Work Text:
Will crested the water with a cry.
Everything hurt.
His face throbbed; his shoulder was useless and immobile as he tried to float; each breath informed him that his ribs were likely cracked or broken. He considered letting himself slip back beneath the water, close his eyes, and wade into the stream.
He heard Hannibal frantically calling for him and splashing in the distance. Will’s legs moved, propelling him toward the sound, even as he debated the better points of suicide. He was close to shore before he made up his mind definitively to live.
There was no way to control Hannibal in death. The only way to truly control Hannibal was in life, in the promise of partnership. He spotted Hannibal wading waste deep in the water, hand clutched around his gut as he searched the black waves. Warmth filtered through him at the sight; it burst into something darker and throbbing when Hannibal finally saw him, sagging with relief as he staggered toward Will. The doctor reached out a hand, trying to snag Will from the water.
“Will. Here, allow me to-”
Will swatted his hand away, moving past Hannibal. The pain was immense, but the satisfaction of dragging himself to dry sand alleviated part of it. Hannibal was behind him, more mobile than Will, but content to follow.
“If we’re gonna live, I have rules,” Will rasped; his mouth was seizing up, blood filtering down his throat.
Will’s rules were simple: Never twice in the same place. Never more than three per year. Monsters Only.
Hannibal readily agreed, smiling amicably as Will meticulously combed through the backgrounds of each potential victim, looking for violent histories, missing loved ones, and past charges.
“Some of us suffer more for our art than others,” Hannibal murmured, casually glancing at the files Will built for each victim. “I admire your tenacity, Will. My selection process was much more freeform.”
“My selection process or no process at all, Hannibal.”
“Yes, you’ve told me.” Hannibal trailed a finger along the breadth of Will’s shoulder. Will fought a shiver. “I understand ethically sourced meat is all the rage now.”
“All you need to understand is this: You’ll be cooking for one if I don’t select the meat.”
Hannibal nodded, sitting next to Will at the desk. He smelled of sandalwood and rosemary, Will tried not to lean into the scent. “You’ve made yourself quite clear, Will. But what of the design? I have a few sketches that I thought might suit our environment. Perhaps we could-”
“I pick the protein, you worry about presentation.” Will shuffled the files and stood. His nose tickled at Hannibal’s closeness; his skin felt hot. “I’m going to bed. We can talk about grabbing this one tomorrow.”
Hannibal nodded. Will could see a smile hiding behind the grim expression the doctor offered. He hated it.
Rule one was the first to break. The cartel stronghold they found in Bogotá offered so many tantalizing options, all deserving of their dinner table. Will decided it wouldn’t hurt if more than one man went missing from the stash house.
“Is your appetite growing, Will?” Hannibal asked as they sat in his bed, reviewing Will’s latest selection. Will found it easier to camp on Hannibal’s bed, making notes and planning deaths late into the night. It had become familiar to wake among a blanket of papers, a breath away from Hannibal. It meant nothing; it was just more convenient when they were organizing a slaughter.
That small smile was back in the corners of Hannibal’s mouth. Will glared, but Hannibal raised a consolatory hand.
“We have quite enough meat for the month. Even with careful storage, this would be wasteful.”
“What if it wasn’t for food? What if I let you make a statement that would get you some acclaim?”
“To do that, I’d need more than one.”
Will leaned closer to Hannibal, the smell of sandalwood and rosemary no longer overwhelming, but enticing. Hannibal tracked the movement carefully, his eyes dropping to Will’s mouth.
“Could you make due with four?” Will held up the files.
“I do believe that violates not only rule one, but rule two of the Graham Code,” Hannibal said, his fingers brushed Will’s as he took the files.
“I’ve decided on an amendment to the code,” Will said with a smile. “Rules one and two can be broken, if we’re preparing to leave the country.”
“And where are we preparing to go?”
“I heard Suriname has had a bit of trouble with drug trafficking recently.”
