Archive of Our Own

The battle rages for a hundred millennia, as their father creates the world and populates it with his other children. Lucifer froths at the mouth with talk of favourites, of their place in the hierarchy of creation, and his words find a place in the hearts of many of their brothers and sisters.

Heaven wields swords of fire and light that cut through the bodies of angel and demon alike, and their numbers are far greater, but the newly fallen have the power of destruction on their side. They rise up from the pit with a darkness that seeps across the battlefield, eating everything in its path. Against the darkness, the blades crumble to ash.

On and on it wages, with no end or victor in sight, until Michael appears above in a wash of golden lightening that splinters the air. They will soon realise the futility of it--that there can be no clear winner in this fight.

Hannibal looks out over the world beyond the edge of the battlefield and sees the all its potential for horrible, inelegant beauty. Lucifer speaks of humanity as a mistake, and it’s true--Hannibal can see how it will all play out. He will not Fall, nor will he be cast out. The choice to descend from heaven is his own, not made out of hatred of humanity, but fascination.

“This is a mistake.” His brother’s voice rings out in the singed silence that has fallen in the wake of Michael’s destruction.

Hannibal turns to see him, dark curls cast in the gold glow of archangel light. The familiar planes of his face are frightful and exquisite in an expression of righteous anger.

“We both know how it will end,” Hannibal says.

Will’s eyes narrow. The blade he holds at chest height wavers and lowers slightly, the dull orange flames guttering low. “Then why do you follow him?”

A surge of rage pulses from Hannibal before he can control it, and the blackness spills from his hands. It is the first time he’s ever seen it before, a physical manifestation of the ugly, twisted mass inside. Slick black that writhes like maggots, and the stink of something rotten on the air. The proof that their father must indeed be fallible, to have created something like him and called it an angel.

“I follow no one.” Hannibal spreads his arms open wide and the blackness trails from them, falling over the bodies that lie broken on the ground. It is a slow, inevitable roil towards Will, though it stops curiously at his feet. “Heaven has forbade us from exercising free will, but isn’t that the whole reason our father created them ?”

Will’s hand clenches tighter around the hilt of his sword and the flames spring back to life. They burn as hot and blue as his eyes. “Blasphemy,” he shouts. “Angels have no free will.”

“Ah, yet another sign of our father’s favour for his new playthings. He would cast us out for exercising the very gift he’s bestowed upon mankind.”

“It is not for us to question his design,” Will says.

Hannibal’s gaze follows the faintest tremble in his wrist and he steps closer. “Tell me, how can you ever truly proclaim his ineffability, if you have no choice in the matter?” Hannibal extends one hand between them. “Come with me, Will. Make a choice.”

In the distance, the sounds of battle resume. Angels driving out the last of those who rode under Lucifer’s banner. They are merciless, striking with precision to not only destroy the physical form, but the energy contained therein--complete and utter annihilation.

Will’s eyes shut, a pained furrow between his brows, and the sword falls useless at his side. “Go,” he says.

Hannibal can see the seed of doubt he’s planted taking hold deep within Will. Though it will require much cultivation on Hannibal’s part, to coax it forth into bloom, Hannibal knows it will be well worth the wait. To see Will unencumbered by the bonds of servitude will be a magnificent thing.

1906 BC

Hannibal finds Will in the shadow of the a market stall. Amber light spills over the sight of the massacre, eerie and beautiful. On the horizon, past the blinding glare of the setting sun, lays Jacob’s land, where Simeon and Levi would soon return home with news of their deeds.

A lone woman winds her way through the chaos left in their wake. Trails of blood and fallen bodies, the smoke of a fire that has gone out of control. She goes down on her knees sobbing, to clutch the body of a young boy, no more than sixteen, to her chest. The thin, reedy sound that rises up from her chest tastes like unspeakable loss. Hannibal knows it well. It is a pain that never goes away.

As he passes her, Hannibal lays a palm against her head, and Shechah looks up at him with tear-filled eyes that clear as they meet Hannibal's. He strokes his hand against her hair matted blood, and her breathing evens out, her trembling ceases. The memories of what has happened here, of all those who perished this day, melt away under his touch.

History is a treacherously malleable thing. Already as Jacob hears of these events from his sons, their words have begun to blur reality—that Dinah was stolen from them, her maidenhood stolen away rather than freely given. In the years that come, Dinah herself will become nothing more than a footnote and this slaughter will be yet another instance of the might of the Lord in the face of the blasphemous Canaanites. Lucifer and his ilk will no doubt take great offense at the fact that God will receive the credit they are due.

Hannibal, on the other hand, quite enjoys sitting at the elbow of the men who record history and whispering inspiration. These are the words that will move the minds of men for a hundred thousand generations to come, and though their father is doing quite enough damage on his own, it doesn't hurt to twist his words further. To drive men toward hatred.

“That was kind of you.” Will's voice is uncharacteristically meek, from the hole where he is huddled.

“Was it?” Hannibal asks. He ducks under a the torn fabric of the canopy, stride even heedless of the bones that grind beneath the heel of his boots.

Will is still painfully lovely here, dulled as he is by the mortal flesh that contains him. The after-image of his wings remains, tucked tight against his spine as if in shame. His eyes blaze with the light of his grace. Will's bare feet are hopelessly dirty, and covered in innumerable cuts that have begun to slowly knit back together. If he wished, Will could hurry along the healing, but he makes no move to do so.

“Which is crueler? The temporary loss of death, or the permanent loss of every memory of a loved one?” He crouches at Will's side, reaches out to heal one ragged foot, and Will jerks back, tucking his feet underneath himself.

“Leave it be.”

They never should have let Will out of heaven. Down here among the murky morality that has spread like a poison over the earth, it is far too easy for uncertainty to take root deep within. He draws a breath, mouth poised to speak, but cannot force the words past his lips.

“Why?” Hannibal speaks for him, all the things Will won't give himself permission to say. Since Lucifer's Fall, no angel dares question their father. “Why would he create these fragile creatures and proclaim to love them, then allow this to happen? Why allow Dinah and her prince to find happiness only to rip it from them so violently? And these men, who would gladly follow the customs of his chosen people, innocent in their ignorance, slain for no reason other than childish greed. Why?”

“It is not my place to question His will.”

“No,” Hannibal agrees. “I'll give you another century or two.”

Will's eyes narrow, and there is the spark of the angel Hannibal remembers from heaven. Oh, much has faded of his memories of heaven, since he left. All the finer details he swore he'd never forget were part of the price he paid for his betrayal. But they could not take Will from him, not entirely.

“I'm not like you, Hannibal—I could never be like you,” he hisses. His hand goes to the weapon left discarded at his side, not lifting it, yet, but the promise of violence simmers between them.

“You've not taken up your sword since last we met,” Hannibal says.

Will scoffs, and takes his hand from the hilt. Instead, he clasps his hands together in his lap, grip so tight it turns is skin white, as if it is the only thing keeping him from smiting Hannibal here and now. “The humans are doing a fine enough job of it on their own.”

“Hmm.” Hannibal's gaze drinks in every detail he's missed over the intervening years. The superficial certainly—Will's angular jaw, the shape and length of his limbs, the cherubic curls that fall to his shoulders, glinting in the light. Beneath that, lurking in the shadow of his eyes is the angel he'd once known.

An angel as tainted and alien as Hannibal himself, no matter how he tried to deny the truth of his nature. Will, whose blade arched gracefully on the battlefield, setting the very air aflame.

“Perhaps it's because you know that if you raise it once more, you won't be able to lay it down again.”

“Careful, Hannibal. Your human skin is as fragile as any strewn at our feet.”

Hannibal smiles in anticipation of the day when Will follows through on his threat.

1375 BC

Surely there must have been a time before the Fall, that Hannibal had seen Will smile but he could not remember it. Every line in Will’s face was etched in rage and misery as he hurried the panicked women and children of Gibeah to the gates, the clamour of their pursuers growing ever louder, the city in flames. He was still beautiful, always, even with the dust of the city on his feet and his hair long and tangled. None of Hannibal’s drawings could do him justice, even like this, even with his light diminished after so many years on the earth and his wings merely a shadow.

Hannibal could not remember seeing Will’s smile, yet he missed it all the same.  

“Why do you help them?” Hannibal said. “Are they not the enemies of your father?”

Will looked up and there, there -nothing so overt as a smile, but there was a lessening of his scowl, a brief lightening of his eyes. Hannibal knew immediately he would be trying to recapture that moment in charcoal for centuries.

“They are innocents.” Will said shortly. “ Children . And this has nothing to do with our Father. Humans do not need his help to kill each other.” He picked up a toddling child who was struggling to keep up and Hannibal fell into step beside him. Behind them, there was a crash and a gurgling shriek as the attackers dragged a man into the street and slit his throat.

“No? Did they not rape and kill an innocent woman, one of his chosen? Did God not hand them to the other tribes of Israel to be slaughtered?”

“The other tribes are misguided.” Will said, a familiar and stubborn set to his jaw. “And afraid. Israel is in disarray, so her leaders do what all humans do, lash out at the nearest target and damn the consequences. Why are you here, Hannibal? Is it only to needle me with your endless prattle?”

“I’m here to invite you to supper, but I can see you are somewhat occupied.” An arrow whistled towards them and Hannibal plucked it out of the air before hurling it into its owner’s heart.

“You don’t need to eat, demon. And surely you can find better company than me.” Will looked puzzled, but his lip quirked slightly.

“There are many pleasures here on earth, Will. Would you deny yourself God’s gifts? Let humans have all the fun?” Hannibal said. He had been experimenting with various spices and had finally found someone capable of crafting a perfect clay oven, so that meats melted like snow on the tongue.

Will opened his mouth to speak as a man rounded the corner, bloodlust up and sword held high, heading straight for their bedraggled little party. Without thought, Hannibal reached out and wrenched his head off, savouring the crunch of bones and gouts of blood that painted the walls. He turned back to Will, who had placed a hand to the sword at his belt, the child still incongruously perched on his hip, little hands tangled in his curls. There was a savage hunger in his eyes Hannibal knew well, having seen it a thousand times on the battlefield.

“Would you have drawn your sword?” Hannibal breathed, feeling reverence steal over him. “If I hadn’t been here?” He longed to see it as he once had, his brother feral and blood streaked, sword singing through the air and vanquishing all in its path.

Will stared at him, eyes dark as a cry rose up from inside one of the houses, the helpless wail of a child forgotten and left behind.

“Isn’t your desire for knowledge what got you into this situation, Hannibal?” Will shoved the little girl into Hannibal’s arms and raced into the building.

