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*
“What about the shopkeep from last month?”
“Hannibal, you can’t be serious.”
“Can’t I?”
Will Graham sighs into the remnants of his caffè, reduced at last to a faint ring of smudged earth at the bottom of his cup. He rubs his hand along the greying stubble of his jaw, lingering at the faded scar that spreads from near the corner of his lip to just below his eye. Hannibal watches the jagged line tighten downward with Will’s frown, enjoying the way the marigold mid-morning light casts a halo around his overgrown curls.
“Out of the question,” Will sighs, leaning back to pluck a cigarette from the crumpled pack tucked in his breast pocket. “I’m shocked you’d even suggest it.”
A faint brow raises as Hannibal considers Will’s objection. He’s already reaching into his waistcoat for his lighter, the habit second-nature.
“Why not? He was abysmally rude. Even the other customers noticed.”
Will summons his patience as he slips the smoke between his teeth and leans forward. It bounces against his lip as he speaks.
“This is your problem,” he admonishes. “You jump straight to judgment without looking at the whole picture.”
Hannibal finds that difficult to believe, what with how attentive he’s always been, but he’s willing to hear his beloved out. He clicks the zippo with a graceful flourish and cups the flame. Will grins around the cigarette before inhaling.
He pockets the lighter, hands folding under his chin as he watches the smoke dance its way up the edges of Will’s curls. It diffuses the light bewitchingly, casting him as an elemental being.
“Tell me, then. What did I miss?”
Will pinches the bridge of his nose as if dealing with a particularly stubborn child. Hannibal would feel patronized if he wasn’t having such a wonderful time watching him twist himself into knots.
“Okay. Sure,” Will surrenders, drawing on his empathy to recreate everything he noticed about that interaction.
He closes his eyes, letting the pendulum swing. The cigarette hangs limp between two fingers, so Hannibal retrieves it. He takes a long, shallow drag. Hannibal is always glad for the opportunity to stare at Will unobserved. After a moment, his curiosity is indulged.
“First of all, there were letters on the counter next to the register that were clearly past-due bills, if not collections notices. Some from months earlier, others postmarked that week. Second, there was an obvious tan line on his ring finger. A band recently… reluctantly removed. Third, there were two discolored squares on the wall where photos had been taken down within the last month.”
Hannibal says nothing. Will’s eyes search behind his lids, wandering through the shop for more evidence. Wrinkles form between his brows, stretching the scar across his forehead. How he’s remained so stunningly handsome after so much carnage is a testament to how beautiful he was to begin with.
“He’s been going through a shit time. He took down the family photos his wife was in but not the ones of his kids. Then you walked in, some well-to-do nobody, and implied his selection was lacking,” Will shrugs, finally opening his eyes, blinking a few times in rapid succession to adjust to the light.
“It was,” Hannibal agrees, not seeing Will’s point. He offers the cigarette with outstretched fingers.
Will takes it with a sharp curl of his wrist, clamping it between his teeth. “Do you ever consider that sometimes people are rude to you because you’re rude to them, first?”
Hannibal tilts his head slightly, giving this a moment’s consideration. “I am unfailingly polite, Will.”
Will can’t help the lopsided grin that trips its way up the tangled tissue of his cheek. He laughs out a plume of blue-grey haze. His monstrous, idiot companion is so blissfully unaware of himself at times. The smartest man is often the last to see what’s right in front of him.
“You were snotty, even if you didn’t mean to be. I think sometimes you forget what you look like, how you talk. Anyway, we still got what we wanted and we didn’t go back. Isn’t that enough?”
“The other customers–” Hannibal begins, cut off by an uncharacteristically rough snort.
“One lady,” Will argues, playful but resolute. “Who, for the record, was watching because she thought you were going to start something.”
The shocked response nearly causes Will to roll his eyes.
“I would never stoop to harassing someone at their place of work,” Hannibal scoffs, stealing the smoke back and leaning away until it’s well out of Will’s reach.
Will licks his tongue along his canines, his bright smile settling into something more knowing. “Of course not. You’d wait a few months and then eat them.”
