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Tariq wakes to white, the land beyond his window entirely blanketed in snow, smooth and untouched throughout the night as far as the eye can see. For a good long moment, he does little more than stare, mesmerized, hands pressed to the glass rippling with age and leaving hand prints to dissipate once he pulls away.
He tiptoes past the second bedroom, the breathing within still slow enough to suggest both of his caregivers are still resting. Downstairs, the dogs whine in joy at seeing him, already awake and fed, tails wagging and tongues lolling, well-behaved in their quiet after months of training from both Tariq and Will. He simply sinks into his boots by the door and pulls on Hannibal's heavy jacket before unlocking the back and setting the dogs free to roam.
It is silent in the morning, one of things that had taken him a long time to grow used to, waking up often from nightmares that something was wrong because he could hear next to nothing at all. Now, Tariq relishes the crunch of the snow beneath his feet, the coat covering his footprints with a thick line caused by the heavy coat dragging behind him. Before him, the three dogs bound in ecstatic joy through the drifts, upsetting the smooth snow with tails and feet and hungry mouths. Tariq waits a moment more, taking in the house and the quiet around them, before running to join the animals at play.
It is Will who calls him back, however long later, and Tariq returns as quickly as his legs carry him through the shin-deep snow, cheeks flushed with cold and pleasure, before hugging Will around the middle.
"This morning, snow covered whole world,” he declares, English still broken but much better, with Will’s tutelage.
“Close enough,” agrees Will, turning a smile down to the boy wrapped against him before dusting the snow from his hair. “And more to come, I’m sure.” Will looks out across the fields, towards the treeline, a sea of frozen white but for where the dogs still play, snow upturned behind them. He doesn’t ask Tariq if he knows what day it is - there’s no reason for him to, where he’s from and where he’s been - but his smile widens, briefly, as he turns to usher the boy inside.
The house is small, for the land around it, but always too big for Will alone. It is spacious enough for the three of them, and the dogs, to share, without treading on each others’ literal or proverbial tails, though for days upon arrival Tariq would not leave their side, alarmed to find himself accidentally alone, and quickly rescued from his distress by Hannibal with soft Turkish words.
Will has lit the candles on the tree, a curious appearance in their sitting room for Tariq who giggled quite a lot at the absurdity of such a thing. Garlands strung together from the evergreens in the distance, and threaded through with strings of cranberries and boughs of holly, hang upon the walls, a bouquet of mistletoe over the fireplace that now crackles hot.
“Have you eaten?” Will asks, slowing his words just a little, and Tariq shakes his head as Will removes Hannibal’s coat from him to set back beside the door. “Good,” answers Will. “Today is a special day, and we will eat special foods together.”
Tariq just grins, delighted, as every morning, to listen to Will talk as they move through the house together before Hannibal wakes. As Tariq has been learning English, so Will had started to learn Turkish. It started as a game, Will exchanging teaching one word for Tariq teaching him one, but had grown to something much more meaningful between all of them. They alternate languages throughout the day, for everyone's benefit, all quick and happy to correct another if they make a mistake.
"Will there be meat?" Tariq asks, smiles wider as Will nods. "Can I help to make?"
"And to eat," Will assures him with a smile, "with Hannibal when he wakes up."
Tariq is sent to wash his hands as Will whistles for the dogs to come back, stopping them at the door to brush most of the snow from them before they bound back into the house.
"Why is it special today?" Tariq calls from the kitchen, arms wet to the elbows as he stands on his toes to properly reach.
The kettle begins to peal and Will trots past Tariq to snare it from the stove, pouring warmth into the kitchen, well-lit from the brightness of the snow outside, and the fire within. “A very important person was born on this day,” Will tells him, “a very long time ago. Do you remember Saint Mary’s church, on the High Street in Whitechapel?”
Tariq regards him with a furrowed brow, parsing together the words and names, before Will parts his lips with his tongue in thought, and adjusts to his inelegant Turkish. “The big church, white - all white?”
“Yes,” Tariq nods, language flowing faster now, as Will in turn struggles pleasurably to keep up. “It was very tall. The priests would give us food, sometimes.”