“All knowledge is worth having.” Hannibal told the child solemnly. She giggled and tucked her face against his shoulder in apparent agreement. Around them the slaughter was slowing, replaced with raucous cheers and the unmistakable sounds of drunkenness.

Will emerged with another urchin, ragged and tear streaked. “Parents are dead.” he said bleakly. “Let’s get these people out of here. I don’t think they’ll stop at just one night's worth of killing.” He held out his arms for the little girl, who wailed and clutched Hannibal tighter.

Will narrowed his eyes. “What have you done to her?”

“Done? Nothing. Is it so unbelievable that someone could prefer me over you? Perhaps if you smiled occasionally, people would take to you more.”

“I don’t feel like smiling.” Will grumbled, but his mouth twitched again. “Fine, you carry her then. None of your tricks.”

“No tricks.” Hannibal promised, looking sideways at Will. “Does this display of trust mean I can expect you at dinner?”

“Expediency rather than trust. And no. I don’t sup with demons.”

“Ah” Hannibal nodded sagely. “No doubt you will be having an entertaining evening filled with brooding and self reproach.”

Will sighed harshly. “Hannibal, if you don’t shut up for at least the next ten minutes, you will be dining alone until eternity. Once these people are safe you can badger me to your heart’s content.”

Things were looking up, Hannibal thought. He was nothing if not patient and eternity was not too long a wait to see Will cast off his chains.

1126 BC

There was no one moment of clarity, no matter how Will sought it, wandering all the corners of the world for a thousand years. He’d seen every cruel act done in the name of their Father, watching the plagues that swept through Egypt. The river of blood turned rancid, drawing all manner of insect and disease. Boils and starvation and darkness, and each time Pharaoh conceded to their demands, Will watched as God reached down and hardened his heart.

Hannibal had found him, there among the cacophony of wailing in the aftermath of final plague, when Pharaoh once more changed his mind and sent his troops after the Jews.

“Is this free will?” he asked.

Will had been too weary to engage him in theological debate; he’d spent the past several days comforting those who’d lost their sons--wealthy and poor alike, slaves who’d had no part in this war, weeping with bitter agony. Now he was helping to dig the graves for the remaining bodies. More time had passed than would usually, before placing a body in the ground, but the sheer number of dead had made timely burial impossible..

“Shouldn’t you be heading to the East?”

“You like to ascribe the sins of mankind to Lucifer and his demons,” Hannibal said. “Though we both know it is not the Devil who holds sway over these men’s hearts.”

Will was surprised when Hannibal stepped up to join him--it certainly wasn’t the first time Hannibal had helped, but this was different. He’d always seemed beyond the petty concerns of mankind. Helping with their dead was a step too far. Will surrendered to the fatigue that had crept around the edges of this delicate vessel, and sat down heavily.

Would it be a sin to admit he could not understand God’s design? That he had not in quite a long time.

Hannibal had finished digging the grave before joining Will on the dusty ground not quite close enough to touch. If Will had desired, he could have willed away the aches and tension of the human body he wore. What he wanted, however, was to give over to it, let his body bow under the weight of his exhaustion, take the comfort Hannibal silently offered and rest his head upon that shoulder mere inches from his own.

He did neither, and the two of them sat in companionable silence for as long as Will’s conscience would allow and as one returned to the task before them.

Will was there, too, when Joshua took up the mantle from Moses. He swept through Canaan reminding Will of nothing so much as the wave of Lucifer’s angels who had risen up against Heaven, cutting through their brothers and sisters without mercy or remorse. Every man, woman, and child, every beast great or small, felled by Joshua and his soldiers, their deaths rejoiced for the grace of God.

Will was there when the walls of Jericho fell, when Ai was conquered, when Palestine was defeated. Watched as Gabriel offered up his concubine to be raped and murdered, and dismembered her body so that he might rally them against the Benjaminites. Every part of Will cried out against the wickedness of it all, but he held his tongue.

Jack was always rationalising God’s actions. The Canaanites were so thoroughly corrupt that they could not be allowed to live. Their continued survival was a threat to the well-being of the Israelites, and this was how they justified the law of herem. Will wished he could see it in that simple black and white.

On the other hand, Will had walked among these people, and knew that it was far more complicated than that.  They could not be reduced to one defining sin or motivation. Just as God’s chosen people, they were as individuals capable of great evil and great beauty. Mothers singing to their children, plaiting their hair by firelight as they passed down the stories of their ancestors. Husbands and wives who’d come together out of great love and affection.

Yet Will watched it all happen without ever interfering, even when his muscles twitched for the feel of a blade in his hand. It was almost laughable, with both Heaven and Hannibal whispering in his ear to surrender to his nature, to pick up his sword once more and lay waste to the sinners.

Abimelech was nothing worse than the men who’d come before him. He’d slain seventy men to cement his rule, but what was that in the face of an entire army drowned beneath the crashing waves of the Red Sea or the unimaginable loss of every first-born son? What was seventy men to the whole of Jericho crushed under heel while Joshua’s trumpets blared?

But when Abimelech led his men against Shechem, a thousand dead in the burnt tower, he at last fell from God’s favour.

Will is waiting for him in Thebez. The people there scramble for cover just as in Shechem, taking refuge in the tower. And as before, Will knows that Abimelech will lay his torch to it and set them ablaze.

His army cuts a bloody swath through the remaining townsfolk as they scatter. A man falls before a soldier on his knees clutching a crying child, no more than seven, bleeding from a wound on his head. “Please,” the man begged. “We have no quarrel with your King.”

The soldier hefts his swords, ready to slay them both and to Will, time slows, stretches out unbearably before him. In that moment, all the centuries yet to come are laid bare, full of innumerable deaths, each as senseless as the one before. All the excuses mankind will give themselves to take the life of another.

And stretching backward, to when Cain lifted the stone above him and brought it down on Abel’s head. But no that isn’t quite right, is it? Cain was not the first to draw his brother’s blood. If not for Lucifer’s sly words, none of their brothers would have Fallen, and mankind would have lived for eternity in peace.

There is a moment before Will draws his sword when he is uncertain if he’ll be able. It has been so long, and his mind still rebels at the idea. His body, however, moves without thought, on pure instinct. The weight of the sword is comforting and familiar, like that of the presence of Will’s wings spreading open wide, invisible though they may be.

Will’s grace surges up within him as he rushes forward, and before the soldier can bring his sword down upon the man and child, Will’s has pierced the skin of his back. He throws all his weight into it, right up to the hilt.

From there, the battle ends after what feels like mere seconds, though the trail of bodies through Thebez suggests otherwise. Abimelech lies dead at the foot of the tower, at the hands of a townswoman from above, and his soldiers lie dead at Will’s hands.

After all the time he’s spent denying his nature, Will expects to feel different. Pleased or vindicated or ashamed or anything--anything at all other than the void that threatens to swallow him. The roiling black of Hell that would twine around his ankles and pull him down where he belongs…

“Angel?”

“Don’t,” Will’s voice breaks on the word. “Don’t call me that.”

Hannibal is silent, but Will senses him standing just behind. “How is it you’re always there?” Will begins, grip shifting on the hilt of his sword. It’s slippery with blood, growing sticky as it dries. “Every time, like you can--” He stops himself before he says anything he regrets, but Heaven will know, all the same, what is in his heart.

“Like I can hear your doubt, calling out to me across the space that separates us?” Hannibal’s palm is hot against the back of Will’s neck, pushing aside the tumble of hair in a comforting gesture. Will tries not to lean into the touch, but he can’t help it, so unused to it as he is. His human body craves it. “Whether it be the miles of earth or the schism between Heaven and Hell.”

“I thought--” Will says, and swallows around the lump in his throat. “The way you spoke, I thought it would feel…” Cathartic. Righteous. Like finally knowing why he was made the way he was--that it hadn’t simply been a mistake on their Father’s part.

Hannibal has been tempting him, and Will just played right into his hand. Will shrugs away from his touch, spinning and raising his sword to rest at the hollow Hannibal’s throat. Predictably, Hannibal is unflappable, and Will refuses to give him the satisfaction. He sheaths the sword and straightens his shoulders. His wings tuck against his back, and there is a twinge in the radiale, protesting being folded up again now that he’s let them free.

“Before you ask, I will not break bread with you, now or ever, Demon,” Will says. “I am not some weak-minded human you can sway with talk of the pleasures of the flesh. I know of the pleasure far greater, eternity with our Father.”

Disappointment flashes briefly across Hannibal’s face, before he covers it with one of those knowing smiles that rankles Will’s nerves. “There will always be a place for you, when you come around.”

Will swears it will never happen.

That evening as he lies in bed, the flames of his fire leap toward the ceiling, and Jack’s voice speaks from them. “The Lord saw what you did for him today, and he’s very pleased.”

Part of Will wants to roll over and shroud himself in the covers, to close his eyes and drift into a peaceful rest like the human he plays at being. “I don’t think I can do it again.”

“It’s what you were made to do, Will.” Jack’s voice is a low, cajoling rumble. Meant to soothe, though it has the opposite effect on Will in this moment. “We need you. There aren’t many angels who could do what you do--to live alongside humanity without losing yourself to it.”

Will swallows back a snort, or maybe it’s a sob. You’re wrong. You’re so wrong. He bites down on his tongue until he tastes blood. I almost gave in today--to what I’m not even certain. “I’m not as strong as you think I am,” is what he actually manages to say.

“If you doubt yourself, do not doubt God,” Jack says. There’s a hard edge of finality to his words. “Be his weapon.”

480 BC

The valley floor was littered with numerable campfires, indistinguishable one from the next, but Hannibal weaved his way through them with surety, following the thread of unease that tugged under his breastbone. No sentry challenged him, no soldier gave him a second glance. He wrapped the darkness around himself like a cloak and walked unmolested to where three soldiers sat in morose silence. Two of them suddenly remembered they had urgent business elsewhere as he approached: the third did not even look up.

“Hello Will.”

Will continued polishing his blade and said nothing. He didn’t look well, Hannibal thought, even allowing for the dim light. There was a dullness to his eyes that had nothing to do with a soldier’s fatigue, or perhaps everything.

“Mind if I join you?”

Will shrugged. “Would it make a difference if I did?”

“Probably not.” Hannibal admitted, sitting down. “I brought wine. Better than the swill you’re drinking, I’m sure. It’s not poison” he added, when Will made no move to take the wineskin from him. “And you are not forswearing yourself by drinking with me.”

“I suppose not.” Will said, but he still looked wary. He squirted some wine into his mouth and looked pleasantly surprised. “That’s very good. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” Hannibal said, drinking in every detail of him, the way the wine had put a slight flush on his skin and animation in his eyes. How long had it been since they sat together like this, with nothing but camaraderie between them? He took a deep breath, unsure of how to begin. “Will, I’m worried about you.”