A nod of acknowledgement, courteous as ever. “Quite so.”
They catch each others’ eyes in the warm light of the piazza. A faint spring breeze sets a lazy wave through the fine cream tablecloth and Hannibal’s longer, lighter hair. Eight years have passed since the fall, bringing changes to each of their appearances. Will’s curls are longer, though more neatly styled. Hannibal’s silver outweighs the gold now, half of it brushing his shoulders while the rest is tied in a small knot that Will is painfully, shamefully fond of. Today is no exception. The soft wisps framing his face are practically irresistible, even if he is being a pompous asshole. Again.
They’ve been so careful to change how they look and move through the world that this discussion, however lighthearted it might seem, floods Will with anxiety. Hannibal has rarely killed since they dragged themselves to the shore on that fateful night. At first, it was because both of them were utterly ruined by their injuries. Once they’d recovered, it was too sore a subject. World events kept them indoors for a time and prevented any further discussion, but then things began to reopen.
Will could see Hannibal itching to hunt. When he’d suggested the trip to Florence, Will had balked; nowhere could be less safe for them to be spotted. Aside from the risk, he knew why his companion really wished to return. If there were anywhere Hannibal would take up his old habits, it would be here.
And yet he’d helped pack, boarded the dogs, got on the train and joined his reckless other half. Someone was going to have to keep Hannibal from making terrible mistakes. Judging by his first choice, he’d been right to tag along.
“I’m not letting you–” Will catches himself, hushing as he remembers they’re in public. “‘Discourtesy’ might have been reason enough before, but not now. It’s too nebulous. Everyone’s in pain. The world’s shit. I couldn’t… I’d have a hard time going along with it.”
Hannibal appreciates that he doesn’t say he wouldn’t allow it. He doesn’t say he’d stop him. What’s implied is infinitely worse; that Will would be disappointed with him. That distance would creep its way into their hard-won equilibrium. Hannibal shudders to think.
He retrieves the cigarette, nearly burnt to the filter. “Have we met anyone yet, pray tell, who would satisfy your moral requirements?”
It’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation, or the second. It was abstract when they were both bedridden and reliving their past, arguing from opposite cots on the long boat ride to safety. It got serious in the months before quarantine, consensus nearly reached before it was snatched away. The ‘what ifs’ drive them in circles for hours.
“No. People have been lovely,” Will admits.
Hannibal knows he won’t win this debate, but old habits die hard. He presses. “What about the waiter at dinner on Thursday?”
Will’s face contorts into disbelief, recalling the distress that had oozed from every pore of the gangly, awkward student. “The guy with the bruise on his wrist? Hannibal, he was clearly involved with something awful.”
“He spilled wine on your jacket.”
“It’s just clothes,” Will exclaims, knowing full well Hannibal could not disagree more.
The faint curl of an aristocratic upper lip confirms his suspicions. Hannibal stubs out the cigarette with intent. “Perhaps the ticket taker at the station in–”
Will groans, pressing under his eye sockets with the heels of his hands. “She was 21, Hannibal. She was listening to Phoebe Bridgers at work, for Christ’s sake. I’d say she’s dealing with enough.”
The wrinkles on Hannibal’s forehead deepen. “I’m not familiar with the implication.”
A dry, humorless laugh fills the air. “You wouldn’t be. Just… Trust me on that one.”
Hannibal isn’t really trying to win this debate, but he’s enjoying it. “Will anyone meet your standards?”
A strange sort of ennui darkens Will’s expression. He fiddles with his napkin.
“I’ve told you before. Sickos. Predators. Murderers – people society would be better off without.”
“Like myself? Like you?”
Will rolls his eyes, an endearing gesture no matter its intent. “Every time, Hannibal. You know what I mean.”
“Even ‘sickos’ have a foothold in this world, Will,” his partner counters, matching the pointed use of his name. “Who’s to say someone wouldn’t miss them? That the life of a spouse or child might be shattered by a kill you deemed justifiable?”
“We find people without families.”