“Good,” smiles Will. “Do you remember the man inside - the statue?” The boy nods again, and as Will pours the water over tea and lets it steep, he continues. “It is his birthday today. ‘Christmas’,” Will tells him, and Tariq echoes it, delighting as ever in the feel of a new word across his tongue. “We celebrate it with good food, and family, and church if there was one near but there is not, and so it will be only us today.”
A pause, and Will adds, almost casually. “And gifts. There are gifts as well.”
The boy’s eyes widen and he blinks before his smile grows. Gifts were never for him, at the den, but he knows the word, knows the implications behind Will telling him. He moves to sit at the table, just watching Will as he rests his head in his crossed arms.
He is used to it, now, the rhythm of the daily life here. Small chores for the farm, for Hannibal and Will, not just Tariq, in taking care of the home and dogs, the animals in the barn that would be outside if not for the snow. He is used to taking lessons at the table and drinking warm fresh milk, he is used to walking with Hannibal and speaking to him in quick, excited Turkish.
He likes it here. Some days he misses his friends, Metin, the other boys, but he had gone with Hannibal and Will to see Metin off with the beautiful lady, he does not worry for him.
Tariq hears the creak on the stairs before Will does, and turns, grinning, to Hannibal as he appears in the main room, still tired and sleepy, hair not yet combed.
"Abi!"
Hannibal just smiles, warm, at the boy, murmurs his usual greeting to him before moving through the house to greet Will with a soft kiss to his temple, accepting the mug given him.
"Abi, today is Christmas birthday," Tariq tells him, English quick and messy but entirely too excited, "because of all the snow, and we will have special food and gifts. Gifts!"
"Gifts?" He turns to Will with narrowed eyes and a smile. “What have you been promising him?"
Will tilts his head to beckon for another kiss, which Hannibal grants him, pressed to his hair, and Will manages a smile that feigns at innocence. “That we won’t need to go to an hours-long church service, and will only enjoy the best parts of the holiday.” He leans back against the table where Tariq sits to remain near the fire, hands around his own cup of tea, and Will murmurs into it, “And that you would cook for us, and that he can help.”
“Of course,” Hannibal laments, his own play at being put-upon, rendered entirely disingenuous by the soft crinkling at the corners of his eyes.
For a moment more, they simply watch each other, a luxury that has never diminished in the many months they’ve been here. To watch, to enjoy the nearness of the other, no need even to touch but simply to relish the freedom allowed to them that means so much more after it was withheld for so long, and might have remained so, permanently.
“Is it sweets?” Tariq chirps, and Will turns to him, brow arched.
“If I told you, that wouldn’t be very fun at all, would it?”
“It would be,” insists the boy, grinning at Will from where he splays his arms across the table, feet swinging against the chair. A tooth has recently gone missing, giving Tariq a gap just there in the front, against which he works his tongue in thought. “Abi gives them to me without a birthday,” he adds, and at this, Will regards Hannibal.
“The truth becomes clear,” murmurs Will, dire in tone, “as to who is spoiling whom.”
"Should I stop?" Hannibal asks, playing along. "Stop the sweets for Tariq, the coffee for you -"
"I don't drink coffee."
"Because there was none left, when last I looked," Hannibal points out with a bright smile before turning to Tariq, catching Will’s hand as he half-heartedly swats at him and lacing their fingers together instead.
"We will cook," he assures the boy. “It will take a long time and even working together we will finish only in the evening."
"That's okay!"
Hannibal watches the genuine excitement cross the boy’s face at the prospect of cooking with Hannibal all day. The boy has quite a knack, for someone so little. It amuses Hannibal how deeply Tariq enjoys slicing vegetables, making sure every piece is even for the stew, and eating the cutoffs that are not.
Unable to dim his smile, Will squeezes his fingers between Hannibal’s, palms pressed warmly together. He sets his tea aside and leans closer to the man, not so near as to be improper, but just so that he can stroke through Hannibal’s hair and tidy it, smooth it flat, and blush beneath the kiss that Hannibal shares with him, simple and sweet and impossibly fond.
But a question still lingers, tangible in the air between them all, and with a sigh, Will reluctantly parts from Hannibal to gather up his tea and pull his dressing gown a little more snugly over his pajamas. “And after dinner, then,” Will begins, grinning as Tariq all but falls out of his seat.
