bodies, the invisible stab wounds in his back, the ear in his throat, the bones in his lures. Fuck laws and moral codes. Nothing existed for one day, today, in this little bench under the blanket. Will grabbed Hannibal by the cold cheeks and pulled him into a kiss. 

It wasn’t even a kiss even if he tried. 

In the sudden urge and nervousness to kiss Hannibal Fucking Lecter, Will had missed by a mile and he ended up kissing his chin. He tried again and head-butted Hannibal by accident. Then Hannibal tried to move and they ended up bumping their noses and Will threw his head back with a bitter laugh, the sting of tears present now with more force.

Will cursed out loud, a strangled "Fuck!" that echoed in the field around his house and awakened some animal that ran away behind the trees.

"Will," Hannibal hushed him, brushing his thumbs under Will's eyes, caressing softly the skin of his cheeks and luring him back to their little snow-globe-like scene. "Would you look at me?"

Will took a deep breath, not remotely prepared to see Hannibal's face. He nodded, pressing his eyes closed, begging for his tears to not spill right there when he opened his eyes and saw…

And saw the most impossible expression in Hannibal's face. He was used to being attacked by waves of emotions from other people – that were his glasses for – but never from Hannibal. He always kept them in check, close to his chest and under at least twelve and a half locks, and covered by his person suit. And now… and now there was no veil, just Hannibal's flesh at its most raw, yearning and almost frightened; just hesitant eyes and trembling hands and glistening lips slightly open, begging for him to please try again. 

Will felt one traitorous tear trail down, ending its ephemeral life on Hannibal's finger. 

"May I?" Hannibal asked, his voice barely a whisper, like if the words were casted onto a river of thin ice that could break with the weight. Will heard the dry sound of his own throat trying to gulp on nothing else than anxiety.

Will closed his eyes again, trying to tame the anxiety that was trying to bloom inside him into a full panic attack. He felt Hannibal's hand release him slightly like a bucket of cold water. "No," Will said, moving his hands fast to grasp at Hannibal's, keeping them in place. 

He tried not to think about the smile that would caress Hannibal's face at the action.

Will opened his eyes slowly, and met Hannibal's face, soft and reverent as if Will was the most precious thing in the world.

"May I?" Hannibal repeated softly. And if they weren't in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, face so close to the other's, Will wouldn't have even heard the words.

Will nodded slowly, his thumbs stroking the skin of Hannibal's hands under his, and silently said, "please." 

He felt the trembling gasp from Hannibal more than he heard it, and then Hannibal was leaning closer to him, and Will tilted his chin up, letting Hannibal guide his head towards his lips, and Will parted his dry lips and they were kissing.

They were kissing.

It took Will’s brain a moment. 

Hannibal's lips were softer than they looked, but just as plump. They fitted so beautifully against his – they, Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, fitted so beautifully together that it must have been a joke from the universe. The kiss was chaste and so soft, no pressure, just the brush of one against the other, the intimacy wasn't in the kiss but in the action of surrender and Will heard a sound so close to a whine and so close to a moan, but flirting in the edge of a sigh. The sound of a hungry beast, aching and bleeding that finally had gotten what their soul was begging for.

To know from which of them had come  was impossible to discern. 

Time slowed down when they parted, and Will was panting like he had run a marathon. He supposed the way his heart was pounding in his chest had something to do with it. They were less than an inch apart. This close their lips would still brush together if they decided to speak.

This close Will could appreciate Hannibal's face, every little wrinkle, every little pore, the spots that had a little stubble and barely perceptive scars, the fine tremor of Hannibal lips and where they were chipped by the cold. He was beautiful and just because Will was mesmerized and still a little bit still dizzy from the alcohol and the kiss, he managed to not say something embarrassingly cheesy out loud.

Hannibal, on the other hand…

“Will,” Hannibal said, for once in his life at a loss for words, and if Will hadn’t been maybe in the same or worse state than him, it would have made a not so little bloom of triumph to swell inside his chest. “Will,” he attempted again, placing his forehead against Will’s, with no more success than the first time.

How many bad decisions can a person make in one single night?

The sound of surprise that came from Hannibal’s lips when Will yanked him forward was swallowed by Will’s eager mouth. Will’s kisses were nothing like the brush of lips that were Hannibal’s. Will kissed with his whole body, pushing himself forward and holding Hannibal by his overcoat with a steel-like grip, keeping him in place. He moved his head, following the movement of his lips, as if he could crawl inside Hannibal through his mouth. He smiled, Hannibal would probably like that. 

Hannibal would swear he didn’t whine. Will knew better.