Hannibal gazes at him with adoration that is entirely inappropriate to the conversation. “I have a strong suspicion that no matter who I chose, you would take issue. Your empathy is a beautiful thing, yet it prevents you from detaching from a proposed victim.”
“I’m sorry that I care about people,” he huffs, petulant. It’s striking. “I quite literally can’t help it.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to change,” Hannibal offers softly, knowing that the sentiment has not always been entirely true.
It is now.
Something softens in Will. Blue eyes gentled by the light stare into flickering maroon, drenched with love that will never entirely escape the pain of its roots. He reaches a hand out, waiting for Hannibal to answer it. He does. Their fingers intertwine, Will rubbing his thumb in circles over the soft skin of his palm to coax out his own words. The solid gold band around his finger is as good an anchor as any.
“I don’t want you to change, either. Not… I love you as you are. I understand. I want to share it with you. I’m just…”
His voice fades off, but Hannibal knows what he means to say. He seizes Will’s wandering thumb with his own, a reassuring pressure.
“If you aren’t ready, I’ll wait. As long as you need, Will. I’ll wait for that.”
While they still reside on the FBI’s most wanted list, they no longer merit the top spot. Hannibal has ensured their relative peace by hunting discreetly, agreeing with Will that his ostentatious displays aren’t worth risking what they’ve built. He doesn’t indulge often or anywhere near their home. He shares his plans beforehand. Will isn’t always happy about it, but he knows their union wouldn’t survive if he tried to smother Hannibal’s nature.
Every time, Hannibal invites him to join. Every time, Will declines. Until, for some reason, these past few months. He’s been hinting, curiosity finally sanding down the worst of his resolve. The unspoken agreement in this trip was to do this together, which means they have to shake hands on the target.
Compromise, Will read in a book he found under his cot on Chiyoh’s stolen boat, is the key to a successful partnership.
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” he sighs, melancholy tinging his otherwise beatific smile.
“I know,” Hannibal nods.
It was never going to be easy, this afterlife together. Eight years of slow healing and slower reconnection have forged an unbreakable bond, but at the end of the day, they both know they’ll never be in perfect alignment when it comes to Hannibal’s darker nature.
Will hadn’t been lying when he’d said Hannibal delighted while he tolerated – not entirely. He’s finally admitted to himself that he wants to share in the glory of bloodshed again; to know his lover and see him in his element. But while his morals are flexible, they won’t shatter for anyone. Not even Hannibal.
Will had read, in that same book, that couples who attacked the problem rather than each other were far more likely to make it through hardship. He was pretty sure the author meant things like infidelity or financial struggles rather than ‘who is ethical to kill and consume,’ but the point stood. He tried, whenever the subject came up, to align himself with Hannibal against the issue. They would find a solution, or they would break.
As he stares into the patient, molten fire of Hannibal’s gaze, a miracle happens.
“Will.”
He blinks, feeling like he’s missed a step. Hannibal’s affection vanishes in a split-second, replaced by an eerie chill he recognizes from another life. He’s looking over his shoulder, hand gripping Will’s tightly enough to bruise.
“Ow, Hannibal, what–” Will winces, trying to extricate himself as he follows the line of fury to its destination.
When he sees it, he understands.
“Oh, Christ. Really? Here?”
Hannibal lets up slightly, eyes narrowing on their subject. His distaste is so thick Will has to struggle not to choke on it, grimacing at the bile climbing up his own throat to match.
“What is that.”
It’s a question that isn’t curious so much as it is condemning. Hannibal told him once about the time Mason Verger had stabbed a pocket knife into one of his leather office chairs, and Will can imagine his face must have looked similar then to how it does now. This is not the buttoned-up person suit Hannibal wears for the world; this is naked, open revulsion.
“That,” Will sighs heavily, “is a Cybertruck.”
Hannibal’s lip curls in a snarl. He hasn’t let go of Will’s hand, as if it’s the only thing keeping him from leaping into a furious rage.
“Why is it here,” he seethes, indignation scouring a rasp across his tone.