Hannibal nodded, smiling openly now. He began studying the files, quietly making notes on Will’s intel. Will let himself lean against Hannibal, grabbing the doctor’s sketch pad and thumbing through. He stopped at an image of men screaming as they boiled in a sea of blood. The sea had been so cold when Will had jumped in, nothing like the hellfire he expected.
“Here. This one.” Will held out the sketch. “This is it.”
Hannibal shifted, his arm snaking around Will’s side, drawing, him in.
“Dante?”
“How else should we leave Colombia?”
Hannibal craned to look at the sketch, his head resting on Will’s shoulder. “It will take some time to construct a sea of blood.”
“Tell me how, I’ll help.”
They huddled close, discussing logistics, framing, setting a scene for the viewer. Will found himself lost in the beauty of Hannibal’s imagination. When he dreamed, it was of Hannibal placidly rowing him across the river of the damned.
Will cast rule three aside after a year.
The world wasn’t as filled with monsters as he had thought. Serial killers were actually a rather rare commodity, Will was forced to expand his definition to include drug runners and criminals who killed for business instead of pleasure.
As they toured the streets of Paramaribo, Will wondered if his definition of monster was simply too narrow. Lots of people were monstrous in their daily lives. Will heard a yelp and turned; a man smacked at a skinny dog trying to steal hens from his stand.
“Him.” Will turned, and was shocked to find Hannibal so close. “He’s worthy of our table.”
Hannibal lifted his eyes to the man, watching dispassionately as he smacked the dog again. “A monster in the making?”
Will let his hands run along the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt, straightening his already straight collar. He could see that small secret smile coiling at the corner of Hannibal’s mouth; it ignited something in his gut. “Are you questioning me?”
Hannibal eyes weren’t on the man anymore, Will could feel them burning a trail over his face. He kept his eyes on Hannibal’s mouth, still quirking slightly at the corners.
“There are only so many monsters, Will. What will you pull from under the bed when there are no more?”
“If I’ve learned anything from you, it’s that monsters are everywhere,” Will snarled, dragging Hannibal’s mouth to his.
Will was starting to fear he’d really rid Suriname and Guyana of monsters. Hannibal hadn’t mentioned that the larder was getting low on fresh meat, and Will knew he wouldn’t. Hannibal was content to take their Monday morning stroll through Central Market Paramaribo, examining produce and haggling over the price of a live hen. Will thought of asking Hannibal to return to Colombia; he was growing low on acceptable targets.
As if he could hear Will’s thoughts, Hannibal stepped closer, casually threading their hands together. It had been three months since Will moved his clothing into the master bedroom, four since he’d begun sleeping there every night, but these small displays of casual affection still caused heat to spread through Will’s chest. He squeezed Hannibal’s hand, keeping his eyes down, but allowing a lopsided grin.
“Peanut soup and chicken satay for dinner?” Hannibal asked. “I’m anxious to try that woodfire griddle you made me; perhaps some Cassava bread as well?”
Will nodded, squeezing Hannibal’s hand tighter. He could admit to himself that he’d fallen in love with the ridiculous peacock parading next to him in a blue linen suit. He glanced up, and noticed that his customary ascot was missing and his shirt collar unbuttoned quite low. Will opened his mouth to comment on the absence when he noticed the prominent marks on Hannibal’s throat. Sucked bruises and marks dug into flesh by the edges of teeth dotted Hannibal’s tanned skin. Will flushed, but his smile grew. Hannibal would never cover up such bold declarations of ownership and passion, even for a trip to the market.
Will’s eyes were tracing a series of bites he had trailed down Hannibal’s carotid when he felt the hit. A pack of teenage tourists tromped past, laughing and looking back at him and Hannibal.
“MOVE, fancy man,” A tall boy snarled at Hannibal, his friends cackling. Will narrowed his eyes.
Americans, most likely college age, perhaps a bit younger. It would be a risk, but with a few hours planning, they could have a stocked larder. Americans got drunk and disappeared every day; there’d be a few reports, but if they didn’t display them, there’d be no reason for an international incident. They could do it and slip away.
He turned to Hannibal, who regarded him with a raised eyebrow and a sly smile.