“Gifts!” he exclaims, and Will nods, eyes narrowed in pleasure.
“Gifts, once we’ve eaten -”
There is a moment, but only so long, before Tariq’s eyes widen, English left by the wayside as he interjects again, in quick Turkish, “But that’s a very long time away!”
"And very much worth the wait," Hannibal assures him, raising an eyebrow even as Tariq suddenly sits pouting, displeased by the time between then and now that seems unfathomably long to him. "When I return," he says, watching Tariq as he tracks Hannibal back to the stairs, "we will make eggs for breakfast. And then begin our work."
At that the boy seems to brighten, always delighting in dipping pieces of bread into the creamy yolk to eat. He stays at the table as Will does, Will drinking his tea and Tariq kicking his feet softly against the table.
"Why there is a tree?" he asks Will suddenly. "Is it special like the meal?"
Will blinks, turning back from watching Hannibal make his way up the stairs, tea in hand, feeling warmth heat his cheeks. An unfathomable luck it’s taken for them to be here, so content and comfortable together, but somehow easy to forget, at times, when the three have managed to survive seemingly insurmountable odds and find such peace as this.
“It is, yes,” Will answers, agreeably, and Tariq seems terribly pleased with his own cleverness. “Why, though,” he laughs, shaking his head, hair wild and yet unbrushed. “I don’t know, really. It’s just what families have always done, to make the day more beautiful. It smells nice, doesn’t it?”
Tariq nods, taking in the words and mulling them over before he grins again. “It’s a very big tree. Abi is very strong, I could not move it,” he decides.
“No, not yet,” Will responds. “But some day you could, when you’re as big as Abi.”
"Never that big!" Tariq laughs, and Will finds he can't not laugh with him, this sweet boy and his fascinating in everything from Will’s schoolbooks that he teaches with to the ones he reads, from the dogs to the snow and autumn leaves and rain and sunshine all. He is an exceptionally bright boy, and Will could not be prouder.
Hannibal returns downstairs and spreads his arms as though surprised by the lack of preparedness.
"Up!" he barks, and Tariq scrambles to obey. “Three eggs, soldier, dangerous mission to the coop."
Tariq yanks down Hannibal’s jacket before pushing out into the snow again, towards the barn and the coop attached. Hannibal sighs, but it’s fond, and allows himself to kiss Will properly now, deep and lovely.
"I will not be able to send that boy to boarding school,” he laments. “I would miss the chatter."
Will loses himself a little, sinking into the strong arms that gather him near, fingers pressed to Hannibal’s cheeks as he kisses him, again and again. “I should have known you would be the softest touch among us,” Will teases, tilting his head with a warm ruddy blush as Hannibal ducks against Will’s neck, to breathe warmly over his skin. “The house would feel terribly empty without him,” admits Will. “But it seems unfair to expect that he stay here, when the world awaits.”
“Let it wait,” Hannibal murmurs. “He has seen enough of it already.”
Without argument as to Hannibal’s point, Will raises his arms to loop them over Hannibal’s shoulders, nuzzling alongside his nose as the older man lifts him to his toes. “But there is good in it,” Will assures him softly. “New people and places to be experienced, friends to find.”
A hum of agreement, understanding, and Hannibal presses a kiss to Will’s cheek before letting him go again. “He will meet them, and he will succeed. But for a few years, until he is ten, he shouldn’t have to think of it.”
They hear Tariq before they see him, struggling with the door that Hannibal gets for him before he drops the eggs in his excitement. He tilts his head, assessing the gathered product, and declares it to be entirely perfect for breakfast. Tariq’s grin at the praise warms his entire face.
Breakfast is had quickly, enjoyed by all, and then Hannibal sets up to prepare their evening meal, Tariq at his side. They set the bouillon simmering, Tariq having chosen the carrots and onion to go within, and Hannibal tasks the boy with carefully slicing the boiled potatoes into circles, watching the concentration furrow his brow as he works. Most are not circular, but it hardly matters.
