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They’ve been in Florence nearing a year. It’s almost an anniversary of sorts, their anniversary, which would explain the flowers.
It’s a grand arrangement, full of unusual blooms that Will is sure must stand for something, because Hannibal never does anything without there being some sort of meaning behind it. Will plucks one from the large vase on the island in the kitchen, twists it in his fingers and smells it. It is sweet and clean.
“Paeonia,” Hannibal says from behind him. “The peony. Here in Italy they are generally used as wedding flowers.”
Will raises an eyebrow, smirking, tone wry. “Are we getting married?”
Hannibal smirks as well, strolling closer. “Aren’t we already?” He answers, brushing a few stray curls behind Will’s ear, cocking his head to the side.
According to everyone in Florence, yes, they are - Dr. and Mr. Fell. Will runs his thumb on the underside of the ring on his left hand. He’d put it on after his shower this morning, just like every morning, whether he is leaving the house or not.
It has always been a bit odd, shoving himself and Hannibal under the umbrella of acceptable and standard romantic tropes. For them intimacy may come at the touch of a hand or the blade of a knife, and their relationship has never been standard. Will would be lying, though, if he said certain ideas aren’t appealing.
What they have is deep and twisted and lovely; it almost seems to surpass any kind of label currently available, but for convenience’s sake it is much easier to slap married onto it and call it a day. Not that anyone knows what they really are, but nevertheless it makes their companionship much easier to swallow in the public eye.
Married. It’s supposed to be for appearances. Supposed to be, but they take a certain joy in it, Will knows. They’re both equally keen on the idea. It’s the most socially acceptable way to declare that they belong only to each other.
And, Will supposes with another sniff of his flower, that they are also, in general, terribly sentimental when it comes to each other. Will gets a certain giddiness about himself when Hannibal refers to him as husband, at parties and the like. It’s odd and it’s unexpected, but Will likes it.
Will smiles up at Hannibal, his hand still curled around Will’s ear.
“I suppose we are.”
____________
Abigail watches her fathers from the living room, sitting on the chair facing the kitchen with Maggie struggling to stay in her lap. She swears Will is blushing.
It’s almost funny, and ridiculously cheesy, and it shouldn’t fit at all with their true natures. But in knowing who they are and what they do, it suddenly makes perfect sense that they would be this way.
It’s about completion - there’s a basic human need to feel whole, and no matter how far from humanity one drifts, and that need will always be there. Everyone has holes, and everyone wants to fill those holes. Some people have a more difficult time accomplishing this than others.
There were holes in Will and Hannibal that Abigail is sure neither of them were fully aware existed before they had met each other, just like herself. Their previous lives had disguised the gaps, shoved misshapen plugs into them, and they’d all been fooled into thinking they were complete until something came along and pried everything free, and what they were left with was a vacuum.
A desperate, sucking vacuum. The three of them had latched on to the closest things they could find, which were each other, and somehow, suddenly, everything was perfect. Everything was complete. One happy, fulfilled little family.
It’s easy to have stars in your eyes when there’s no longer a black hole behind them.
Abigail smiles, spying the forget-me-nots in the large vase Will is sliding a flower back into. She had suggested those - “true love, memories.” Saccharine as it is, it is accurate. There is nothing more honest, more brutal in its truth and its intensity than what exists between her surrogate parents. Abigail isn’t sure if she has ever seen a love more raw than theirs.
Clearly, Hannibal isn’t above such sappy sentiments either, since he had taken her advice.
About a week before, Abigail had wandered into Hannibal’s study. She’d asked what he was doing, and when he told her his idea, she’d left, promptly returning with a slip of paper holding the name and the symbolism of the tiny blue buds.
“You have to put these in it,” she had said, and Hannibal had nodded with a smile.
She’s yet to ask Will what he plans to do for the occasion, but she’s sure it will be just as sweet, if not maybe a little morbid. She knows Hannibal’s gestures will devolve into that, eventually. They always end up with blood on their hands. Just like her.
It’s what glues them together.