“Worried?” Will’s brows drew together. “Since when does a demon worry about an angel?”

“A demon may worry about a friend, may he not?” Hannibal said and winced at the sound Will made, an ugly choked off laugh containing no mirth whatsoever. “I heard you asked Jack for a transfer.”

“Well what business is that of yours, friend ?” Will shook his head. “Besides, Jack said no. Said I was ‘uniquely suited’ to this assignment, whatever that means.” He stared into the flames, amusement darkening.  “So no need to worry on my account.” He raised the wine in a sardonic salute and tossed the skin back to Hannibal.

“Jack sees you as nothing more than a weapon. A useful tool, but no more than that. He will use you to smite our father’s enemies and then discard you with no thought to your wishes or welfare.”

“Oh but you do have a care for my wishes I suppose? Why don’t you leave me alone in that case?” Will snapped. “Why do you keep at me, year after year?”

“Because you’re suffering.” Hannibal said gently. “And you don’t need to.”

Will blinked rapidly and looked away. “My suffering is neither here nor there, Hannibal. I’m a soldier. I obey God’s orders, even if I don’t understand them.” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t you ever get tired of all this?”

“Of bothering you?” Hannibal said with a smile. “Never.”

“No, not just of that. Of this place. This earth, these people.”

Hannibal swirled the wine around his mouth, taking care to note all the flavours. “No. This place is full of joy, Will. There is so much to see and experience. And as for the humans-” He laughed. “The art they create, the music and the poetry-they see so much beauty in the world around them and in each other. And all the violence and horror they inflict, well that is the other side of the coin. One is not possible without the other.”

“I feel like all I see is the violence and the horror.” Will muttered.

“It doesn’t have to be like that. I can show you the wonders this world has to offer.” Hannibal leaned forward urgently. “Come with me, Will. Leave the battlefields behind for a while.”

Will stared at him, something almost like fondness in his eyes. “You really are worried about me, aren’t you? You don’t need to be. I’m fine.”

“These men will not be fine.” Hannibal said, harshly. “The Greek armies have been betrayed. Even now Xerxes is sending his infantry to the mountain pass, and by noon tomorrow you will be surrounded. You cannot win this battle. Come with me. ”

Will smiled, a small and fragile thing and Hannibal’s heart clenched. “Thank you for the wine, Hannibal. It was kind of you.” His eyes turned back to the fire.

It was the work of a few seconds to move behind Will and get a hand to his throat; the wine had done its job and rendered him slow, too slow to mount an effective defense.  Will’s hands scrabbled in the dirt, desperately seeking a burning ember or a discarded blade but Hannibal was well practiced at fighting dirty and Will was unconscious in seconds.

“Not so pretty as sword fighting.” Hannibal remarked, slinging Will’s dead weight over his shoulder “but very effective.” He examined the bloody scratches Will’s struggles had left on his arm. He could heal them instantly of course but it seemed wrong, somehow, when it was Will who had inflicted them on him.  Perhaps this was why Will had never sped his own healing, preferring to let his skin knit and scar. It was a map, a reminder of where he’d been and what he’d done. A testimony.

Will opened his eyes. For a blissful moment he thought he was home, but memories flooded in relentlessly, churning his stomach. He was stuck here, in this aching body, in this torment that not even death would end. He rolled to his side and threw up, violently resenting the hand that smoothed his brow and the way his body wanted to lean into it.

“Careful” Hannibal said. “Drink this. Slowly, unless you want to be sick again.”

“What happened?” Will said. His throat felt raw, as though he’d been screaming. “With the battle?”

Hannibal shrugged, uninterested, and held the flask out to him. “Water with honey. For your throat, since I know you’ll refuse to heal it.”

Will sipped, looking around. The house was small and made of stone, the furniture comfortable, but not ostentatious. Through the open door he could see the garden, lavender and olive trees, and beyond that the ocean stretching out, a calm and infinite expanse of blue. Almost soothing.

“What is this place?” he said. “Why have you brought me here?”

“This place is yours, if you wish.” Hannibal said tersely. “No one will disturb you here. Not even me, if you do not desire my company. The next time you feel the urge to do something stupid and get yourself killed, come here instead.”

“Is this what all your talk of free will comes to? You don’t like my choices, so you stop me from making any.” Will swallowed, with difficulty. “You had no right to interfere, Hannibal. Why do you care what I do?”

“I care for you, as hard as that seems to be for you to accept. I won’t allow you to throw your life away without seeing what this world could offer you other than suffering.”

“It would not have been a true death. Jack would have dispatched me back here as soon as he could, you know that.” After a telling off he would not have forgotten, Will was sure. He was glad to have missed that at least.

“After how many centuries? Do you really think with all your doubts and questions you could be happy in Heaven now?”

“Why, because you weren’t?” Will snapped “You don’t know me as well as you think you do, Hannibal. I don’t belong here.”

“Perhaps not.” Hannibal said, after a long silence. “But I know you better than you think. You have come too far and seen too much to be content there now. If it is peace you are looking for, you may find it here. There are no people on this island, and no sailors will wreck their ships on its shores. I believe there is a dog living here who is about to give birth, but that is all the company you will need to tolerate.”

“And in exchange?” Will said slowly, but he already knew. Hannibal gave with one hand and took away with the other.

“Your word, that you will not attempt to deliberately harm yourself again. Be Jack’s weapon if you wish, smite the wicked, fight the hordes of Hell themselves, but when you feel the urge to turn the violence inwards, come here instead.”

Will nodded, shutting his eyes in defeat. “You have my word.”

“Then I will leave you to rest.” Hannibal bent down and pressed his lips to Will’s hair. “Call on me if there is anything you need.”

When Will opened his eyes, he was alone.

Sometime, Somewhere in between 6 and 4 BC

Despite Hannibal’s promise to leave until Will calls him again, Will keeps expecting him to pop up unannounced. After all, when has a demon ever kept his word? The first few years pass uneventfully, and Will tells himself he prefers it this way. No being, angel, demon, or human, has ever managed to infuriate him quite like Hannibal. Always knowing the precise words to worm under Will's skin.

Without Hannibal haunting his steps, pointing out every perceived flaw of the Lord's plan, every incongruously cruel commandment passed down, every dark impulse stirring deep within Will's mind, life on earth is so much easier.

Will can no longer deny the truth Hannibal knew so well. There is little point, when this is why he was sent to earth in the first place. The archangels take their orders from God and pass them on to Jack, who guides Will's sword. He cuts down the wicked and the sinful, and Will has learned to enjoy it.

Father gave these creatures the gift of free will, and how do they squander it? Oh, Will has seen every sin, from petty greed and lust to rape and murder. Mankind gluts themselves on sin, and as if that were not reason enough for him to strike them down, they have placed false idols upon their altars. They have not the grace to praise the one who gave them life.

Will and his blade carve a path across the world, and wherever he goes, he is known, and he is feared. Sometimes he imagines what Hannibal would say, when Will once spoke of the goodness and generosity of their Father. Now he is the Lord's vengeful right hand.

The years continue to trickle by, and imaging what Hannibal might say no longer suffices. Will can recall, with perfect clarity, the exact shade of Hannibal's wings before he fell, and the timbre of his voice, and how easily Hannibal's skin yielded at the thrust of Will's blade.

Yet none of that eases the yearning Will feels each time he huddles in the ruins of another temple laid to waste. The silence stretches vast and deafening, no living thing left for miles and the stars as cold and distant as their Father. And Will waits for the clop of galloping hooves, the squeak of leather and the clang of steel, and Hannibal's voice, smooth and lyrical, taunting him for becoming the very killer he despised.

It is then that Will is reminded once again that there is no one on earth or in Heaven whose companionship he craves more than the demon from Hell.

Whispers are the first Will hears of Christ, and it strikes him then just how alienated he has become from Heaven. Part of him aches at the realisation. He had not wanted to leave at all, and the first few centuries on earth had been torture, to be surrounded by the squalor of humanity when all he wished for was the serenity of Home. And now, how is he any better than a demon? At least they chose to Fall.

A much smaller part of him, one that Will associates with Hannibal, and therefore goes to great lengths to ignore, tells him that this is for the best. In Heaven, there is no Self, just the constant humming of their combined conscious. How long could he have continued to live among them before they saw what Hannibal had seen?

Or did they already know? Is that why they'd banished him here?

These are traitorous thoughts, and Will stifles them viciously. He walks alongside pilgrims and listens to the wise men who tell of the coming of the Lord, Jesus Christ, and Will reminds himself of the ineffability of God, until the word becomes a mantra. A soothing balm for the fire in his mind. When he closes his mind he sees the view of the ocean from the home Hannibal gifted him. He hasn’t been back in an age; he can’t bring himself to take that gift.

On a sultry spring evening Will sits alone at the back of an inn outside of Jerusalem and watches Michael's light show in the sky. For once, he can hear with perfect clarity what Heaven is singing, a chorus led by Gabriel's blaring horn. That the Son of God is born, for the salvation of mankind.

Where does that leave him, then, a weapon for a more vengeful Father? What is his role to be in this New world? The wine tastes sour on his tongue, and Will swallows down his mouthful before dumping the rest on the ground.

“The son of god,” says a voice behind him, and Will's unnecessary, human heart clenches as if gripped in a fist. He can hear from the inflection the lack of reverence in the words. “His only son. Tell me, brother, what does that make us?” Trust Hannibal to pluck the very thoughts from Will's mind and bring them to treasonous life.

A warmth entirely separate from the oppressive night air and the burn of the wine down his throat washes over Will. It is the warmth of familiarity and camaraderie. The warmth of knowing that despite his apparent failure in the eyes of the Lord, there is at least one soul who seeks him out, time and again.

I missed you , Will wants to say. You were right about me all along. I no more belong in Heaven than you . Though Hannibal must know all of that already.

He takes the wine from Hannibal's outstretched hand, and shifts to the side to allow Hannibal a place on the wall beside him. Will is unsurprised when the first sip is heady-sweet and flavoured of fig and berry, far too rich for this dusty old place.

“Hannibal,” he says in greeting, an even voice that betrays none of Will's inner turmoil or pleasure at his presence. “I haven’t called for you.”

“Yes, you have. God isn’t the only one who hears prayer.”

“I haven’t--” Will protests, cheeks colouring at the thought that his longing was so powerful as to constitute a prayer. He takes another hasty mouthful of wine. His wings twitched, as if to just reassure himself they were still there.

“I wanted to come sooner,” Hannibal says. He sits close enough that Will can feel the heat radiating from Hannibal’s thighs, through the fabric of his shift. “Until now, I was not certain you would welcome my presence.”