Smelts and sauce tartare - which Tariq sticks his fingers into, to taste, as frequently as he can get away with - peas and turkey and Parisian salad. The entire house smells warm and inviting, the dogs contented to sleep by the fire most of the day and not disturb the work going on. Will comes and goes, to watch, more than help, listening to Hannibal and Tariq converse mostly in Turkish, though English makes an appearance when Hannibal remembers to have the boy practice.
A tin of dried fruits and candied nuts appears in the center of the table as the day passes by, and is nearly emptied by the end of it, cleared for Hannibal to set the table. As he does, taking a particular pride in this, Will ushers Tariq out to the sitting room to allow Hannibal his surprise of a festive table, beautifully composed. They sit together and with careful fingers and quiet conversation, press cloves into apples brought up from the cellar, the ones too damaged or shriveled to be eaten, filling the room with the smell of sweet spices and fruit.
The spiky fruits join the centerpiece that Hannibal has made for them, full sprigs of cedar and fir, holly berries and mistletoe, pheasant feathers and - how, Will wonders, he found them so far from the city - poinsettias spread beautiful crimson against the candles that flicker brightly.
It is only outdone by the wealth of food that sits steaming in its dishes, more than the three could eat in days - a veritable feast for their little family, curious though it may be. Will curls his fingers against Hannibal’s cheek, drawing him down for a kiss while Tariq is distracted by the banquet before them.
“Soon will be gifts,” the boy declares in English, to curry Will’s favor, and in truth, earning a smile from the man.
“Soon,” he assures him, “but first we eat. You and Hannibal both worked very hard today.”
Tariq settles into his seat, scarcely able to hold himself back from reaching for the food. “Very hard,” he agrees, but seems no less pleased for it.
Warm bread is set on a small stool beside the table, unable to fit on the table itself, and they begin. Tariq tries everything on the table but comes to find that his favourite of everything is the simple act of dipping the bread into the bouillon and eating it that way. Three cups and he sits contented, picking at the turkey and peas only because he knows not to waste. Hannibal and Will enjoy the meal with amicable conversation about anything that comes to mind, excusing Tariq from the table to play with the dogs when he fidgets in boredom.
“I think I should have warned him that there would be dessert,” Hannibal murmurs, eyes narrowed as he watches the boy laugh and roll on the rug before the fire, dogs bouncing around him, tails wagging so quickly they blur.
“He’ll find space for it.”
“Miraculously, they always do,” Hannibal grins, standing to clear the table and set the dishes into the sink to be washed later, as Will plates the leftovers and covers them to put into the icebox for the next day.
The gifts are retrieved from upstairs, carefully wrapped, the largest labeled as Tariq’s and his eyes go wide in childish wonder as he watches it set down. He has never owned anything until coming to live here. He had had clothes but was always reminded how quickly they could be taken away. He had had shelter only when Mason allowed it, sleep when the noise was low enough. Never had he the freedom to sleep in or read or play as he does here.
And never has he had gifts this beautiful presented to him.
It is clear where Will spent most of his day, gathering each gift in fine paper, folded neatly so as not to allow a peek of what’s within, looped around with ribbon - soft, rich velvet in greens and reds - and tied with bows. Hannibal regards Will with amusement, settled into the couch to watch as the younger man maneuvers the largest gift to set beside the tree, the others beneath it, and Tariq as near as can be to them all.
“This is also the reason for a tree,” Will tells the boy, conspiratorial. “Where else would we set the gifts?”
It makes sense enough for Tariq, sitting on his knees but fidgeting as much as the dogs nearby, they as equally excited by the movement and newness around them.
“Each has a name upon it,” Will continues, finally stepping back as Tariq squeezes his hands together in childish delight, scarcely restraining himself. “If you read them, you can pass them out to each in turn.”
Tariq reaches right for the largest of them but Will laughs, catching him by his shirt collar. “That one for last,” he murmurs, reeling the boy back before Will makes his way to the couch next to Hannibal, drawing up his bare feet beside him to lean close to the man at his side, breathing in the rich scents of pine and spices, food and warm tobacco that Hannibal smokes amicably beside him.
There are two gifts each, it seems, for Hannibal and Will, when Tariq seeks with curious fingers to find all the names, and after a lot of consideration he selects a small box addressed to Will and holds it in careful hands.