Will swallows, trying to pry himself out from underneath the weight of Hannibal’s ire. After so many years spent in relative isolation with a man whose emotions are largely muted, Will’s dial isn’t tuned to this deluge of feeling. It overwhelms him. He narrows his eyes, trying to focus on an answer.
He absently produces another cigarette, snatching the antiqued silver lighter from Hannibal’s pocket without so much as glancing away from the vehicle. He slips it back in with equal detachment, taking a steading drag.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I thought they were banned in Europe.”
“It’s a monstrosity,” Hannibal spits out. He’s in some form of shock, as if nothing in the history of the world has ever offended his sensibilities in this way.
Will would chuckle at the intense response if he didn’t entirely agree with it.
“They’re awful,” he nods. “Incredibly unsafe, too. They explode, they rust, you can’t even drive them in the rain, I think. Horribly made for people with too much money and no taste by a guy who is basically a neo-nazi.”
Hannibal steals the smoke and lets it curl out from between his teeth like a dragon. It’s menacing and, to Will at least, painfully alluring.
“I’m aware of his… legacy,” Hannibal scoffs, words dripping with venom. “I’ve heard these atrocities described, but to see one… Who would waste a single cent on something so wretched?”
A small smile does creep its way onto Will’s face at that. “People are terrible,” he shrugs.
He thinks Hannibal might let it go and look away, if only to spare himself the aesthetic distress. He doesn’t. If anything, he becomes fixated on it. Will has to snatch the cigarette back from his clawed fingers, which don’t so much as react.
“Repugnant artists have borne masterworks, but this… every facet is built to assault the senses,” he jeers. “It does nothing to justify the moral qualms of its purchase.”
Will snorts, albeit less raucous than before. “Ugly as sin and essentially a death trap. They keep getting recalled but for some godforsaken reason, assholes still buy them. Someone must’ve imported it.”
He can hear the flames roaring in Hannibal’s mind as he gestures out to the square, to the cobblestones and the carousel beyond the fountain. It’s obvious he’s taking this insult to the beauty and history that burst from every square inch of the city personally.
“It belongs in some artless industrial wasteland,” Hannibal hisses. “Not here, In plain view of the Palazza Strozzi and the most breathtaking structures in…”
Will turns from Hannibal’s developing rant to regard the ungainly, polygonal mess of a car. The air stills as they watch its sole occupant step out into the sun.
And oh, God, is it beautiful.
Not the driver – a spray-tanned imbecile with wraparound shades and something that wants desperately to be a goatee – no. He’s a disaster. Even from across the piazza, Will can imagine the sickly scent of his cologne. The grating minor key of his self-congratulatory laugh. He wishes he could shut off his empathy with how easily he can stitch together the profile of this egotistic, dangerously insecure moron.
What’s beautiful is the instant, perfect, shared understanding.
“Yes,” Will agrees, the question entirely unnecessary as their eyes meet across the table.
Hannibal’s hand tightens once more, but this time, with anticipation.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
Will tilts his head back towards the eyesore across the way. The man is leaning against it proudly, transparent in his posture. Showing off, trying to catch the attention of tourists and locals alike who all seem to be sharing in some measure of Hannibal’s distaste as they walk quickly past. He speaks loudly in English on a phone that Will is pretty certain isn’t even on.
“Absolutely,” Will confirms.
Hannibal takes in a measured breath, retrieving the cigarette to puff on it thoughtfully. Will can feel him thrumming with excitement. It’s obvious he’s been preparing to enjoy his pastime through half-measures at the last moment if at all, capitulating later with apologies and gifts. To be given tacit endorsement is more than he could’ve dreamed.
“When?” Hannibal asks, gears already turning.
“As soon as you like,” Will replies, sharing the lightness in his chest. “We still have two days.”
Being handed a solution to their greatest source of conflict reminds them both of a burst of summer sun through a gathering storm. Hannibal stubs out the cigarette and re-folds his napkin, idly transforming it into a swan as he speaks. It’s the giddiest Will’s seen him in months, maybe years.
Without looking up, he tries to make his voice even. “How would you like to do it?”
