Chapter Text
Will decides the throbbing sensation in the back of his head has gone on long enough, and shakes two little white pills into the palm of his hand. He throws them back with a grimace, and looks around the bright airport, searching for a familiar silver head in the crowd.
Hannibal’s distinctive shape eventually appears between the congregation of humans, his clothing being darker and more distinctive in contrast to those around him. He spots Will leaning against the wall, surrounded by their luggage that stands like a fence between him and everyone else, and makes his way over.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
They wheel their suitcases to the Mercedes that Hannibal has rented, and drive through the crowded airport docking circles.
Paris, at least at this time of year, is cold and wet, overcast clouds fat with unfallen snow. Christmas, Hannibal muses as he drives, while the best time of year to avoid tourists, involves crappy weather one doesn’t like to see on vacation.
Both he and Will are groggy from the jet lag, and besides the quiet French news station Hannibal turns on, the car ride commences in comfortable silence.
They pass dreary warehouse districts speckled with graffiti and brick walled apartments overlooking the highway, and Hannibal watches Will’s tired mind get lost between the building windows.
It is a welcome relief to finally be on vacation.
The buildings begin to look bigger and more cared for, and before long, they merge into a lane that leads into the heart of Paris.
They drive around the giant Arc De Triomphe, lit up into brilliant whites and golds.
From the roundabout, they turn onto the Champs-Élysées, which stretches away between giant, expensive stores and lanes of pedestrians sheltering under umbrellas. They quickly turn off the Champs and turn down a wide side alley just one block away from the Arc.
The hotel they pull up in front of is marble and bronze fronted, with giant windows that exposed more rich colors. Hannibal guesses a night here costs more than Will’s monthly paycheck.
"L'otel Vernet." Hannibal states.
"Jesus christ." Will states back, in a mimicked inflection. "How the hell did you pay for this?"
"I don't spend all my earnings on dog food."
A busboy dressed in red meets Hannibal on the wet sidewalk, hefts their suitcases out of the car, and rolls them inside, with Will bringing up the rear.
They check in at the front desk, and together, board the old fashioned elevator.
In this moment of sudden peace, like a rock in a creek breaking the flow of the current, they both relax in the same way, with a loosening of shoulders and simultaneous yawns.
The hotel smells like bed linens and floor cleaner, cool marble, running water, and vacuumed, expensive carpets. It is all, at once, familiar and exhilarating.
Will, preoccupied with trying to stay awake on his feet, doesn’t notice all the new smells that permeate his world, or rather, doesn’t care. He, to Hannibal, smells like tiredness and travel; foreign, varied scents layered over his body like gaudy perfume.
At their room, the luggage has preceded them and is waiting patiently in the hallway. Once the door is shut behind them, Will immediately goes to check out their suite, which Hannibal feels is attributed to Will’s naturally suspicious personality. He watches with amusement as Will pulls back the shower curtain to make sure there aren't any serial killers hiding there.
Hannibal muses to himself that the only serial killer that Will needs to be concerned with is currently unpacking their bags into the giant wardrobe that sits at the foot of their bed.
After Will is satisfied with the lack of immediately apparent murderers, he opens the blinds next to the bed and stares out over the rooftops, adrift in his mind per usual. Hannibal closes the wardrobe and admires, for a moment, the way the the window frames Will beautifully and the soft light there plays on the outline of Will’s form. He walks around the bed and joins him, noting the way he can stand directly in Will’s personal space without the other man so much as blinking.
From their suite, they can see the tops of the bright stores along the Champs, but mostly they are face to face with the brick apartments across the street. The people below hurry along with their umbrellas, the vibrant colors speckling the sidewalk like spilled candy. It’s started to snow.
Hannibal leans into Will's shoulder, breathes him in a second time. He'll never get tired of Will's scent, musky, natural, and crisp, like autumn.
Will turns his head and meets Hannibal’s look, smiles at him. Hannibal smiles back and thinks about how Will’s kiss would feel at this exact moment. If the taste of Will’s mouth would be as sweet as the honey-coloured light colouring the finer notes of the other man’s irises.
Blinking and breaking the moment, Will closes his eyes tight, yawns, and asks, “When can we sleep?”
“We have to stay awake to get reoriented to the different time zone.” Hannibal replies easily. “If we go to sleep now we’ll be stuck in Eastern time.”
Will sighs and collapses backwards on the soft bed, causing the whole mattress to jiggle on the bed frame. Hannibal decides to let him rest and goes to the bathroom to freshen up. After he has brushed his hair, washed his face, and changed out of his travel-wrinkled clothes into one of his finely cut suits, he takes a moment to cool the heat he notices has risen in his eyes. Will always seems to have this effect on him; just being near the other man makes Hannibal’s blood quicken in a way no murder ever can.