“Will, this for you,” he smiles, holds it out to him to take, smiling and settling to watch even as his eyes drift over and over to the largest gift addressed to him. As Will begins to open his first, Tariq reaches for another, soft in his hands, and light, and addressed to Hannibal. “Abi,” he says, passing it over, and settling to watch them both open their gifts as he holds his own - not the biggest, between his knees.
Will accepts his with thanks, gaze darting briefly to Hannibal who watches contentedly as Will works open the paper - this one, not wrapped himself, but just as carefully, with an ornately tied bow that falls away as soon as he tugs the end of it. The first fold in the paper has hardly parted before Will draws in a deep breath, and nearly moans with the smell of it.
“You didn’t,” he tells Hannibal. Without even opening the rest of the rest of the paper, Will brings it to his nose and inhales long, cheeks flushed. “Oh god,” he laughs, finally opening it to let the bundle of coffee free from its wrappings, packaged heavy and neat in its canvas sack. “Where did you even find it out here? I haven’t had any since we left London.”
“I have many eyes and many sources,” Hannibal replies, unhelpfully, but it’s clear how pleased he is to watch Will enjoy his gift. Coffee is something Hannibal finds amusing for Will, with his English upbringing and incredible accent to match, to have become entirely addicted to, drinking tea, now, only when the coffee has run out.
“It is good to see you turn evil powers to good purposes,” Will comments, setting his gift aside as Hannibal begins to open his own, and Tariq crawls over to smell the bag that Will had been so happy to receive. It does not meet his standards and he sprawls back to watch Hannibal peel back the ornate paper to reveal a long scarf, heavy and most likely hand-made, in autumn colors of rust orange and deep maroon and dark emerald.
“Something I will not let my shadow steal from me,” he comments, amused eyes on Tariq as the boy squirms at the accusation and watches the long scarf as Hannibal winds it around his neck.
Tariq’s own present proves to be sturdy boots that he hugs to his chest in delight, grinning at both of them and thanking them in English and Turkish and English again, pulling them onto his feet immediately, without bothering with the laces. He scrambles forward for another gift, passing Hannibal’s to him first, this time, and Will’s his own right after, settling near his huge gift and almost vibrating in anticipation for opening it.
In truth, though Will is delighted by his own gift, moreso by seeing the beautiful jewel tones of the scarf set warm against Hannibal’s skin, he is most pleased to watch Tariq - a boy to whom so much has been denied that the very concept of gifts, of his own belongings, was as foreign to him as the holiday itself. The scarcely-restrained energy, the overwhelming pleasure in him is a gift unto itself, and Will looks away from him with a small smile to open his own package.
“You’ve already outdone yourself,” Will warns Hannibal, amused. “You’re going to spoil me.”
Inside are slippers, ornately embroidered and plush, of soft material and sturdy bottoms. Will laughs a little, entirely pleased, and doesn’t hesitate to slide them onto his feet and wriggle his toes in them before tucking his feet back beside him.
“Tired of my complaints about the cold floors?” teases Will, blushing warmly as Hannibal tucks a curl of hair behind his ear.
“I doubt I could tire of you,” Hannibal tells him, “but it would help not to have to warm them every evening, involuntarily, as they are pushed frigid beneath my thighs.”
Tariq laughs, and Hannibal can’t help but smile more, stroking Will’s hair gently again before kissing his cheek, turning to his own gift, fingers deft on the paper, careful with the elaborate bow he almost does not want to undo, as he reveals a small gift, fine and folded, and feels his expression soften, warm further.
A beautiful gentleman’s kit for the care of eyeglasses, something taken entirely for granted and presented here, now, as a beautiful and thoughtful present.
“Abi, what is it for?” Tariq sits forward, forsaking the space next to his present to see what Hannibal has in his hands. Hannibal taps his glasses and Tariq makes a considering sound, reaching out to touch and see anyway, allowed by the older man.
“Something you cannot take to play with, kumru,” he tells him, and Tariq ducks his head with a smile, knowing he’s right. “Thank you,” Hannibal murmurs to Will, watching him over the rims of his glasses with a smile.
“No more spots on your lenses,” Will responds, reaching to set them higher on Hannibal’s nose, a ruddy blush across his cheeks as Hannibal brushes a kiss across his fingertips in retreat. “What is left, then?” he asks, turning back to Tariq, but settling nearer to Hannibal as he does, shoulder tucked against his side, beneath his arm.