Will smirks at him. “No sculptures.”
Hannibal huffs, as if the idea were absurd. “He hardly merits the effort it would take to compose a piece.”
“Well then,” Will agrees, taking his hands again so that his partner finally has to turn away from watching the truck’s driver attempt to catcall a young woman. “Looks like we have plans tonight, after all.”
The glance they share is electric. Hannibal signals for the bill, leaves a heavy tip in cash, and drags Will from the little table. They circle the car and its driver. Will memorizes the license plate, but Hannibal is two steps ahead – he palms a magnetized tracker tag onto the underside of the trunk while pretending to tie his shoe.
“Hideous,” he mutters, knives already sharpening behind his eyes.
***
***
Will leans against the tacky modular sofa in the gauche, overpriced rental they tracked the driver to. He’s wiping his gloved hands on towels they’ll take with them and burn. It won’t matter, really; none of the blood is his own, and they’ll be long gone by the time anyone notices or cares that this pimple of a man is missing.
“Feel better?”
Hannibal turns to him from his position on the floor, kneeling by the cooler with scalpel in hand. His hair is tied up neatly now, a compromise since his monster refuses (and was offended by the very suggestion) to wear a hairnet. There are red highlights mixed into the silver, darkening by the minute.
His face is utterly, magnificently serene.
“Much. Any regrets?”
Will juts his lower lip out and raises his brows. He shrugs and shakes his head.
“I’ll sleep like a baby.”
Hannibal grins more broadly than any man should for being elbow-deep in a chest cavity. “I’m glad to hear it. Would you like me to take anything specific?”
Will ponders this for a moment as he blots a few dark drips from the point of his shoe.
“Can’t imagine his heart will be much of a delicacy,” he replies.
“No, I think not,” Hannibal agrees. “Not a smoker, though. His lungs are in excellent shape.”
A raspy, cough-littered laugh trips from Will’s throat. His eyes crinkle from the force of it. They rarely smoke at home, but they’re both a terrible influence on each other whenever they travel.
“Can’t say the same for either of us at this point, mm?”
Hannibal’s smile is euphoric. Adoring. “Plenty left to enjoy,” he hums.
A dusting of pink rises across Will’s cheeks. “Maybe that’s why I took up the habit. Make myself less appetizing.”
The cooler creaks as Hannibal opens it and drops a heavy, slick organ onto the ice. There are no noises from the unfortunate corpse; Will’s second stipulation was that Hannibal refrain from mutilation while the victim was still alive. Out of consideration, yes, but also because he knew his empathy would force him to experience their pain. They’d discussed it at length and eventually, Hannibal had conceded.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Will,” Hannibal grins up at him, eyes sparkling. “You know I’d eat you to the marrow.”
Will must be an idiot, because those words cause the flush on his cheeks to bloom all the way down his neck.
“You say the sweetest things,” he teases. Tragically, he means it.
“I would start with your heart,” Hannibal sighs, staring off as if picturing the bittersweet taste.
Soft flattery twists into something lower in his gut as Will coughs and shifts, dropping the towels into the plastic bag they brought for easy disposal.
“It’s already yours,” he mumbles. Tonguing at his teeth, he counters Hannibal’s serve. “Besides, I think I give you plenty to taste.”
Hannibal gazes at him like he gave the world its sunlight. “I would kiss you senseless, were I not busy gathering dinner.”
Will wants to indulge him. He wants to grab Hannibal and shove him into the carpet, trace evidence and blood spatter be damned. He sees the desire reflected there. It’s dangerous how tempting it is. After a silent moment, he blinks down at the floor. His smile remains.
“Insatiable,” he laughs, not denying a similar impulse.
It’s a charming bit of false modesty; after a night like this, how could Hannibal not be alive with desire?
Killing again after so long was glorious, but doing it with Will at his side, an enthusiastic participant, had been transcendent. They’d tracked the angular abomination to one of the ugliest rentals either of them had ever seen. Everything from the running lights under the car to the formless house music blaring from the windows was a confirmation. Hannibal could admit, now, that he’d been worried Will would have a change of heart.
