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Abigail had always been afraid of storms. At this point she thought it was pathetic; she’d been her father’s bait in multiple killings, and had even killed a man herself, yet thunder and lightning was what frightened her. She would have laughed if she wasn’t currently curled up under her covers shaking like a leaf.
Abigail flinches when another clap of thunder rings out. She whimpers and clutches at a spare pillow, wishing she had someone to hold on to. Things were easier when she was little. Five-year-olds going into their parents’ room crying about a storm and asking to sleep in their bed is cute. Nineteen-year-olds doing it isn’t even acceptable.
Then again, Abigail thinks, cannibalism and murder aren’t exactly socially acceptable either.
Abigail swallows and slips out from under the covers, freezing at every flash of lightning as she makes her way out of her room and across the hall. She pushes the door to Will and Hannibal’s bedroom open, almost tripping at the threshold when she hears thunder. She catches herself, manages to stay balanced, and steps into the room. She looks at the two of them, tangled together in bed, and her heart sinks.
I’m being ridiculous, she thinks. This is pathetic. I’d wake them, bother them, and they’ll tell me to go back to my room.
Abigail can practically hear Hannibal and Will groan in disappointment and mock her for being such a coward. She can almost see the expressions they'd make in the dark. She shivers, feeling the cold from the floor seep through her socks. She turns around, intending to leave, and the floor creaks.
“Shit,” she whispers.
There’s a soft noise as someone moves on the mattress behind her.
“Abigail?”
Abigail turns around and sees Hannibal sitting up in bed. He reaches over to turn the lamp on, and his confusion turns to concern when he gets a good look at Abigail’s face.
“Is something wrong, Abigail?” he asks.
She shakes her head, but before she can get a word out, lightning flashes through room, immediately followed by a loud clap of thunder, and she practically jumps out of her skin. She covers her mouth with her hands as she gasps, still shaking.
Hannibal’s eyes widen a bit, and he gets up. Abigail looks down as he walks over to her, waiting for him to push her back to her room. Instead, she feels his arms wrap around her, and she immediately buries her face in his shirt.
“It’s okay, Abigail,” Hannibal whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
The action is a bit out of the ordinary for Hannibal, an expression of affection she’s never seen from him, but she’s too busy trying to calm down to question it.
“Let’s get to bed,” Hannibal suggests.
For a moment, Abigail thinks he’s finally going to lead her to her room, and possibly tuck her in, but then she feels her feet leave the floor as he picks her up. He carries her towards his and Will’s bed and lays her down next to Will, who finally stirs.
“What’s going on?” he asks, covering his face with the blanket. “Turn the fucking light out, it can’t be morning yet.”
Abigail stays sitting upright, her anxiety made worse by Will’s irritation.
“Abigail is here,” Hannibal says, settling on the other side of Abigail. “She’s not feeling well.”
Will pulls the blankets down, finally catching sight of his daughter. “Abby? What’s wrong, honey?”
Lightning flashes through the windows and Abigail jumps again. “I…”
“It’s the storm,” Hannibal tells Will softly, reaching over to turn the light off. “Lay down, Abigail. It’s alright. We’re right here.”
Abigail lays down and pulls the covers up to her chin, slowly relaxing as Hannibal pulls her against his chest. Will snuggles up to her from behind, and the sound of the thunder seems to fade into a distant rumble. The flashes of lightning don’t seem as bright.
Abigail hears Hannibal whisper something to her. She can’t pick out what language it is, but his tone is soothing. She sighs and closes her eyes, getting a bit more comfortable before eventually drifting off, feeling safe in the arms of both of her fathers.
Will sips coffee as he watches Hannibal cook breakfast, thinking about last night's events. It wasn’t necessarily unusual for his husband to be compassionate or affectionate with him and Abigail, but last night was certainly different. It didn’t click with Will until he heard Hannibal whispering in Lithuanian to Abigail as they both held her.
Will looks at Hannibal as he cooks on the other side of the counter and holds his hand out, his wedding band reflecting the sun’s light. He always silently holds his hand out to Hannibal when he wants to ask him something private, something personal, but holding his left hand out is always somewhat of a pre-apology. He shows Hannibal his wedding band to remind him he loves him, and that he’s sorry if what he asks hurts him.
Will half-expects Hannibal to ignore his hand, to keep cooking as a silent signal that he’s not in the mood for something deeply emotional. Several moments pass by, and Will nearly retracts his hand, until Hannibal reaches out and grabs it. It’s his left hand as well.
I love you, too. Ask me whatever you wish.
Hannibal looks out the window instead of at Will. It’s rare that he refuses to meet Will’s eyes, but occasions involving Will asking about his past always involve Hannibal throwing up a few extra walls. Will takes no offense. He knows only part of what Hannibal has been through, and he understands Hannibal’s need for his person suit.
Will looks behind him and spots Abigail in the living room, reading a book on the sofa. He turns back to Hannibal, keeping his voice low.
“Mischa was afraid of storms, wasn’t she?” Will whispers. He regrets the question when he sees Hannibal’s blank expression falter for a moment. He squeezes Hannibal’s hand.
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.
Hannibal squeezes back, his other hand nursing a cup of tea.
It’s okay. I forgive you.
Will doesn’t expect an answer from Hannibal after that, but he continues to hold his hand. He won’t pull away until Hannibal is ready.
“She was,” Hannibal replies, taking a long sip from his cup.
Will squeezes his hand again.
After another minute or so of silence, Hannibal continues, “When Abigail came into our room last night, she was so afraid. Every strike of lightning and every clap of thunder made her look like a cornered animal.” He looked down at his tea, like he was studying something in his own dark reflection. “She looked just like Mischa, back when we were young. It was almost as if I was home again.”
As if she wasn’t dead, Hannibal doesn’t say, but Will hears it all the same.
Hannibal smiles softly and looks over at Will. “But she isn’t Mischa. She is Abigail.” He looks past Will, into the living room. “She is our daughter.” He hums softly, looking back to Will. “And this is my home now.”
“Our home,” Will says, stepping around the counter to kiss him.
Hannibal smiles into the kiss. “Our family.”