Tariq scrambles back across the floor, abandoning his interest in the glasses case in favor of touching each of the remaining gifts in turn. His hand lingers over the largest one, but he restrains himself admirably, and takes a smaller one instead.
Inside there is a new coat for him, finely made and perhaps a little large, for him to grow into. He wriggles into it and runs his fingers over the fabric, eyes wide and grin bright. “Like Abi,” he says and Will - who has taken up his coffee again to press his nose to it - smiles in affirmation.
“So you might wear your own, perhaps, instead of his.”
Tariq glances to Hannibal to see if it’s true, and Hannibal sends him a wink, entirely aware that the boy will just as soon be in Hannibal’s coat again as his own, however nice it is. With another flurry of thanks, overwhelmed a little, and nearly forgetting to say it, Tariq finally seizes upon the biggest gift, wrapped as best as Will was able, nearly as tall as the boy himself.
The paper comes away in pieces and beneath, something that Tariq has only ever seen in the streets, looked on in envy as the other children shared and played with their own.
The sled is made of dark wood, wide enough to sit on and long enough for two. A long leather strap is tied to the front of it, hanging in coils down the seat as it stands, enough to hold like reins and control where the sled goes. Or, if the dogs are ever cooperative enough, to tie to their leads and have them pull the sled along.
“Abi,” Tariq turns, eyes wide in childish disbelief, “is this really for me?”
Hannibal smiles wider, nodding his head enough for the boy to understand that it’s for him, that the sled is entirely his own, watching as he sets it carefully to the floor, and climbs onto it to test the balance, to see how it would feel to sit on it properly, to hold the reins and pull on them in childish delight. Then he crawls off of it, stumbling on an unlaced boot before wrapping his arms around Will’s middle and pressing his head to his chest, mumbling his thanks and his surprise and adoration in messy Turkish against his sweater.
Will is surprised and touched, always, by how freely Tariq shows his affection, his warm tight hugs and eager words. He should have no reason to be so kind, after the life he lived, no one would fault him for regarding the world and all in it with wariness and mistrust. But, somehow, he never has - not with Will and not with Hannibal, his abi - and the thought that such goodness can stay alight in a world fraught with such darkness steals Will’s breath away into a sigh.
He squeezes Tariq back warmly, dragging him up to sit on the couch between them, and even still the boy does not let go, until he slowly goes quiet, overwhelmed perhaps by the moment, and Hannibal lifts a hand to rub his back.
“There is one more surprise for you,” Hannibal tells him, the rough Turkish spoken gently, beautifully.
“It’s too much,” protests Tariq, though from the curious look he turns to Hannibal, he only half-means it.
With a hum, Hannibal produces a letter from inside his pocket, covered in stamps and a written in a fine copperplate script on the front. Tariq sits up from where he was slouched against Will, and Hannibal works the envelope open for him before handing it over.
Inside, a long letter - pages - in a messy child’s scrawl that Will realizes, peeking at it, he cannot read. Turkish, he wagers, and finds it to be true when Tariq’s eyes grow wide.
“From Metin! In America!”
Hannibal nods, meets Will’s eyes with his own narrowed in pleasure, as Tariq squirms between them and settles to read, tracing the words with his finger and laughing at whatever is written there. Hannibal does not look, it is not his letter. Instead, he watches Will, warmed by the wine at dinner, pleased with his presents and watching Tariq as Hannibal watches him.
A family, somehow, from the smoke they had so long lived in, together but apart at the same time. Hannibal hums as little feet end up on his lap, Tariq leaning back against Will as he reads, perfectly contented between the two of them in his new boots and long coat, sled flat on the floor by the tree, in a sea of ripped paper that the dogs sniff at curiously.
Hannibal draws a hand through Will’s hair and catches his attention again.
“I suppose pudding can wait,” he tells him softly, fingers caressing the soft skin of Will’s cheek, smiling wider when Will just nods, turns his face into Hannibal’s palm, and looks at Tariq again. He’d find a way to fit it in, he’s sure, once the sled had run its first true game in the snow.