“Careful Will, you’re beginning to see monsters everywhere.”
The truth of it felt like a slap. Like always, Hannibal had merely been biding his time, waiting for him to abandon his rules and revel with him.
And Will had.
Three scant years under Hannibal’s patient supervision and he’d thrown every last piece of himself to the wind. He could kid himself into believing that animal abusers and brutes were deserving of death, but shitty teenagers? It was a stretch even by his quickly slipping standards.
He’d fallen off the cliff hoping to land in salvation. Instead, he’d landed in Hannibal’s bed, immersed in the blood and the mire and loving every second of it.
“I’m seeing the monsters clearly, now,” Will whispered, yanking his hand away from Hannibal’s. Will had pulled himself out of the ocean hoping to hold Hannibal’s leash. To his chagrin, he’d given Hannibal his instead, and without much of a fight. Will took off through the marketplace, ignoring Hannibal’s calls.
Will picked at his meta gee, rolling the dumpling between his fingers and wondering how Hannibal would transform the recipe. Hannibal would have pre-toasted the coconut, maybe fiddled with the batter a bit. Will missed the food. He missed the small smiles that only he could see. God help him, Will missed the poetry.
He missed Hannibal.
Will thought about the excuses he’d need to come back, and found he probably wouldn’t need any. Will could breeze through the door, ask what was for dinner and Hannibal would answer, happy to dismiss a week-long absence as a temper tantrum. They’d both excused worse from each other.
But Will, for the first time in years, didn’t want to forget. He wanted to embrace. Life on his own had been colorless, tasteless, frighteningly close to life in Wolf Trap, when he found solace in strays and avoidance. Will spent so long blinding himself to the beauty of his work, it had been a shock when Hannibal had ripped the blinders off. He hadn’t been ready to see, the colors and feelings far too much too fast.
Will had spent three years trying to convince himself that he longed for his beige days in Wolf Trap. It had been enough. Safe, good, righteous. Those words tasted like ash on his tongue now that his vision had finally adjusted. Hannibal’s world was vivid, visceral, consuming – and Will loved it.
With a sigh, he signaled the waitress for his check. Will was wiping off his hands when he saw him. A perfect peacock walking down the Georgetown street in a blue plaid linen suit, ascot knotted just so. He didn’t resemble Hannibal physically – much too young and fine boned – but the self-assurance and showy carriage were remarkably close. A spot of color that stood bright even among the tropical shades around him, Will couldn’t take his eyes off the young man.
Warmth suffused Will’s chest. He dropped a handful of bills on the table and started down the street, his eyes never leaving the graceful blue suit as it traversed the crowds.
Hannibal hadn’t thought Will was coming home. It was clear from the moment Will opened the door. The vase in the foyer was empty and dry, no fresh blooms to welcome him. Dishes sat in the sink, crusting and neglected for days. The trash can was filled with wine bottles and egg shells, Will smiled, picturing Hannibal fretting into his poached eggs as he sipped cabernet.
It was nice to be missed.
Rolling up his sleeves, Will set about scrubbing his absence from the kitchen.
Hannibal must have heard the commotion in the kitchen, but Will knew his monster well. He often sought dark places and solitude when he was hurt. At least he wouldn’t have to chase Hannibal through goddamn catacombs this time.
As predicted, Hannibal’s bedroom was the perfect lair of self-indulgent mourning. Lights out, clothes on the floor, a form in a heap on the bed. Will knew Hannibal was awake, waiting to see what Will would do. He nudged the door fully open, jostling a tray full of sausage and pancakes as he walked to the bed.
“You’re not fooling anyone, you know,” Will said to Hannibal’s curled back. Though he didn’t move, Will could picture Hannibal rolling his eyes. “Come on, up.”
Hannibal hesitated a moment before grabbing some pillows and propping himself up in bed. Will started to place the tray on Hannibal’s knees but froze when he noticed the Doctor’s chest. Will’s favorite green plaid framed Hannibal’s chest hair. Too small in the shoulders, Will wondered if Hannibal had left it open because he couldn’t button it.