(Or maybe Hannibal couldn’t exactly make any type of sound because Will was sucking the oxygen from his lungs. Oh well.)

Will parted from him with a satisfied grin, and Hannibal followed him, entranced. 

“This is nic–” Will tried to say, bordering on playful before Hannibal chased for him, pressing whiskey flavored kisses to his mouth, not letting him a moment to pull away between the first kiss and the ones that followed. 

And Will smiled in the kisses, a little chuckle getting in the way before Hannibal groaned, pressing further into the kiss, begging for the contact and Will sighed in the one second of freedom he managed to take from Hannibal’s mouth, and then surged forward.

Soft and warm, kind lips brushing gently against the other, slick and hot. There was no tongue involved, no desperation, no clothes removed, and yet, Will had never been kissed with such intimacy before. Had never kissed back like he needed the touch more than air. 

Will shivered, the winter breeze was bracing cold, but Hannibal’s body against his was scalding like white embers – his warm hands moving down to his lower back and even farther down, lifting Will’s legs and pulling them over his lap, tearing a surprised chuckle from Will before he silenced with another kiss – maybe, maybe, Will’s shivers had nothing to do with the cold.

The whiskey bottle lay forgotten on the floor, and he was sure one of the glasses had been broken when it collapsed against the floor. At some point, he thought it must have been Hannibal, who had picked up the blanket from the floor and covered their legs with it. 

Will didn’t remember when was the last time he had made out with someone for so long he felt his lips hurt. Maybe it was Betty, when he was still in Louisiana and in the back of her father’s car. They had kissed for so long they’d forgotten to go to the movies and he had come back home with a prepubescent hard-on and swollen red lips. But that couldn’t even compare to this. He had been kissed, he had made out, but he had never been so thoroughly kissed. 

He acquaintance with Hannibal’s mouth, with the plush cupid bow, the crooked teeth and the sharp fangs. He said hello to the warm tongue from time to time with soft licks. He discovered that every time the tip of his tongue touched the roof of Hannibal’s mouth he would shake and smile, ticklish. He discovered Hannibal’s fascination with his face, fingers tracing his factions as if he would turn blind at any moment and he needed to memorize Will’s face. How when Hannibal needed to breathe he would keep kissing him, sporadically leaving pecks on his cheeks, on the corner of his lips, the tip of his nose, under his eyes and over his cheekbone.  

When Will looked at the mirror, if he managed to get from this bench and Hannibal felt merciful enough to let him go to the bathroom, he was sure his lips would be bruised. Not raw red like in his younger years, but maybe raw red with some purple in the corners, maybe crimson if Hannibal didn’t stop himself from trying to bite him.

Will supposed that Beverly would say something about not sticking your tongue into a cannibal’s mouth, but what was life without some risks– Beverly. 

Will pushed Hannibal away from him, breaking the kiss and hoped for his mind to conjure a ghost, maybe a shadow of a kafkaesque slices of organs. The sound of Beverly’s disgust.

He was met only with the silence of the darkest hour of the night, the damp ghost of Hannibal’s lips on his own, the heavy panting of Hannibal’s breaths, the bitter feeling of betrayal mixed with want. The fear in Hannibal’s eyes, the trembling warm hands holding to his waist under the clothes. The uneven beat of Hannibal’s heart under his hands.

How many bad ideas can a person make and still be able to successfully blame it on the alcohol?

Will supposed he had crossed the line of successfully blaming them on the alcohol at least one hundred and four kisses ago. Maybe one hundred and five.  

Tears brimmed behind his eyes again. Truce. It had been so easy to forget when Hannibal’s lips were on his. At some point the dogs had woken up, he could hear them from outside the house, pawning at the door. Shit. What time was it? How long had he been making out like a teenager? The first rays of sunshine would be due to appear sooner than later, and Will’s heart traded places with his stomach in a painful twist.

Hannibal’s hands left his waist and he carefully placed them between Will’s shoulder blades and behind his head, pulling him slowly towards his chest. Will tried to think he went reluctantly, even when he knew he didn’t. 

Hannibal caressed him softly, taming the confused stray. They recovered their breath slowly, gasp by gasp. Had it been minutes? It could have been hours.

“I realize that I pushed you again and again,” Hannibal began saying, softly. As if he was speaking to himself, but the words reached Will with bittersweet gentleness. It reminded him of the old Hannibal, the one that saved lives where Will couldn’t, in the back of an ambulance or in his own office. The Hannibal that was a little bit eccentric and made bad puns, and always smiled like  he knew a secret that nobody else knew. What a secret it was. Hannibal dipped his head lower, his nose inches from Will’s hair, he continued speaking in the soft tone from before.