“Ah.” Will tips his head back to stare up at the stars, lips twisted in a knowing smirk. “So you think to take advantage of my weakness.”

Hannibal's eyes on him are a tangible weight, tracing Will's features with a sort of reverence that should be reserved for God, and Will says nothing to deter him. “I would take nothing you would not offer, willingly.”

Will rolls around the flavour of the wine in his mouth thoughtfully. “You speak with the tongue of a deceiver,” Will says, with no real heat in his words. “Do you think me so easily led astray?”

“I would lead you only so far as the city, Angel.” Hannibal arches a teasing brow. “Surely you can sup at my table just this once without turning your wings to black. At the very least you can tell your superiors it kept me from tempting any innocent souls tonight.”

It is only because Hannibal knows him so thoroughly that Will is forced to step into the trap that has been laid. Refuse and take the blame for whatever havoc Hannibal might wreak, though none will ever know of his complicity but them. Instead of anger, it is gratitude that floods through Will in that moment, and for the first time, he accepts Hannibal’s invitation.

It won’t be the last.

“Lead on then, Demon.”

June 1099

It had all happened so fast, Will thought blearily, staring at the sea--well, small lake really--of singed, hacked up bodies around him. One minute he had been herding terrified refugees out of Jerusalem, away from the path of the advancing armies and the next what seemed like an entire regiment of Crusaders had come screaming down from the hills, clearly intent on a bloody massacre. What else could he have done?

His sword was still flaming, very slightly. Will stared at it unseeing, reliving the past minute and a half. The screams, oh the screams, they had been- beautiful. No,no, no, not beautiful, certainly not beautiful. Horrific , that was the word he was after, he thought with relief. Much better. Nothing beautiful about all that blood, arcing gracefully through the air against the dying sun. And there had very definitely been nothing beautiful in tasting the blind shrieking terror of those men, facing their deaths at the hands an avenging angel, or at least a slightly pissed off one. He stared at the blood on his hands and waited for the sword to stop smouldering.

“Makes a change from all the dysentery, anyway” Will muttered. “Bloody wars. What are they good for?”

“Aside from increased manufacturing and employment participation?” a voice said behind him. Will sighed and turned around. He should have known.

“Hello Hannibal.”

“Will.” Hannibal dismounted and left his horse in the supreme confidence that it would remain exactly where he had left it. Hannibal always had magnificent horses, although he never chose black ones, like most demons. Will had once asked why, a few millennia prior, and been informed condescendingly that being that obvious was vulgar, and that he, Hannibal, was not some lowly pit demon, needing to advertise his credentials at every turn.   This particular horse was a large bay, certainly big enough to carry two and Will cheered up, despite the dubious company-if Hannibal was here, there was almost certainly a hot bath in his future.

“I wondered how they got here so quickly. Thought we had another day at least.” Will said. It didn’t really seem like Hannibal’s usual thing, if he was being honest. Wars bored him. Vulgar .

Hannibal shrugged modestly. “It was nothing. Well done on saving all those civilians, by the way. I’m sure they’ll be grateful, once they stop screaming.”

They had screamed, Will remembered. They had fled from him as fast as they could, muttering prayers and incantations. He was sure he’d heard the word Ifrit in there somewhere too.

“I’m surprised to see you out this way” Will said. “I mean, tempting soldiers to commit rape and murder? You may as well tempt an ant with honey. Bit out of your usual remit, isn’t it?”

“Dear Will.” Hannibal stepped forward and laid a hand against Will’s cheek. “I wasn’t trying to tempt them. I was trying to tempt you .”

Will laughed. “Tempt me into what, doing my job? Still singing the same song after all these years, Hannibal?” Will hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. There was a strange light in Hannibal’s eyes and it made him shiver, the raiders’ blood growing cold and sticky on his skin.

“I’ve seen countless beings kill. Angels, demons, humans. None like that. None with such pure joy.”

Will opened his mouth to deny it, but he wasn’t built for lies and Hannibal saw him too clearly already.  He felt sick.

The wind whipped around them, running its fingers through Hannibal’s hair. Even in the dark Will could see the fanatic light in his eyes, not merely reverent, but worshipful. Blasphemous. For a moment Will imagined he could see Hannibal’s wings, blacker than the night sky and even more magnificent.

“ Your suffering can end, now, this moment. Embrace your freedom. Make a choice.”

How , Will thought despairingly, how are you so beautiful. He stepped away and picked up the sword.

Hannibal smiled and dropped to his knees in the sand. “You know it won’t stop me.”

“No.” Will said. “But it might buy me a few years of peace and quiet.”

He swung the sword.

The horse whinnied fretfully and nudged his shoulder.

“He’ll be back, you’ll see. Can’t keep a good demon down.” Will said, leaning against the horse. If he could just close his eyes, just for a moment…

The horse stomped the ground impatiently and nudged him again.

“Oh. Oh . Are you supposed to take me somewhere?” Somewhere with alcohol, preferably. And a bath. And a bed.  He clambered into the saddle and hung on, swaying with exhaustion.

A shaft of heavenly light hit the ground and an angry voice boomed out “ Will ! My office, now!”

Will hesitated, but in the end the lure of whatever Hannibal had left him was too much to resist.  He dug his heels into the horse's flanks and they shot forward, dust flying up in their wake.

Jack would just have to wait till morning.

It could have been worse, Will reflected a few hours later as he took in the tent’s accoutrements. There was wine, at least-great barrels of it, and of the finest quality. There were soft coverings and furs on the bed, fresh fruit on the table and best of all, a tub of fragrant steaming water, thumbing its nose gleefully at the desert stretching in every direction.  It was a welcome change from most of his accommodations these days.

The silk hangings were a bit much though, Will had decided, as was the note Hannibal had left inscribed with a single word.

Enjoy .

So much for free will.

“Not nearly as much fun without you.” Will raised his glass in a toast. He was not nearly drunk enough yet, but the night was young, the bath water was maintaining its temperature perfectly, and Jack was leaving him alone for now.

“He’s probably horrified by your Arabian Nights decor.” Will said and fancied he could taste Hannibal’s amusement in the air. The Light had followed him all the way here and was now hovering disapprovingly outside the tent’s entrance, although at least the shouting had stopped.

It may not have been as much fun without Hannibal, but it was also distinctly less irritating. No mocking voice plucking treacherous thoughts from his head and dangling them in front of his eyes. No endless arguments about the nature of ineffability. No endless rehashing of old hurts and slights.

No fun at all.

Two and a half barrels later-it really was an excellent wine-Will had to admit he’d been foolish.  In addition to the right bollocking he was about to get from management, he had also given Hannibal precisely what he wanted. He’d let Hannibal get under his skin and provoke him to an act of pointless violence. What was worse, now that Hannibal had found the fissure in Will’s soul, he would be throwing evildoers in his path constantly, just so he could tempt Will into darkness.

Was a propensity for violence such a weakness though? Will was an angel, and what were angels if not warriors of God? He was built for battle. He was created for it, as Jack had told him more than once. And if he enjoyed the actual slaying more than some of the others, well that didn’t mean he was meant for darkness. It just made him a good soldier. That was all there was to it.

If that’s true, then why did you kill him?

Will crawled under the furs and shut his eyes. Sooner or later Hannibal would pop up again with his ridiculous theories and his unsettling questions and when that happened, Will had to be ready.

He couldn’t let Hannibal get to him again.

Once upon a time, Will had longed for and dreaded his occasional visits to heaven in equal measure, reluctant to enjoy the bliss of communion only to be banished from it yet again.

These days though, he just dreaded them.

“What were you thinking? ” Jack loomed over Will, his wings fluffed up in rage. “We’ve been through this, Will! I’m up to my ass in paperwork as it is and now this? Hell sent up an official complaint!”

“We’re at war, Jack. He’s a demon! Aren’t we supposed to smite the wicked and lay waste to their works? ”

“At the End Times, yes. And on that glorious day, we will wipe them out once and for all. But until then, balance has to be maintained. Light and Dark. Good and Evil. Do you understand?”

“Why am I there then? What’s the point of any of it? Am I not His weapon ?”

Jack went very still.

“Are you questioning the divine plan, Will?”

Will took a deep breath-unnecessary up here, but he had been human for so long he didn’t know how to stop. Heaven seemed like a foreign country to him now, governed by ridiculous rules he could no longer comprehend.

“No.” He lied. “Of course not. It’s just…”

It’s just nothing makes sense. I don’t know which way is up anymore. I no longer understand God’s will.

“Look Jack, I’m sorry. I am, truly. It won’t happen again. But I feel like there’s more here you’re not telling me.”

Jack glared at Will. “Of course there is. And I can’t tell you all of it. But Hannibal is...problematic. Unpredictable. “

Like me.

“Hell would rather he was not causing stirring dissent in their ranks, so they’re booting him back to Earth. After a suitable period of re-education, obviously.”

“Hell told you that?” Will asked, trying not to feel bad about the re-education and only partly succeeding.

“You’re not the only one who lost friends to the other side, Will. When Hannibal returns, you will keep an eye on him and refrain from doing anything stupid.“ Jack picked up a pen and began writing. “Dismissed.”

Will left, and for the first time felt only relief at his banishment. He wondered how long it would be before Hannibal returned.

Summer 1349

The village was silent when Hannibal arrived. No barking dogs, no livestock. Even the birds had stopped singing, the heat too oppressive for them to do anything but seek relief. One or two blackened and rotting bodies lay in the dust, with no bells to sing them to eternity, and no one alive left to bury them.

Well. Almost no one.

He found Will in the tavern, breaking into the ale stores.

“I’m not drinking all this by myself.” Will said, waving a half full tankard. “Get in here.” He was slumped on the floor, tear tracks on his cheeks, but he was not crying now. He had the blank stare Hannibal had seen thousands of times on the journey here--that of a soul pushed beyond endurance and waiting only for the torment to end. Hannibal sat down and Will slumped against him with a tiny noise.

Hannibal was not averse in general to screams of pain or suffering, but the endless grinding howls of despair had worn on his nerves. There was no beauty here, no artistry, no message-just ceaseless grief and misery. He had ridden on the wave of the plague through towns and cities, listening to the church bells incessantly ringing out their dreadful toll. The priests shouted awful warnings about God’s wrath and made frantic pleas for people to repent, but it had done nothing. It was never going to make a difference. God was as cold and pitiless to his children as ever.

“Is it the end times?” Will muttered. He stank of disease and human terror, no doubt having futilely nursed every last person in the village. Hannibal shook his head.