He didn’t. If anything, once he’d spotted the vehicle, his hands had steadied. They’d exchanged a nod, then a kiss that turned fevered in a hurry. Before Will could climb into his lap, something neither of them was young enough to walk away from without a cramp, they’d wrenched apart and donned their gloves.
From there, it was as natural as an embrace. They’d slipped through the patio door and assessed the scene. They’d found their quarry sitting in front of a television the size of a wall, barking out his approval at every nonsensical claim from the talking head onscreen. Will had tried not to listen, but the overtly bigoted conspiracy theories overwhelmed his senses. Even by himself, the pig was insufferably loud.
It had worked to their advantage as they crept up behind him and seized him by the throat. He never saw it coming.
Will turned off the TV before they got to work.
“You were magnificent,” Hannibal purrs, dragging Will’s thoughts back to the present. “I had not known how active a role you would take.”
Will chuckles, looking down at the blood splattered across his shirt. “I’m full of surprises.”
Hannibal nods. He knows that to be true.
Will forces his gaze to return to the body. He gestures to it with his chin. “What are we doing with him?”
Hannibal snaps the cooler closed after grabbing a few last choice cuts. He stills, voice deceptively calm. “Are you familiar with the cubist movement, Will?”
Will has to smack his chest with the back of his fist to stop the racking cough of laughter. He smiles with teeth, free and open.
“We’re not making him into a Picasso, Hannibal. I don’t want to move again. I like the pool.”
His amusement is reflected back by narrowed, creased eyes lit with mirth. “I was thinking of Braque – I always preferred his compositions.”
It’s a strange life, loving Hannibal Lecter. “Because of the shape of the–”
“Odious vehicle, yes. It would be interesting to contrast those impressionist, human shapes against something which has been manufactured in such a twisted attempt at ‘perfection’ as to be rendered lifeless.”
Will chews at his lower lip, ready to get back to their hotel and wipe that smug grin off his face.
“You ever think about being an art teacher, rather than a serial killer?”
Hannibal stands, accepting another towel to wipe his own gloved hands as he steps over a limb to move into Will’s space against the couch.
“Those who can’t do, teach.”
The soft chuckle is infectious and entirely irresistible. They can’t play here, as drunk as they both are on the adrenaline and the scent of blood, but they’re both picturing it vividly. Hannibal wonders if they’ll make it to the bed once they’re truly alone.
“Come on,” Will nags, nipping at Hannibal’s lower lip just to hear him groan. “Let’s deal with this. We’ve got places to be.”
Hannibal agrees, but still he presses his nose against Will’s jaw and kisses from his coarse beard down through the scruff to his throat. The scent of his sweat and the memory of his eyes glinting as he twisted the knife swims in his veins. He licks a spot of blood until the iron blooms on his tongue. Will shivers beautifully.
“As you wish.”
They scrub the place clean and end up smashing the windows of the godforsaken truck in order to shove the body in the backseat. They douse it in gasoline and toss in a match before peeling out to the main road, gone before the flames begin to fill the night sky with smoke. Will isn’t sure if the thing will burn properly or melt like cheap plastic, but they don’t stick around to find out.
“Tasteless,” Hannibal mutters.
Will couldn’t love him more.
Hannibal holds out a hand expectantly as he changes lanes, two fingers extended. A smile creeps across Will’s face as he pops open the glove compartment to fish out another cigarette and the lighter they stashed just in case. He flicks it and takes a drag, then rolls down the windows, letting the balmy night air glide over them. His eyes drift closed on the exhale, more relaxed than he can remember feeling.
Hannibal takes the offered smoke and pulls on it, similarly at peace. He switches it to his left hand on the wheel so that he can hold Will’s over the gear shift. He thumbs the simple gold band affectionately. They risk a shared glance; both of them spot flecks of blood the other missed.
“It’s an ugly fucking car,” Will grins.
Hannibal smiles back at him, suggestively placing the cigarette between Will’s lips.
“That it is, my love.”
*