“I pushed you so much, because you always came back to me, victorious. But there were times…” his grip on Will faltered, and it was so rare to hear him trail off in his speech, so weird that there was a pause in which he had to stop and compose himself. It didn’t make Will feel better, or maybe just a little. Just to feel he wasn’t the only one having a breakdown in his porch. 

“There were times I thought I pushed you so far, and I faced the possibility of losing you,” he said. Hannibal’s honesty was a blade that pierced him without touching him. Will was thankful that he wasn’t looking at Hannibal’s face. He supposed Hannibal was thankful for that too. “I didn’t like it.” 

A laugh shook Will’s shoulders, he could perfectly picture the way Hannibal pouted, frustrated with himself, with the idea that he was still a human chained to his emotions. 

“Tonight, I came expecting nothing, and yet, you have given me such a precious gift,” he stopped, the sentence not fully complete, the air around them felt heavy. Hannibal hesitated. Will moved away from the warm spot on Hannibal’s chest, looked upwards to the dark eyes. 

“But?” Will asked, and it surprised him that his voice did come out at all.

One of Hannibal’s hands stroked his cheek, his maroon eyes searching for words all across Will’s face. Will supposed he wouldn’t find them in his lips, but that didn’t stop Hannibal from looking at them. 

“But I won’t push you anymore tonight.”

Will laughed, a broken sound that turned uncomfortably fast into sobs. 

“Well, that would be a first.” 

They kept silent for long moments, and Will still didn’t know what time it was, or how long they sat there, with Hannibal’s hands and eyes mapping his face as if he wouldn’t see him ever again. Fucking melodramatic asshole. 

“I think I will ask you to leave,” Will said somehow, ducking his head. There was a moment of silence, in which he supposed Hannibal bit his tongue, then, Hannibal answered, “of course.” 

Decisions. It seemed that Will was having a competition against himself: How many bad choices can I make in one day? Have I set a record already?

Hannibal made a half-hearted attempt to stand, but Will made no attempt to move his legs from Hannibal’s lap. 

“You asked to cease the fire for one night, Hannibal,” Will said, with no small amount of guilt. “The night hasn’t ended.” 

Will was thankful he wasn’t looking at Hannibal’s face. He wouldn’t be able to let him go away if he saw him smile again, relieved and scared and joyful all in equal parts. 

Hannibal held him closer and Will went willingly, shimming himself closer to the older man’s body, letting Hannibal stroke his back and his hair as much as he wanted. Him just holding Hannibal back, his arms curled around his middle, fingers moving from time to time to caress over his clothes. And he was there again, somehow, cuddling with a cannibal. 

At some point Will supposed he nodded off, more mentally than physically tired, using The Chesapeake Ripper’s chest as a pillow. He dreamed, half awake, indulging himself; he dreamed of standing up and grabbing Hannibal’s hand and pulling him inside the house, leading him towards the bed. Watch him to peel his clothes and maybe offer one his shirts that would stretch over Hannibal’s chest. 

They would lay down on his bed together and Will would put his arm over Hannibal, maybe even his leg, making a joke about not trusting him to not roam around his house while he slept and plant evidence or lurk inside his drawers. Hannibal would smile and pull him closer, would indulge Will in his little white lie. Maybe he would kiss Will asleep. Maybe he would kiss him awake in the morning.

But Will knew if he pulled Hannibal inside his house there would be no possible outcome in which he would let Hannibal leave the morning after. 

So, Will kept his eyes closed, his breath even. If Hannibal knew he wasn’t completely asleep he didn’t do anything about it, content with only sharing space and time.

But  seconds became minutes, and  time ticked by. The sun was threatening to raise, the birds chirping like nature’s most awful clock’s alarm. And the night ended, and with it, the truce.

“Can I offer you a coffee before you go?” Will said, voice hoarse, in a last attempt to stretch the seconds they had left. The idea of letting Hannibal leave sat uncomfortable in his chest. Maybe he could offer to drive Hannibal to his car. 

Hannibal’s hands stroked his back a handful more times, he played with his hair a little bit more, and then he released it. Hannibal stood up slowly, lifting Will’s legs and guided them back on the floor. Will felt the weight of his body come back to him in full force, as if he had forgotten gravity existed and pulled him down. He had never felt less grounded. 

“Thank you, but I’m afraid I feel sobered enough, if that was what you were afraid of.” 

Of course, because the only time Will wanted Hannibal to be the narcissistic, egotistical prick he was, he wouldn’t, because just for tonight he would take Will’s best interest at heart.