“No. They would have told us if it was.” Privately Hannibal was not entirely sure of this, but there seemed no sense in worrying. He put an arm around Will and was pleased when no attempt was made to shake him off. “We’ve seen this sickness before, Will. You remember.”

“Not like this.” Will said. He turned to look at Hannibal, his eyes wide and bewildered. “They’re all dead. Some people managed to leave, but the rest...”

“It’s worse in the cities.” Hannibal offered by way of comfort. At least it was quiet here, despite the stink. His thoughts wandered to the man who grabbed his horse’s reins in Oxford, madness in his eyes. Please sir , the man had said, please, my children are all dead.

The horse had succumbed a week later.

“I couldn’t do anything.” Will continued as if Hannibal had not spoken. “They begged me to save them and I couldn’t...”

God could have , Hannibal thought, stroking Will’s hair. Millions of his beloved children dead and he remains indifferent. He cares no more for them than he does for us. There seemed little point in saying any of this--their Father was sowing doubts in Will’s mind faster than Hannibal ever could. He was sure of Will now, as sure as he had ever been.

“Come on, Angel.” He rose and pulled Will to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Where to?” Will said bleakly, unsteady on his feet. “The whole world is dying. And don't call me that.”

“Not everywhere.” Hannibal said. “I know a place.”

The Arrangement happens mostly by accident. Well. Probably Hannibal intended for it to happen all along, but Will never realised just how complicit he'd been in the whole affair until it was far too late. One too many times sharing a battlefield with Hannibal, even if they were on opposite sides, one too many times sharing a cask of wine in Hannibal's ridiculous tent afterwards.

If one has to wear a human skin, one might as well enjoy all the associate pleasures thereof. Angels could become intoxicated, if they so desired, though none of his brothers or sisters seemed to understand the appeal. And there are all the rich, gamey roasts and creamy cheeses, the cool ointments and silken fabrics, far preferable to stale bread, and sore feet, and the chafe of leather.

It's a slippery slope from there, and Will has never been particularly graceful in human form.

There is a moment, in Constantinople. The turning point when Will looked back in retrospect. Several hundred years on earth and many of the attitudes of Heaven now foreign to him. Of course there are the big things: not questioning God's will, giving himself over to the ineffability of God's plan for him. But the rest was just...minutia.

So when Hannibal mentions, as they lounge in the baths, that really Will's generally unpleasant demeanor causes far more regular, low-grade strife than anything Hannibal himself does on a daily basis as a demon, Will naturally snaps back that perhaps Hannibal should then take it upon himself to do some good in the world to counter it.

Honestly, Will had known Hannibal ages at that point, and his unnerving smile should have been warning enough for Will to call this whole relationship off then and there.

He has to admit, however, that it is remarkably useful to have someone like Hannibal to count on. There are few other angels who have lived on the earth any length of time, and none so long as Will. None of them understand humans the same way he has come to understand them, with all their flaws and quirks and undeniable capacity for beauty.

Hannibal understands.

Hannibal probably understands the human capacity for love and kindness and goodness as well as Will has learned of their capacity for cruelty and ugliness and hatred. In fact, Will would be willing to wager his wings that Hannibal has no real desire to see mankind struck down, as a whole.

Oh, he'll play his games with the individuals—pick some lost, twisted soul and befriend him, leading him further and further astray. Will's been witness to the results often enough that he can read Hannibal's influence in every body left behind, like an artist's brushstroke. They tell the story of Hannibal's infatuation with humanity and all it has created. Hannibal loves mankind in a way Will has never understood, let alone been able to emulate.

Is it so horrible then, when Will happens upon someone too far down the path of wickedness to be saved, to lead him to Hannibal's doorstep? If Will's choices are to strike him down then and there, or allow him to further seal his fate, why stand in the way? Human life is fragile and fleeting, and he's spent too long looking at the big picture to fret much over the details.

That way leads madness, when he realises the limitations of his power.

And in turn, Hannibal's whole existence brings light to the world. Will often wonders at how it was he who fell, and Will remains in their father's graces, when to all outward appearances the opposite should be true. Hannibal who paints alongside the masters, making the light dance on his canvas. Hannibal who entertains the greatest minds of the age, whatever age that might be, observing and encouraging their philosophical and mathematical and scientific discourse. Hannibal who inspires musicians to create sounds to rival that of a chorus of angels in heaven. All while Will lurks in the shadows, mostly unseen and unheard, watching humanity pass him by.

Renaissance Venice

The fifteenth century rises like the sun for Will. Suddenly there is life and culture springing up around him, and all the past horrors if not disappear, fade away into shadow under the glowing light of progress. There is still war--Will doubts there will ever come a day when there is not--but it is no longer merely the way of life.

Hannibal keeps a palazzo on the Rio di Noale, a sprawling, open home that is filled with golden light and the scent of seawater. Dazzling frescoes adorn the walls, mosaics on the floor of the grand entry and covering the elaborate bathrooms from floor to ceiling, furniture upholstered in the finest Florentine fabrics with their vivid dyes picked through in golden thread.

It is an opulence that Will has never seen, even in finest Egyptian palaces and Roman manors. Certainly nothing he is used to, taking shelter in whatever drab hole he stumbles upon after each finished mission from Jack. He wanders the four floors as though he were in a museum, almost afraid to touch all the expensive, delicate trinkets Hannibal has collected over the years.

Will never intends to stay; these days he might as easily be sent to the Far East or the Kongo Kingdom as anywhere in between. It makes no sense for him to remain in one place, yet he finds himself drawn back again and again. He drags himself in sore and worn and bloody after taking care of an issue in Luxembourg, and Hannibal’s servants draw up a hot bath and lay out plate after mouth-watering plate of culinary delights.

After, he dresses in a ridiculously embroidered night shirt that probably costs more than every article of clothing he’s ever owned combined. It slides across his skin in a liquid caress when Will moves. He finds it incredibly unnerving, walking slowly through the halls to find Hannibal.

The room where he finds him is lit by a crackling fire and the soft glow of candlelight, and the walls are lined in bookshelves stuffed to bursting. Hannibal watches him silently as Will runs his fingers across the spines, some worn from use or age, yet in near immaculate condition. He can’t help but notice many of them must now be the only remaining copy of particular manuscripts thought lost to time. Will’s mouth goes dry at the thought. It never occurred to him until now, to preserve these bits of history, but of course Hannibal had thought of it.

Will tears himself away from the books and joins Hannibal before the fireplace. There is deep red wine in a cut crystal decanter, and Hannibal pours him a generous cupful when Will sits across from him. He has to bite his lip from groaning out loud at the plush give of the cushion.

Hannibal’s eyes are knowing, glinting like rubies in the firelight. “Pleasure is not a sin.”

Will isn’t so sure of that. Pleasure leads to temptation, and from there it’s so easy to lose oneself. He finds it difficult to remember, in Hannibal’s presence, where he experiences a peace and sense of belonging he’s been missing so long. Tipping his glass towards Hannibal’s, he murmurs, “All things in moderation.”

That all goes out the window pretty quickly, and soon enough they’ve found their way down to Hannibal’s wine cellar for another bottle. They catch each other up on what they’ve missed in the past few years, and Will is done being surprised when the good influence Hannibal has had vastly outweighs the evil. That doesn’t excuse his sinfulness, Will knows this, logically. Deep within that buried, feared-broken part of himself, however, he can’t help but feel otherwise.

Somewhere along the way, as the wine works loose the tension in his muscles, the sensation of the cloth against his skin becomes pleasant rather than a nuisance. The scent of the oils and soaps from Hannibal’s bath hangs in the air, mingling with wind from the open balcony. Will doesn’t need sleep, but it has become a habit--a way of passing time when the mundanity and horrors of the world grow to be too much.

Tonight, however, sleepiness settles over him like a warm, familiar blanket. Or perhaps that is Hannibal’s voice, pitched low and soothing as he tells Will about a young painter he’s been tempting. Another angel would be scandalised. Another angel would be running off to win the boy back over to Christ, or removing himself from the demon’s presence, at the very least.

Several seconds of silence pass before Will realises he must have dozed off. He stirs himself awake and raises his head to find Hannibal smirking at him. “Sorry.”

“You have no cause for apology,” Hannibal says, and it feels like he’s being laughed at, but Will can’t find it in him to care.

“I should probably go to bed.” Will is reluctant to move.

“You could stay awhile.” They both know what he’s asking.

Jack would probably implode at the suggestion. It’s one thing to keep an eye on Hannibal from a safe distance. It’s another thing entirely, staying under the same roof. Jack has already expressed his disapproval of their frequent casual meetings.

But...Will casts a longing look at the books that surround him, and takes another sip of the wine. And all the creature comforts aside, it might be worth it to hear Jack’s sputtering when he delivers Will’s orders and realises just where he’s manifested.

“A day or two couldn’t hurt, I suppose,” Will says at last.

Hannibal tips a bit more wine into his glass and says, “All things in moderation, Angel.”

Jack’s reaction is as spectacular as Will imagined, with all sorts of colourful language that Will is fairly certain he’s just invented on the spot. Will sits up from his mattress--he’s never slept on anything as soft, it’s Heaven --and pushes back the curtains to watch the fireworks spewing from the hearth. They threaten to set the nearby tapestry alight.

Will waits until Jack has trailed off, though honestly he might just be drawing a breath. “There was this fellow in Qi, oh about a thousand years ago now. Sun Tzu, a general, and a bit of a heartless bastard, but he was a cunning strategist, and I once heard him say, Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. ”

“There are limits, Will,” Jack says, and Will can hear his mouth pulled tight in a grimace of rage. Sometimes Will thinks Jack is no better at being an angel than he is himself.

In the background, there’s a soft voice that Will recognises with a pang of nostalgia as Alana’s. He can’t quite make out her words, but if he closes his eyes, he can call to mind the features of her face with perfect detail. Of course, when he does, he can’t help but also recall the expression of wary concern she always wore around him. He scowls and bites his tongue, waiting for them to finish their little whispered conversation, no doubt about him. Oh, to be a fly on that wall.

Jack clears his throat. “I know things are different out in the field from up here,” he says. “I might not like it, but I guess that Sun Tzu guy might have a point.”

And that is that. Will stays through another couple of weeks, slowly making his way through Hannibal’s book and wine collection, until Jack sends him off to Rome. Afterwards, there seems little point on finding some other lodging when Hannibal is such a gracious host.

A few weeks turns into a couple of months, turns into a year, and before Will knows it, they’ve been living together for a decade. Hannibal rarely leaves the area, contenting himself with meddling in the politics of state and trade. Will might travel to France or Scotland, or board a vessel for the Ottoman Empire, but he returns every time with an ever-growing menagerie.