___________
Hannibal runs his fingers over a cluster of phlox in the bouquet on the counter, reading the article in his other hand with equal parts disdain and amusement.
Something ugly and annoying had followed them to Florence, like a mosquito, flying after the scent of blood.
Will wanders into the kitchen and meets him on the other side of the island, leaning across it, an unspoken what are you reading?
Hannibal hands Will the pages and watches him grimace as he reads the title. He finds no amusement in it, whatsoever. Hannibal didn’t expect him to.
“Abigail found it this morning, fresh off the presses.”
It is a printout of a TattleCrime article, its author currently based in Florence, in order to “follow the developing story.”
The story in question, garishly titled Il Mostro: At Large? In Love?, is about them. Not specifically, but speculatively, and detailed in its gaudy verbiage is a story about Il Mostro, his start, how he might have returned, and how he might not have returned alone. There are vague pokes and prods at a larger story, the hunt for “America’s Bloodiest Valentines,” and how maybe, just maybe, the two are related. No names are dropped, no photos of suspects, but neither of those are needed to get the grasping point across.
It isn't exactly incriminating, but it isn't comfortable, and Hannibal can see the concern on Will’s face, hidden beneath the disgust.
“She’s playing with fire,” Hannibal states, watching Will’s pinched features.
Will drops the article. The pages scatter somewhat, revealing pictures of murders. Their murders.
“She doesn’t realize that this time, the fire’s real.”
They’re silent for a while. Will plucks a petal off of the same flower Hannibal had been toying with earlier, and Hannibal watches his annoyance ebb into something a bit softer.
“What does this one mean?” He asks, in a quiet voice.
Hannibal throws the article into the trash, smiling, and leaning forward on his arms. “We are united.”
Will smiles too, inspecting the petal between his fingers. “That we are.”
_____________
Will scrolls up and down the TattleCrime website, staring at the article Hannibal had shown him the day before without really reading it, the author’s name burned into his retinas.
Freddie Lounds is a tiny, insistent thorn in his side. She’s like a splinter - if left alone it will fester, become even more bothersome. Will had barely tolerated her before all of this. She had been useful, he admits, and the FBI had needed her, but Will had never liked her and now she’s threatening his family.
Will settles his mouse on the hit counter in the website’s upper left corner, much too high for his liking. Something has to be done.
A breeze wafts through the open balcony doors, rustling the curtains and sending dried petals fluttering over his laptop, breaking his daze. A few of his flowers are dying, and it’s about time he changed the water.
Will hefts the vase to the sink, cuts the stems on his blooms, and thinks of plans for Freddie, plans for his anniversary, when suddenly the two coincide in his mind’s eye and he smiles. It’s an expression that’s wicked but soft at the same time, in a manner only this lover could posses, where gestures of adoration are soaked bloody and bonding rests on the edge of a knife.
Will pulls dead leaves off of the remaining alstroemeria, scattering orange pollen onto his hands. They mean devotion, the small lilies, and he agrees with the sentiment. They describe his feelings as well as Hannibal’s; for the sake of each other, the sake of their little family, they shy away from nothing - no act is too soft, or too grotesque, in proving their love or providing protection. If Will were to choose a word to describe them, if such a word exists, devoted is the one he would pick.
More petals fall from the delicate flowers as Will works, and he thinks how, thankfully, they are not this fragile. Freddie Lounds may try to mangle them, but she will fail. And she will fail as Pazzi failed: agonizingly, and exquisitely.
___________
Will tells Abigail his anniversary plan, and she loves it. It’s romantically horrific, something only they could find the beauty in. She offers to help with the cooking, and with the fishing, her appreciation for the act having grown immensely.
She knows Freddie is here, in Florence. And from her most recent update, she’s looking for the last family to see Rinaldo Pazzi alive, having already cornered his widow like a vulture, ripped information out of her like she shoved something sharp in her chest. Abigail remembers the feeling well.
She’s looking for them, for the Fells, and it’s the perfect opportunity.