Or maybe not. Maybe he was just as egotistical and narcissistic and manipulative as usual. He would want for Will to grovel and ask for what he wanted, take Hannibal’s hand and pull him inside the house.

Fuck. The truce hadn’t even ended and he was messing already with his mind. 

Or maybe it was just Will. Tearing himself apart with bad and worse ideas. A slave of his own morality and desires.

How many bad decisions can a person make in one night? If the person was Will Graham, the answer was: an awful lot. 

(But what exactly could be defined as a bad decision?) 

Hannibal Lecter stood in front of him, and the sun hadn’t touched them, and they were still in a truce, still their feet inside the porch. How many bad decisions had he made in one night? What was another?

He kissed Hannibal Lecter again, and it was as beautiful as the first. Hannibal’s hands on his cheeks, Hannibal’s lips on him. Will took one step forward, still holding Hannibal close to him. Then another, then another. He guided Hannibal across the porch and with a pang of regret he placed his hands on Hannibal’s chest and pushed.

Hannibal’s lips left his with a gasp. He struggled to keep himself standing and not fall from the steps of Will’s porch. Anger and pain painted his face, a snarl flashed for a moment and Will thought yes, come on, he thought for a second that maybe the beast inside Hannibal would pound at him, push him against a wall and – and it disappeared, leaving only the hopeless ghost of heartache echoing in Hannibal’s eyes.

But they were both standing still in the porch, the half step before Orpheus lost Eurydice. Hannibal raised his hand and Will accepted it, took it and let Hannibal pull him for a last kiss. 

Chaste, soft. Barely a touch, not even a brush. More supplication than kiss. 

This has been, it said. 

Please, stay, it begged. One more minute.

Hannibal took a step back, and placed his feet on the snow, expression schooled back into his person suit, a veil covering his face. 

“Goodbye, Dr. Lecter.” Will wasn’t proud of his own person suit, it was tethered, his vocal cords weak when he spoke. 

Hannibal took a moment before he responded, and Will let him paint this last moment, hang it in some room of his mind palace, perfumed with whiskey and snow and the old blanket covered in dog hair.

“Goodbye, Will.” 

The snow made a soft sound under Hannibal’s polished shoes as he turned and walked away, one, two, three steps. Four, five;

“Hannibal,” Will shouted, taking a step forward, blanket still over his shoulders, stepping over the loose wood that made the sound from a cheap horror movie. 

Hannibal turned back slowly, dark overcoat over white snow, maroon over reddened eyes, crimson threads in his face that Will wanted to pull until he peeled the person suit from Hannibal completely, shred it so he could never put it on again.

He took a deep breath. What did he want to say?

“Drive safe.” 

Another christmas revelation: Hannibal Lecter snorted. It pulled a sad smile on Will’s face and it made him suddenly aware that his lips hurt. 

“Shall I tell you when I arrive safe and sound at my home?” Hannibal asked, and anybody would have made it sound bitter, a juvenile, emotional attempt to hurt. It wouldn’t have surprised Will, coming from him. Some kind of retaliation. But it was… so honest. 

Will looked down, he was still standing on the porch. He could be honest.

“Please.” 

Hannibal’s soft smile was worth it. The way the wind moved the veil along with the ashen bangs that fell over his forehead.

Hannibal nodded graciously and turned away, leaving footprints in the snow, leaving Will behind and not once looking back. 

Will stood with the blanket over his shoulders, eyes following Hannibal’s back as it disappeared. At some point he remembered he needed to blink, and that breathing was something humans needed to do to live. He stood, waited, and saw Hannibal’s car drive away. 

Just when the Bentley disappeared and Will couldn’t follow it anymore, he left the porch and went inside the house.

At least Will had something to do while he threw his own pity party. 

He took the whiskey inside, cleaned the mess Buster had made in the kitchen. Threw away the broken glass, left the other in the sink to wash later. Looked at himself in the mirror and pressed his fingers against his lips. It hurt and they were already bruising, the beginning of purple. He pressed his fingers harder against them. 

The dogs had made themselves comfortable in his bed, and Will just snuggled himself between them. It was christmas anyway, he could sleep today in the bed. It wasn’t as if he was going to sleep at all anyway.

Time wasn’t kind, Will knew, it kept moving forward. Minute by minute, the sun in the sky, the clouds over the trees. Will looked insistently at the dark screen of his phone. Minutes. One hour. Two. Ten minutes more.

Ding!

Dr. Lecter

Merry Christmas, Will.

Will read it, and then re-read it, and read it again. And again. His thumb hovering over his own answer. He deleted it and spoke it to the air.

“Merry Christmas, Hannibal.”

Will finally closed his eyes, and slept.