Will has never kept a pet, because he’s never lived in one place long enough to do so. But even when he was living inn to inn he’d had a way with strays. They’d follow him around, probably hoping he’d share his dinner, and they were always right.

Hannibal doesn’t comment on it when Will brings back the lost hunting dog from Burgundy, or the mongrel he found outside Venice on his way home the next time. Will cleans them and feeds them up and they repay his kindness with absolute obedience.

Theodore is the next, rescued from the side of a road between Bursa and Ankara, nothing but matted fur and bones. “That is a wolf,” Hannibal says, after Will’s bathed him and combed all the burrs and tangles from his fur.

Will holds out a hand filled with bits of roasted chicken, and Theodore takes them gently from his palm. “Yes?”

Hannibal’s smile is fond and Will’s heart gives a painful lurch at the sight. “You have a way with dangerous creatures.”

England 1602

For nearly two centuries, Will lives with Hannibal in something approaching harmony. There’s quite a long stretch where Will disappears off to the New World, and Hannibal is almost curious enough to follow. The Spanish Armada distracts him for a time, and when Will returns, he finds Hannibal in London.

The last of Will’s strays died a few years before, and he is thoroughly unsurprised when Will shows up on his doorstep with a new one at heel. It collapses gratefully by the fire in the dining room where Will drops a bag of foodstuff the table and grins. “You’re always the one introducing me to new things.” Reaching within, Will produces a strange, spiky fruit that he must have expended some energy on keeping fresh the entire ride. “My turn.”

In addition to the wealth of pineapples and tomatoes, and squash and potatoes, and seeds or sprouts for them all, Will brings a bundle of dark, richly earthy-scented beans. “These are cocoa beans,” he says, as close to eager as Hannibal ever sees him. “The Aztecs sweeten it with honey and flavour it with chili. I thought you might be able to work some of your magic.”

As when Will brought him coffee for the first time, almost two hundred years ago, Hannibal receives these gifts for the treasure he knows them to be. Will has grown ever more dismissive towards others over the years. With every passing mission, every successful slew of righteous deaths at his own hand, he retreats further within himself, eschewing socialisation with humans and Heaven alike, but always returning to Hannibal’s step. It makes all these gestures particularly meaningful, a thought that settles warmly in Hannibal’s chest.

Though it is winter, they sow the seeds, and Will walks through his garden, spreading his grace over the seedlings with a brush of his hand, encouraging them to grow hearty. Within a few days they’ve already sprouted, and within a few weeks, there are a plethora of honey bees buzzing among the plants.

Hannibal experiments with the rest, creating stews and roasts fit for the season, Will his eager subject. His real interest is in what he can do with the new herbs and spices. It has been the work of centuries, finding just the right blend of flavours that Will, so overtaken with pleasure, can’t help but moan. He’ll lick his fingers shamelessly in chase of the flavours, like a man starved.

Such is the case with the cocoa, once Hannibal has perfected his method of roasting and grinding it into a fine powder, blended with the fragrant vanilla pods Will also brought home, and sweetened with sugar. He forms it into small cakes, rich and moist, that makes Will’s eyes roll back in his head.

“I’m not entirely certain that isn’t a sin,” he says.

Hannibal licks his lips at the sight before him--Will finally recovered from his journey, the bags under his eyes gone, hair newly shorn, cheeks freshly shaved. He’s tanned from the voyage, skin golden in the candlelight, and there’s a flush about him that has nothing to do with the wine or the heat of the fire.

“If you’re going to Fall,” Hannibal says, pausing when Will’s eyes snap open to meet his. Neither angry nor trepidatious, but curious as to where this is leading. “I can think of far more pleasurable ways to go.”

It is a credit to how closely Will has played his game to his vest that Hannibal cannot rightly say whether or not Will’s guileless expression is feigned. “I somehow doubt it.” He takes another bite, eyes fluttering shut again, and follows it with a mouthful of port, groaning as he swallows. Hannibal shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other.

There are myriad responses on the tip of Hannibal’s tongue, but the last thing he wants is to drive the angel away now, when they’ve finally settled into something like friendship and domesticity. They have all the time in the world for Hannibal to tempt Will to his side for good. When Will Falls, Hannibal would have him do so knowingly and willingly, as Hannibal himself did.

“The theatre, perhaps?” Hannibal suggests. Just yesterday on the way home from the market they’d been accosted by a group of Puritans outside the theatre district. Frantic and wild-eyed, they’d shouted at the crowd on the dangers of the stage. Apparently it was nothing more than a den of gambling and prostitution, thievery and drinking. Personally Hannibal felt that was reason enough for visiting, but perhaps he was taking the wrong lesson.

“I hear that Shakespeare has a new play.”

Will gives him a withering look. “Isn’t he the one who did that Titus Andronicus? The theatre is meant to be an escape--Hannibal, I get enough blood, gore, and cannibalism in my real life.”

“This one is a comedy, Angel,” Hannibal assures him.

Will grumbles, but he doesn’t actually say no , and puts up no protest as they leave the table for the servants to clear, heading to their rooms to clean up. He is in good spirits, well-fed and well-rested, which always makes him more susceptible to Hannibal’s suggestion. Even the bustling crowds hardly dampen his spirit, until they reach the bear baiting rings along the river.

Hannibal is no stranger to cruelty, and he has always taken pleasure in urging men to give over to their darker impulses, but this is far too tasteless, the creatures forced to fight for sport. As they pass, he allows his mind to extend past the body that contains it, seeking among the men for one vulnerable to his suggestion.

The handlers are all of them already hopelessly bound for below, though dreadfully dull. He could inspire them to sin further, but it would lack the artfulness that is Hannibal’s signature. His eyes pass over the crowd and land on a dark eyed youth, no more than twenty, starkly pale as if his skin has rarely seen the light of day. As if he senses Hannibal’s gaze, he looks up, eyes locking.

This one is different--not here for to watch the bears torment, but in hopes of seeing the tables turned. Accidents are not unusual in the bear-baiting rings. It takes little effort for Hannibal to set into motion. A vain nobleman jostling his way to the front, a wrathful man starting a row. Someone else throws a punch and a whole row stumbles closer to the ring.

It’s just the right moment to distract the handler, and the boy with the dark eyes hardly needs the nudge Hannibal sends him to reach past the barrier and tug the handler off-balance. In a split second the bear is on him.

“Hannibal,” Will says in reproach, but there’s no mistaking the amusement in his voice, or the smile threatening to break over his face.

The boy has beat a hasty retreat, though no one is searching for him in the chaos. After the play, however, Hannibal spies him on the street, lurking in the shadowed alley by the theatre. Will, deep in his cups and with his angelic charisma bleeding through his surly exterior, has been dragged off to for further drinks by the noblemen who’d been seated near them. They’re in search of an adventure at the bar the players frequent, and Will rarely ever turns down an opportunity for free alcohol anymore.

Hannibal waits until the noise of that crowd has faded before ambling towards the boy. Randall , his mind provides, when their eyes meet again. “You...you made that happen,” Randall murmurs, when Hannibal draws near. His eyes are luminous in the moonlight, the look of a man intoxicated. “You caused that man to die.”

Over the past millennia, Hannibal has peered into the minds of men; there is nothing left to surprise him. Randall’s mind is ordered differently from most, but it is certainly not the first of its kind. There is nothing fundamentally evil about the boy. Just like any other angel, fallen or otherwise, Hannibal could lay a healing hand upon his head and lift the delusions that have plagued him, but curiosity gets the better of him.

“It was less satisfying than you imagined, watching the beast kill him.”

Randall doesn’t demure; there is no flush of shame or embarrassment colouring his cheeks. Nothing but naked, unabashed excitement when he nods his head in agreement. “He was hardly worthy prey for such a noble creature.”

Hannibal lifts a hand to trace the line of Randall’s jaw, suggestion laced in his touch. “Fitting, given the conditions under which the bear has lived. But what of the unchained predator?”

Randall’s breath catches in his throat and the images that flash through his mind are projected onto Hannibal’s. All the unsatisfying deaths at this boy’s hands. Clumsy at first, though with growing skill and finesse. Still, an unsuspecting prostitute or pampered aristocrat puts up little resistance in the face of such brutality.

An idea begins to take form--an experiment of sorts. Will has been gone over a decade, outside of Hannibal’s influence, and he’s curious to see what he’ll do, faced with Randall. Will he insist on trying to heal the boy and lead him back to God? Or will he draw his flaming sword and strike him down?

There is a chance Will won’t appreciate this particular gift, but it falls in line with their Arrangement, and Will never stays mad at him for long. “I know where you can find the greatest challenge for a true predator to prove his dominance.”

Will wakes in a bar, facedown on a stained and sticky table, and lets out a pitiful groan. He glances around, confirming that Hannibal is nowhere to be seen, and frowns. It is unusual for Hannibal to leave his side when Will returns home after a long while away--even if it means dragging Will kicking and screaming out for a night on the town.

His new companions attempt to cajole him into staying, but Will longs for the soft sheets of his bed, and more importantly, solitude. Outside the streets are near empty, which speaks to the late--or is it early, at this point--hour. Will stumbles down the riverfront, studiously avoiding the activities taking place in the dark corners around him.

It occurs to him that he could sober up and actually teleport himself back, but Heaven frowns upon the use of his powers for such frivolous reasons, and being sober right now isn’t all that appealing. Therefore it takes him several minutes to realise he’s being followed.

The man is silent, especially stealthy for a human, but Will can sense his presence nevertheless. A darkness that bleeds into the shadowy alcoves that line the path, out of the smudges of lamplight. Someone looking to part a drunken fool from his money. In that case, he’ll be sorely disappointed. Hannibal is the one with his hand on the purse strings.

Will decides to save them both the trouble, and sends out a little, low-level suggestion that the man find his way home to bed. In the wake of it, he can almost hear the man’s confusion when he pauses. He had not expected resistance which pushes back against the suggestion almost violently. Will stumbles in surprise and turns to seek him out in the dark. He shakes off the effects of the drink, and the night is suddenly clearer and crisper.

There is a blur of movement in the periphery of his eye, nothing more than a flash of brown and black furn. Will turns just in time for the man to collide with him, sending Will sprawling on the ground. He follows Will down, straddling him.

Beneath the hood of his bearskin cloak, Will can see the man’s eyes. One look, however hurried, is all it takes for him to see all of Randall Tier’s inner workings. That Hannibal has set this into motion, but he isn’t responsible for the murderous impulse at work in Tier. He lifts a hand, each finger tipped in metal claws sharp enough to tear skin.