Abigail leaves a message on Freddie’s phone asking her to join them for dinner, tilting her voice around so it’s no longer recognizable, and saying her parents would be more than willing to help her in her search for the killers.
“They’re still upset about Signor Pazzi, and they don’t want to admit it in front of me but I can tell they’re nervous.” She says. “We just want peace. We thought we would get it here.”
It’s the kind of prose that will draw Freddie to them like an ant to a trap - sweet smelling but unexpectedly poisonous.
Freddie calls her back within the hour. She’s at their front door in 24.
Abigail opens it with an inappropriately happy demeanor, watches Freddie fiddle with her purse for a pen before she looks up, and relishes in her surprise when she does.
Freddie’s mouth hangs open like a fish, popping closed only to bounce down on its hinges again, hanging there for a time.
“You- You’re supposed to be dead. Dead as a doornail. Digested,” is all she can muster, after a several beats. Given the circumstances it’s quite a lot for the normal person, but not Freddie. Freddie Lounds is never at a loss for words.
Abigail grabs her wrists in a mockery of a friendly greeting, wrapping her fingers tight enough to bruise, keeping her in place.
“It’s good to see you, Freddie.” Her smile is, on the surface, sweet, but below that it is deeply unsettling.
Freddie, delayed in her response, tugs at Abigail’s grip. Abigail tugs back, succeeds in dragging her into the entryway, Freddie’s heels scraping awfully on the hardwood.
“Will! Freddie’s here!” Abigail calls, cheerful, and Will appears behind her, clad in an apron. Unlike Abigail he makes no effort to pretend to welcome their guest.
All of the color drains from Freddie’s face, realization clearing her eyes. This time, it’s real. There’s no Jack, there’s no FBI, there is only Will. And Will is no longer pretending.
Abigail slips behind her before she turns, locking the door, and Freddie breaks into a run, heading in no particular direction other than away. She makes it to the kitchen, momentum slamming her into the counter. Abigail watches, calm but with a certain giddiness bubbling up, as Freddie tries to push off, slingshot her way towards the open balcony.
Will grabs a fistfull of her hair, and in a powerful yank pulls her down and away. Freddie’s arms scrabble for purchase, and in her struggle, she pulls the vase off the counter. The large crash echoes along with the thump of her body as Will lets her drop, having pressed a soaked cloth into her face.
Quiet settles over the apartment quickly. As fast as it was filled with noise the cacophony ceases, leaving the whispers of petals fluttering downward and settling in fire-red curls and tweed folds.
The small, white blooms of primrose spin in delicate circles, all the way to the floor.
Abigail watches Will pluck one out of the air, breathing heavily and looking a bit forlorn about the shattered remains of his gift. Maggie wanders in to sniff at Freddie’s unconscious form.
They’re silent for a while, Abigail staring at Will and Will staring at his flower.
“Do you know what it stands for?” Abigail asks. She knows, and she can see the truth behind it in every move her fathers have ever made since meeting. They’ve always circled each other; an inevitable, magnetic pull that’s swallowed them whole.
“I can’t live without you,” Will responds, his tone hard to place but buffeting the edges of both excited awe and resigned trepidation. He places his flower on the counter and moves his eyes to Freddie, and Abigail sees something determined settle on his face.
This is as much a present as it is insurance.
___________
Hannibal watches Will tie Freddie Lounds to a dining chair. He’d come home to the tabloid reporter passed out in their kitchen, flowers scattered, and an assortment of cookware waiting on the counter.
“Great minds think alike,” he says, as Will straightens. “I was going to give you something quite similar.”
Will backs up into Hannibal, turning his face into Hannibal’s cheek slightly as he rubs Will’s arms.
“You know, I still wasn’t sure what to make for dinner,” Will whispers. “You probably have a better idea.”
Hannibal hums, buoyant, arms encircling Will’s waist. “I do. And I love your gift, Will. I would love it more if we finished preparing it together.”
Will’s answering smile is tiny, but warm. He nods in agreement, pulls his knife out of his pocket, running his thumb along the blade. “Where should we start?”