Will made no comment as he sat the tray on Hannibal’s lap, but his lips worked into a small curve.
“Thank you for breakfast.” Hannibal sliced into the pancakes, chewing thoughtfully. Will rounded the bed and took his customary place by Hannibal’s side. He leaned into the doctor, opening his mouth. The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitched and he offered Will a piece of pancake, then another.
When they finished the stack, Will reached under the plate, pulling out The Guyana Chronicle and offering it to Hannibal.
“Brought you the paper, too.” Will pushed the pages at Hannibal. “Front page, under the fold.”
Hannibal turned the paper over, his mouth went slack as he started to read.
“There seems to have been a rather elaborate murder in St. George’s cathedral yesterday.” Hannibal thumbed through the pages quickly, holding up the blurred image from the crime scene. “Police are baffled.”
Will set about cutting up the sausage, watching Hannibal study the story. “Those don’t really show the scene properly. You lose a lot of detail in print.”
“Do you?”
Will chewed absently, pulling his phone from his pocket.
“You get a better sense of it from these, I think.” He handed Hannibal his phone.
There were four images in the gallery, each capturing a different angle of the scene as light crested through the large glass windows, bathing the tableau in bright yellow hues. A man in a vivid blue plaid suit lay on a platform seemingly floating above cathedral’s altar, one arm extended down, toward the pews, as if he were reaching for someone. The man lay on a bed of organs and gore, yet his suit remained pristine and his face serene. It had taken Will hours to hollow him out, taking pains to drain and clean each organ to offer a neat cushion for his design. It took longer to thread a length of wire through the suit to animate the one reaching limb. The hand hung limp, but Will felt the gesture retained its message.
It had taken Will three days to find a platform and a time to set up his work. He had never truly appreciated the meditative joy found in meticulously planning a tableau.
“It’s beautiful.” Hannibal was focused solely on the phone, flipping between images and bringing them closer to his face for inspection.
“Yeah,” Will whispered. “It is.”
He forked another piece of sausage, brushing it against Hannibal’s lips. The doctor accepted it gratefully, sharp teeth sinking into the flesh. Hannibal’s eyes never left the phone, but he leaned into Will, fingers gripping the younger man’s thigh.
“And what was this man’s crime?” Hannibal used his fingers to enlarge the photo on the phone, smiling as he studied the details of the image.
“He inspired me.” Will let his head rest on Hannibal’s shoulder. His flannel smelled like Hannibal now; Will inhaled deeply. “Reminded me of someone, I suppose.”
“A passing resemblance?” Hannibal turned to press his nose into Will’s hair. “Not a rude remark or a history of animal abuse? Perhaps a beaten wife or a history of working with the cartels?”
“Maybe.” Will shifted, moving to cage Hannibal between his arms. “I didn’t check.”
Hannibal’s jaw ticked. Will held Hannibal’s gaze, letting the doctor’s relief and hope wash over him. Hannibal dropped his eyes back to the phone. He spent a few more moments studying the images, zooming in and out.
Will felt his chest tighten. He needed Hannibal to see the apology among the gore, to understand. Hannibal looked up, finally, eyes shining and filled with something fragile.
“And who is he reaching to? This bespoke savior.” Hannibal’s voice rasped, his throat worked to swallow.
“A drowning man.” Will’s voice trembled slightly. “One who wouldn’t survive among the penitent masses.”
“I see,” said Hannibal, his fingers moving to trace along Will’s cheek. He stroked through Will’s hair, pausing to worry the curve of his ear. Will closed his eyes, remembering the night in Hannibal’s kitchen, when the doctor cut away his self-imposed blinders, forcing him to take in the cruel beauty of the world around him. “And will this drowning man take his hand?”
Will pushed the tray and phone to the ground, as he reached for Hannibal. The doctor seemed to barely register the cacophony or the mess as his china hit the ground. They shared a few breaths, basking in the warmth of each other’s bodies and the delicious familiarity they found wrapped together.
“He already did,” Will whispered, finally sealing his fate with a kiss.