Will is still caught in the jumble of Tier’s mind, the layers of madness that have convinced him that he is a beast. He is slow to react and brings up his arm a second to late. The claws slice through his forearm, and his other hand gets Will in the side. The claws aren’t long enough to do any permanent damage with a single blow, unless he were to hit an artery. No, Tier likes to take his time, mauling his victims to death.

The third blow Will catches with his fist. He grits his teeth against the pain lancing his palm and squeezes hard enough to crush the fingers in his grip. Tier grunts and his eyes widen. It’s not quite fear, but he’s taken off-guard, used to victims that don’t fight back.

For a split second, Will feels pity towards him. Tier is young and clearly mad. But the look on his face morphs into something hungry and remorseless, and Will’s heart hardens to him. It takes no effort at all to shift his weight and throw Tier off him. His knees pin Tier’s arms to the ground and he raises his fist, blood seeping between his knuckles.

He could call his sword--he should, it is the only proper way to slay the wicked. Will knows this, and yet, he can’t keep from bringing his fist down, and feeling the give of Randall’s cheekbone. He wonders, wildly, if Hannibal is watching this, and what he must think. Will rains down blow after blow, long after Randall has gone still beneath him, eyes glassy in death, and doesn’t once consider what Heaven will think of this, until he is suddenly blinded by bright white light.

Will blinks, and finds himself sitting in a bare room, the only furniture the chair he sits upon. There is a whisper of voices in his mind, distant but each distinct. His brothers and sisters. Alana appears from the light, coalescing into her familiar form, and it’s been so very long since Will’s seen her--seen any of them--it’s almost difficult to look at her head on. All searing angelic light around the edges and glinting in a halo around the soft ripples of her hair. Most difficult of all to see is the look on her face, concerned and more than a little afraid.

Jack appears along with her, and his expression is no better, though his anger would be more fitting on a demon. “What in the hell were you thinking?” he shouts.

“Jack!” Alana raises her hands in a placating gesture.

Will stares down at his hands. They’re no longer sore or bleeding. He’s shed his human skin, which means he’ll need a new vessel before returning to earth. If they allow him to return. A couple hundred years ago, he would have rejoiced at the thought. Now, he can feel panic clawing in his chest, threatening to rise up his throat and spill from his mouth.

“I thought,” he chokes out, “He was going to end up in Hell one way or another. It hardly mattered how he got there.”

“Will.” Alana’s moved on to chastising him, apparently. “You know that’s not true.” She comes closer and hesitates before kneeling beside him and laying her hand over his. Will has forgotten how it feels to be touched in his form. It leaves him feeling raw and overexposed, and he pulls away. “We’re worried about you.”

There’s a hysterical impulse to laugh at her words. To ask where this concern was when he longed to leave earth, when he warned them he wasn’t cut out for this work. But those words won’t get him another vessel. Those words might bring him perilously close to Falling. And if he Falls while in Heaven, they won’t return him to earth. He’ll go straight to Hell.

Will closes his eyes and draws a shaky breath. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Will.” Alana bites her lip. “You know I never wanted you to go in the first place. Jack, you must see that it’s best for him to stay here, where he belongs. He’s been on earth too long!”

For the first time, it looks like Jack is on the verge of agreeing with her, and Will speaks without thinking. The words coming from his mouth feel like they’ve come from someone else. The liquid-smooth lies of a demon--one demon in particular.

“I can’t stay here,” he says, “Not yet. You’ve said it before, Jack, that you need someone down there to be our eyes and ears, to prepare for Judgement Day, and you know Hannibal is unpredictable. The rest of Hell might follow the script, but without someone keeping an eye on him, you won’t know what’s coming. And he trusts me, now more than ever.”

Jack sighs and pinches his nose. “Jack, you can’t honestly be considering this,” Alana protests.

“You think I like this anymore than you?” Jack snaps. “But he’s right. Hannibal has always been a loose canon, and we can’t have any unexpected variables when the battle begins.”

“So send someone else,” Alana says. She stands, coming face to face with Jack, matching his anger with her fierce conviction. “I’ll go! Hannibal and I were in the same garrison, he trained me. I can earn his trust.”

Will barely manages to keep from scoffing. Alana has always been an impressive warrior, and her capacity for love and kindness is unparalleled among angels. But she is not capable of subterfuge, and Will fears what would become of her, left with Hannibal on earth for any length of time. “Right after Heaven calls me back? He’ll be suspicious of another angel coming around. Jack, you know I’m right.”

“You are walking a very fine line here,” Jack says, at last. “And when you cross it, there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

Cool relief washes over Will. At least it is not a lie when he leans forward and says earnestly, “I have no intention of Falling.”

Jack, however, doesn’t look reassured. In the end, it comes down to the fact that Jack has always made Heaven’s victory his main priority, over the well-being of the angels under his command.

Alana stops him before they send him off to acquire a new body. She reaches out to touch his arm and then thinks better of it. “You can still change your mind. There are other ways. Your grace is more important than whatever twisted plan Hannibal is forming.”

That just goes to prove she’s no where near pragmatic enough to be allowed near Hannibal. Will initiates the touch this time, trying to ignore the humming under his skin that sets his nerves on edge. “Alana, trust me. I’m not going to Fall for Hannibal.”

San Francisco 1899

Will protested when Hannibal announced his intention to move to America. He’d bid Hannibal adieu and said if he ever planned to see Will again he better get used to travelling by boat. Within ten years, however, he’d made his way across, settling over San Francisco Bay like a grey storm cloud, and set up shop near Chinatown. Hannibal notes with amusement that not a single book has sold in the interim.

“You know, you could always keep a library, instead,” Hannibal comments. Then, with some amusement, “Or return them to their rightful owner and move back in. The townhouse is big enough for all your strays.”

Will glowers and takes the book Hannibal’s been flipping through from his hands and replaces it on the shelf. “Need I remind you what happened the last time we cohabitated?”

He’s purposefully dragging his heels, and as charmed as Hannibal is by Will’s demeanour in general, they have reservations at the Cliff House before the opera tonight. “Go change, I’ll finish locking up.”

Though he grumbles as he goes, Will does make his way to the cramped upper floor. He’ll always suffer through the crowd for the Cliff House Squab Duckling and a bottle of 1865 Beaune Grèves Vigne de L'Enfant Jésus.

“That man is here again,” Will mutters, when the waiters have just cleared the first course.

Hannibal follows his gaze to the bar where a stout man in a fine suit stands. He raises his glass of champagne in acknowledgement when he catches Hannibal’s eye, and Hannibal nods back. “Franklyn,” he says, from the corner of his mouth.

“You know him?” Will asks dubiously.

“A low-level demon, recently got his first body. Very eager to please.”

Just to prove Hannibal’s point, Franklyn makes his way over, weaving between the crowded tables. “Hello, Hannibal,” he says. His gaze darts back and forth between Hannibal and Will expectantly.

“Franklyn, this is my good friend, Will.”

Franklyn offers his hand and after a moment of grudging silence, Will extends his own. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Franklyn, but you’re a demon.”

Franklyn laughs. “Of course, of course. You know, I thought I’d see you both here tonight. I’ve noticed you here before. I mean, where else would you go, they’ve got the best lamb in town.”

Hannibal spares him a tight smile a the poor excuse for a joke. “How goes it with your current assignment, Franklyn?”

“Oh, Tobias?” Franklyn takes a sip of his drink and nods agreeably. “You know, he’s got real potential, downstairs thinks. Maybe even get his horns by the time I’m done with him.”

Somehow, Hannibal sincerely doubts a demon of Franklyn’s caliber is able to creating a new demon, but he keeps that to himself. Perhaps he’ll pay a visit to Tobias and see this potential first hand.

Franklyn manages to invite himself to their table. Will’s lips press thinner with each passing course, and Hannibal almost feels guilty for the measure of glee he draws from their interaction. Franklyn sparking Will’s annoyance, who in turn is taking it out on the waitstaff.

Within an hour the resultant negative energy has rippled throughout the restaurant and beyond. All the other tables have had their food delayed, there’s a fist fight in the kitchen, and two different accidents from departing diners running late for their after dinner activities.

Outside as they’re waiting for the carriage to be brought around, Franklyn lingers. “Are you going to see Carmen?”

Will lays a hand on Hannibal’s forearm and it doesn’t take his powers to read his mind. The threat implicit in the grip of his fingers tightening hard enough to bruise even through the layers of clothing between them. That Hannibal had better not allow Franklyn to invite himself along to the show, as well.

“Would you care to ride along with us?” Hannibal asks politely. Will’s disapproval radiates from him as hot as angel-light.

Franklyn keeps up his nervous babble for the ride. It’s painfully obvious to see he’s looking for approval Hannibal isn’t going to give him, and when it isn’t forth-coming, he turns his praise to Will.

“I stopped by your shop the other day,” he says. “There were two men fighting outside, over a first edition they both wanted and you wouldn’t sell to either of them. I meant to come in, but I just had to follow them to see how your influence carried out. It was so impressive, I’ve never seen such a long-lasting, consistent wave of misery, spider-webbing over the city and out to sea. Truly masterful demon-work,” Franklyn finishes with a wide grin and a companionable hand on Will’s shoulder.

Hannibal has to cover his mouth to mask the smile there. Will blinks several times, mouth fallen slightly open in stunned disbelief. “Hannibal,” he finally says, as he removes his unnecessary glasses and tucks them in his front pocket. “I’m afraid I’m going to miss the opera tonight.” There is not an ounce of regret in his voice.

Franklyn glances at Hannibal, nervousness stepped up a notch. When Will holds up his hand, palm outstretched, and his angel blade takes shape in his hold, Franklyn lets out a little whimper.

“I’m disappointed, Franklyn, that with all the time you’ve spent following the two of us around, you never realised Will is an angel .” Hannibal doesn’t bother hiding his mirth, and it earns him a scowl from Will. “Though in all fairness, who could blame you?”

Will sighs, and Hannibal would like to think he hears some affection in it. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, hopefully,” he says, before swinging the blade. In a flash, both he and Franklyn are gone.

Hannibal casts his gaze skywards and blows a kiss. “Godspeed, Angel.”

2017 On the Eve of the Apocalypse

Will's in the back, heating water for coffee, when the bell above the door jingles. He curses under his breath, and then louder, because he isn't sure why he should hide his dismay from any potential customers. Maybe they'll leave faster.

“Angel?”

Will curses again. “Don't call me that,” he grouses, but the annoyance is minimal. At least it means he doesn't have a lookie-loo—or worse, a paying customer.

Hannibal pokes his head into the dingy kitchen, and Will doesn't miss the line of distaste that wrinkles his nose. “I don't understand why you insist on heating it that way, when I bought you a perfectly serviceable French press for that very purpose.”