When he returns to the bedroom he finds Will practically asleep on the mattress. Amused, he pulls some of Will’s nicer clothes out of the wardrobe and drops the folded fabric on Will’s face. With a startled grunt the other man is awake.
“Get changed.” Hannibal tells him. “And please wash yourself of that offensive airport odor. I can smell it from the bathroom.”
Will smells himself discreetly when Hannibal’s back is turned (Hannibal can see him do it from the bathroom mirror) and examines the fine shirt and dress pants Hannibal picked out for him. To Hannibal’s dismay, Will sets them aside, choosing instead to root through the organized drawers for one of his dependable plaid shirts.
When Will joins Hannibal in the bathroom in an outfit much like the one he traveled in, Will smiles, pretends to admire himself in the giant mirror on the door of the bathroom.
“‘Oh, Will, how you dissatisfy me with your stupid hick clothes.’” He says, attempting to imitate Hannibal’s Lithuanian accent with remarkable accuracy. “‘If only you would dress like every day was a trip to the opera I would not be embarrassed to be seen with you in public.’”
Hannibal is not amused and purses his lips slightly, but chooses to ignore Will’s semi-true comments. He goes to the closest and picks out one of his nicer coats to wear out in the snow.
“Since we have a while until bed, let us go out and explore the city.” He says, shrugging into his coat and folding his lapels down.
They talked about their itinerary over dinners, during meetings, and offhand while driving, due to Hannibal’s need to have every second of their trip planned out. Will honestly didn’t see the need to have a schedule and preferred to act on spontaneity, but went along with Hannibal’s meticulous outlining. This day, however, was left up in the air.
Will shrugs on a coat that Hannibal notices is covered in dog hair and pauses to tug his sleeves down inside the coat. Hannibal discreetly picks off a few hairs from Will’s shoulders while the other man is distracted.
Satisfied with what he could do (and reminding himself to secretly buy a lint roller) Hannibal offers Will his arm and unlocks the hotel door. “We’ll see where the city takes us.”
Arm in arm, they walk downstairs to the outside world.
The snow is lazy and drifts like feathers from a ripped pillow.
They walk along with the crowds of people to the main street of the Champs, and follow the flow towards the Louvre, away from the Arc. The snow muffles the sounds of traffic and squeaks pleasantly underfoot. The lights from the stores highlight each drifting flurry over their heads. At the far end of the Champs, a giant Ferris wheel turns gently against the twilight sky.
Hannibal and Will meander, pretending to window shop. Hannibal looks at the displays in the stores and watches Will out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes Will’s gaze is drawn to something in the crowd that isn’t actually there. It is mildly disquieting, but fascinating to watch.
Hannibal can tell that whatever Will sees is unpleasant by the way Will’s grip tightens slightly on his arm as his eyes track something unseen.
The smell of roasting chestnuts and mulled wine permeates the raw air. Ahead, hundreds of booths crowd the sidewalk and loom over the congregation of people like sheltering trees.
Inside each booth is a bright interior spilling steam and light. People herd up to the counters and with outstretched hands receive all manner of Christmassy, touristy gifts. A few booths have giant slabs of chocolate laid out like roof tiles, spanning entire tables. All manner of candies and treats are spread provocatively within the eyeline of the smaller children. Scarves and gloves and warm winter outfittings are being rapidly sold, as the snow starts to grow heavier and stick to the sidewalks and other people’s hair.
Will smiles and brushes the snow off his own shoulders, then teases Hannibal about his own accumulation of fluff. Hannibal brushes his hands down the front of his coat and through his hair, smiling, and Will tucks his bangs back in place for him.
A tight group of people bustle past and Will snuggles closer to Hannibal to avoid being knocked aside. Hannibal leads them through a seating area and people part around them when they plunge back into the crowd. French Christmas songs can faintly be heard over the sound of cars.
Something in one of the booths catches Will’s eye, and he squeezes Hannibal’s bicep to get his attention before slipping away. When he returns Hannibal has two steaming cups of glüwine ready. He hands one to Will and looks curiously at the bundle Will has. Will smiles and pulls out a pair of dark maroon gloves, obviously the most expensive ones the booth sold. The colour matches Hannibal’s coat perfectly. He pulls them on and gives Will one of his minimalist smiles. Will has the decency to look pretty pleased with himself and interlocks his fingers with Hannibal’s as the snow whirls around their heels.
As they walk Hannibal sneaks looks at Will, who is grinning at everything and nothing in particular. The other man wears a genuine, easy smile, the kind of grin Hannibal has only seen once or twice. A beautiful smile indeed, and one Hannibal wishes would soften Will’s features regularly.
He tightens his grip on Will’s hand and considers running them both into traffic so this moment would never have to end.