“Retribution.” Hannibal states, matter-of-fact. He steps around Will, moves forward and pulls Freddie’s lolling head back, pinching her jaw open. “I thought you would like to provide it.”
Hannibal smiles, devilish and fond as Will takes his place in front of Freddie, looking down at her slack face with a righteous tenacity now set into his features.
Freddie has always bothered Will more than she bothered Hannibal. From the beginning Will saw her as a threat, a glitch in his rocky peace, and she undoubtedly is. And that’s something Will cannot shake off. He has never been amused by hiccups of any type, minor or major, preferring steady state situations and eliminating disturbances as fast as possible, rather than seeing how they will unfold. So with her latest stunt, Hannibal saw the opportunity for a perfect gift: he would present her to Will on a silver platter, contained and defused, and they would kill her together. The most intimate act.
Will had thought similarly, choosing this victim as a demonstration of his dedication and loyalty, his love.
Will grabs a cloth napkin from the elaborately set table, reaching into Freddie’s mouth and pulling her tongue clear of her lips. He positions his blade next to it, flicking his wrist so the knife slices clean and quick through the flesh.
Freddie jolts in Hannibal’s grip, the shock and the pain waking her instantly. She trashes, wants to scream out of instinct but her throat gurgles from blood and agony. Hannibal watches as Will’s expression does not change; he places the tongue onto a fine china plate and steps back.
Hannibal continues to smile as he lets Freddie’s head fall forward, blood pouring onto the plastic tarp laid out beneath her chair. Tears run down her cheeks and wet her curls, sticking them to her face, and red stains everything around her, but she refuses to outwardly sob. Hannibal finds it amusing, almost, certainly interesting, how deeply her stubbornness runs.
The blood from her mouth plips onto plastic, thick and mixed with saliva.
“You should have been more careful using that, Miss Lounds. Intrusion as an art form is uncouth, and always goes too far.”
Freddie lifts her head and dares to glare, the fierce expression finding and targeting Will, who is within her view, and he grins wickedly. He’s enjoying himself, enjoying this. He kneels down next to her, satisfied and smug.
“I told you a long time ago, Freddie. It’s not smart to piss me off.” He says in a low voice, and Freddie jerks her head in his direction, angry, as if trying to hit him.
Hannibal shoves a needle into her neck, and she slowly goes limp - awake and feeling but unable to move. He unties her and hefts her small body onto the table, disturbing the settings and laying her out flat. He unbuttons her blouse, pushes the fabric out of the way, and reaches for Will’s knife.
“Miss Lounds, you should be aware you’re here to help celebrate something significant.” Hannibal punctuates his sentence by burying the knife just below her ribs.
“Something that means a great deal to Will and I.” He drags the blade upwards, splitting her open like an animal.
“And you-” Hannibal pulls open her chest and snaps a rib by hand.
“-have the honor-” Snap. Another rib. Hannibal breaks all of them, on her left side, one by one. “-of being our mutual gift.”
Hannibal exhales heavily from exertion, and seeing life still clinging to Freddie’s eyes, a single thread begging to be snapped, he again picks up the knife. He slices through her arteries and frees the heart from her chest.
In the corner of his eye Hannibal spies the hemlock from Will’s arrangement, artfully placed around the table in a clear message of a returned sentiment.
“You will be my death,” the leaves say, and Hannibal knows the only demise they will ever accept is by each other’s hands. They live and they will die for the other, by the other. It is the only option available, with their minds and bodies blurred together into an indistinguishable mass. When one lives, so does the other. And when they leave this life they will do so as a singular unit.
Hannibal turns and hands Freddie’s heart to an awestruck Will. He takes it gently, like it’s fragile, like it’sprecious, and it is. It’s grotesque and it’s death and it’s life all at once, and it represents themselves, together, in this moment.
Freddie’s body lies open and mangled on the table behind them, blood soaking the floor, the table, and the lovers, a fantastical macabre painting.
The flowers still stuck in Freddie’s hair slowly soak up the scene, crimson invading their veins, devilish melodies whispering from their pistils.