And Will doesn't understand why Hannibal insists on all these ridiculously complex human gadgets when they can just...Will snaps his fingers very pointedly at his mug and steam begins to rise from the surface.

“Inelegant,” Hannibal sniffs.

“What are you doing here?” Will adds the packet of instant coffee (not because he actually intended to use it, gift from his well-meaning neighbour, but it's worth it for the honest despair that flashes over Hannibal's face, his eyes falling closed briefly in pain) and stirs it in. “Weren't you supposed to be in Maine until next week?”

Hannibal takes a seat at the kitchen table, unbuttoning his jacket as he does, and looking incredibly incongruous in this space. He folds his hands together, forearms resting on the scratched surface, and the uneven legs of the table wobble under his weight.

“Local law enforcement were rather keen with this fellow, and I was growing concerned that I might have to return down below. The Cloisters is doing a series on the Sounds of Medieval Monasteries next month, and it would have been a shame to have missed it, waiting for new body.”

“God forbid,” Will mutters under his breath, blowing over the surface of his coffee. He's beginning to regret his decision, because now he has to actually drink this shit, and he's not sure he's that committed to Hannibal's misery.

Oh, and Hannibal knows it, that little smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Will sighs. It would have been a shame, Hannibal losing this body. Perhaps to anyone else, the knew one would be identical, but Will's been around long enough, and seen enough versions to know better.

This particular body Hannibal has worn for nearly a century now, and it's marked up in all sorts of ways that Will has grown accustomed to. The scar on his cheekbone from a rowdy night with Picasso and the boys in Paris—twin to the one Will earned that evening, on his jaw.

The pale, raised skin that splits Hannibal's upper lip that he liked to blame on Will, but in all fairness, Will hadn’t known about the loosened balcony railing when he’d brought the tequila over that evening. Hannibal really should have taken better care not to alienate his fellow demons quite so frequently. By the second bottle of Porfidio--or was it the third--Hannibal was loose-muscled enough that the fall hadn’t done much permanent damage, which was probably for the best since Will was laughing too hard to be of much use.

On his wrists, Hannibal wears the most extensive scars, and those were technically Will’s fault. His eyes can’t help but linger whenever Hannibal’s sleeves rise up to reveal them, a strange mixture of fascination and, oddly enough, guilt. Will had been planning to smite the troubled young man with a fascination for winged creatures, but of course Hannibal had thought it better to encourage Brown’s obsession and had paid the price.

At least Will had intervened before Brown had taken Hannibal’s wings. Falling was bad enough, tarnishing his once pure wings, but that Hannibal didn’t seem to mind. To lose them entirely however, was unthinkable.

“I hate to waste your coffee--” Hannibal says, interrupting his musing.

“No you don't--” Will interjects.

Hannibal's lips stretch wider in a full-blown grin. There's a spark of red in those mischievous eyes, meeting Will's over the rim of his still untouched coffee. He continues as if Will had not spoken. “However there's a new restaurant that just opened on Union Street. I've heard it's booked six months out.”

Will dumps the coffee down the drain before Hannibal's even finished speaking, and grabs his coat from the peg by the door.

“Of course I'd understand if you weren't able,” Hannibal says blithely. “Business to run, customers to serve.”

Will ignores him and knocks hard into Hannibal's elbow as he jostles past in the tiny space. Anyone else would probably turn up posed in some ridiculous tableau minus a few organs for such rudeness. Will pushes out into the main room of the bookstore and flips over the sign from open to closed, flicks off the light, and throws open the front door to a blast of cold air.

“Coming, Hannibal?”

The Bentley is parked just out front, and Will has to roll his eyes when he sees the meter paid up. “Honestly, you might just be the worst demon ever,” he huffs, as Hannibal opens the passenger door for him.

Will sinks into the buttery leather, sighs in pleasure when Hannibal turns on the engine and the seat warmer kicks on. He ignores Hannibal's fond look, and the thought Will can read behind it, of just how good a demon Will himself would make.

It had never ceased to amaze Hannibal, even after six millennia of acquaintance, how an angel could be so bad with people. Will had chosen his shop’s location with great care, going to extreme lengths to avoid customers by picking out the shabbiest building in the dingiest and most deserted street he could find.. Sensible people gave that neighbourhood a wide berth-indeed most of them would have been surprised to hear it existed at all, much less that it contained a rare book shop.

Nonetheless, unfortunate souls did stumble across the store from time to time, usually led there by a whisper from a mysteriously seductive voice. One such person was emerging now, hurling abuse over her shoulder as she barged out the door.

“Asshole!” she yelled over the angry clang of the bell over the door. Hannibal tutted disapprovingly as she got into her convertible and drove off in a screech of tyres. For a moment he pondered sending a drunk driver her way, but then he remembered his unwelcome tidings and abandoned the thought. Hannibal was almost sure what Will’s reaction would be, but a gnawing doubt still plagued him. What if I’m wrong? What if he still wants to go home?

“I don’t know how they keep finding me.” Will said in frustration as Hannibal sidled in, nearly knocking over a stack of books in the process. “It’s not like I have a website or even a phone number! And I was very specific with the realtor about not wanting a location with any traffic.” He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “Do you want coffee?”

“I wish you’d move back in, Will.” Hannibal said, eyeing the dusty sign on the counter that read BROWSING=$1 NO EXCEPTIONS!!! “There’s absolutely no need for you to live like this.”

“I like it here.” Will declared, against mounting evidence to the contrary. “Besides, you keep taking your work home, and frankly there’s only so much blood soaked marble a person can take.”

“It happened once .” Hannibal said patiently. “No coffee for me, I’ve seen how you make it. I’m taking you out to lunch.”

“Twice in one week?” Will looked pleased. “What’s the occasion?”

Hannibal took a deep breath and then let it out again, coughing. He waved away Will’s look of concern and waited for the dust to settle before trying again.

“The antichrist has been born.”

“What?” Will looked horrified and Hannibal almost sagged with relief. “But that means…”

“Yes. End times. Judgement day. The war to quite literally end all wars. Unless you and I stop it.”

Will stared at him. In one distant corner of his mind Hannibal heard a plane flying overhead and absently sent up a thought that made all the toddlers in the cabin wake up crying. The rest of him was focused solely on Will.

“Let’s go.” Will said at last, grabbing his coat. “You can buy me a drink and tell me all about it.”

“So how did you hear about this anyway?” Will asked as they settled into a dark corner of the bar. “Not via official channels I’m guessing?”

“Of course not, they don’t trust me an inch. I heard it from a very unpleasant demon-”

“There are other kinds?” Will said and grinned as Hannibal shot him a reproving look.

“-called Freddie Lounds.” Hannibal finished with dignity.

Will frowned. “Do you trust her?”

“Not in the least, but her intel seems solid. Have you heard anything from Jack?”

“No, but in case you’ve forgotten, I’m not exactly Heaven’s golden boy these days. They don’t trust me any more than Hell trusts you. As for Jack, I haven’t heard a word from him in over half a century.”

“If a war is coming, he’s probably too busy to contact you.”

“Probably.” Will said, pulling out a cigarette. “I was just glad of the peace and quiet, to tell you the truth, but maybe I should have questioned Alana more closely.”

“Smoking isn’t permitted in here,” Hannibal said before he could stop himself. Will smirked.

“You really are going soft in your old age aren’t you? Switching teams at long last?”

“The falling angel meets the rising demon.” Hannibal mused as Will groaned and sunk his head in his hands.

“Can we focus on something other than your appalling sense of humour? What do we know about this child anyway?” He patted his pockets absently.

“We have a name.” Hannibal said, producing an ancient zippo and admiring the way the flame played over Will’s features.

“We do?”

“And an address.” Hannibal looked smug. He lit Will’s cigarette and flicked the lighter closed with a satisfying clunk.

“Why are we sitting here then? Shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, doing something to stop this?” Will exhaled a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “Christ, that’s disgusting.”

“You wanted a drink. And we need a plan. We can’t just waltz in and steal the antichrist. Hell would notice.”

“So will Heaven.” Will said gloomily, and they both knew what that meant. “Warmongers, the lot of them. And here I thought they were mellowing at last.”

Hannibal shifted uneasily. “We do have one advantage. Abigail-that’s her name by the way-Abigail’s parents died tragically in a car accident this morning.”

Will’s eyes narrowed. “Did they,” he said flatly.

“Took a corner too fast. You know how icy these country roads can get. Abigail herself miraculously survived.” Hannibal braced himself and continued. “They’re looking for the next of kin now. Which, um, I’m afraid will turn out to be you. A distant cousin.”

Silence. Hannibal ploughed on. “It had to be you Will. Hell knows me, but you’ve slid under their radar and Heaven’s these last several decades. This way we can make sure she doesn’t start the apocalypse. We can be her family. We can save the world.”

Will continued smoking, watching Hannibal with a hunted expression. The seconds ticked by, each one an eternity.

“So let me get this straight. Not content with completely corrupting me--shut up, I’m not finished--you make me complicit either in Hell destroying you, or Heaven destroying me, if they ever found out . Fucking hell, Hannibal.” Will stubbed the cigarette out viciously. “And even if I somehow succeed in throwing you to the wolves I’ll still be responsible for the end of the world.” He stared into his empty glass and blinked back tears.

Hannibal didn’t dare speak. All of our fates are in your hands, Angel .

“Why?” Will asked him, bewildered. “Why would you do this to me?”

Hannibal took a deep breath. “You spared me, that day on the battlefield, the day of the Fall. My life has always been yours, Will. From that day until our last.”

“And no good deed goes unpunished.” Will scrubbed at his face. “Well if your life is mine, demon, than hear this. You think you know what hell means? Your nightmare is only just beginning. You are on night feeds. And diaper duties. And fucking school runs. And any other bullshit I can think of. You are not leaving me to deal with this clusterfuck by myself.”

Hannibal felt the smile breaking over his face like the rising sun. “You’ll move back in?”

Will jabbed a finger at him. “And I get to drive the Jaguar.”

Hannibal felt his heart sink. “Will..”

“ Hannibal . Hand over the keys.”

Defeated, Hannibal produced the keys and slid them across the table. “You’ll be careful with it?”

“Maybe.” Will smiled sweetly. “It depends how badly you piss me off. When is our little bundle of armageddon supposed to turn up, anyway?”

“It will take them a few days to track you down. I’ll keep an ear out.”

“Do you think we’ll manage it?” Will said. “Raise this child right? Save the world?”

Hannibal reached out to trace a hand along Will’s cheek. “Against you and me, Angel? The apocalypse doesn’t stand a chance.”