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It has been two years since the dragon; they were living together in a house with yellow walls, two lemon trees in the garden and some bushes of roses, somewhere in Argentina. They had two dogs, Encephalitis and Dante; and Will Graham was trying to cook. Kind of.
That’s all the context you need.
I.
“Where do you keep the flour?”
“Second shelf, the cabinet on the right, the jar labeled as ‘flour’. Be careful when opening the cupboard, its hinges are quite old,” Hannibal said, peeking behind Will’s back towards the countertop. One single egg, a mug, a spoon, oil and sugar. And some blue package that read ‘Toddy Chocolate’ in an awful font, containing what dreadfully Hannibal supposed must have been processed chocolate powder. “May I ask what you’re making?”
“Brownie in a cup,” Will answered with a hmpf as he landed on the floor after Hannibal had lifted him slightly to help Will reach the jar, fearing for the life of his cabinets.
The cabinets, as the whole kitchen and the whole house, were quite old. It was part of the aesthetics, of course, Hannibal could find the beauty in old houses, as long as they were correctly taken care of. It was rather charming in its colonial style, tall windows with half arches and wooden interior. The kitchen, Hannibal considered, could be improved still. But the aesthetics of it made it possible for him to hide the microwave (that Will had insisted they should buy against Hannibal’s complaints) inside another cabinet and out of sight.
The same microwave in which Will heated coffee and soups when there was a perfect coffee maker and a perfect stove right there, and the same microwave Will seemed to want to use for this ‘brownie in a cup’ monstrosity.
“I could have made you brownies if you wanted some, darling.”
“No.” Will said, and the sharpness of the answer was emphasized by the loud crack of the eggshell against the edge of the cup. “I don’t want any fancy brownies made from scratch that took you six and a half hours to make,” Will continued, mixing the sugar, chocolate and flour along in the mug.
“I want one, only one,” he gestured with a finger towards his cannibal, accentuating the word, “brownie. Comfort food. Easy to make, easy to eat. Quick. Nothing to clean except for the mug and the spoon.”
Hannibal winced when Will took the spoon with brown, raw mix to his mouth and put the clean spoon back on the mug as if to demonstrate the point.
“Raw egg is not recommendable for consumption,” was Hannibal's only response.
“Neither is human flesh, but here we are, with a lawyer’s liver marinating inside the fridge,” Will clicked shut the microwave’s door, only sighing when the plate inside started spinning. He noted nothing wrong with it, when he should have had. Will only turned his head back when Hannibal hugged him by the waist, leaving soft kisses across his neck. “Would it kill you to let me eat something that took less than one hour to make?”
Hannibal was going to agree that maybe it wasn’t exactly that bad, maybe next time they could improve it using coconut oil or butter (if he buttered Will up enough to take the time to melt it). Maybe he could just agree and kiss Will enough as the plate spinned, and make Will agree to cuddle later on the sofa with his husband as he ate that chocolate monstrosity.
The last seemed to be working, judging by the way Will tried to not smile while still stretching his neck, giving Hannibal free reign to kiss his way to sofa cuddles.
Sadly, that was what Hannibal was going to do. Past tense. Sadly, he didn’t manage to do it because Will hadn’t taken the metal spoon from the mug and the poor, innocent microwave started to scream in agony. Poor, poor thing.
If you are a person with some common sense (contrary to Will Graham), you would have never heard the sound of a microwave exploding. But if you’re wondering how it sounds, it sounds as if you set fire to a box full of fireworks inside a metal can. “Music to my ears,” said no one.
The dogs started to bark, sharing his condolences to the poor, suffering microwave. In the process of Hannibal pushing the button that read ‘stop’ and Will trying to pull open the microwave door, Hannibal received an elbow aimed directly to his ribs and the microwave almost died (saved only by its cable). The dogs ran away when Will started to shout before they could lick at the chocolate, egg, sugar, flour and ceramic mix laying on the floor and end with stomach aches.
The night ended with a cuddling cannibal, a broken mug and a grumpy Will frowning at the culprit of his disgrace: his own reflection on the spoon.
II.
Yes, Will hardly liked to cook for two hours or more something that he would eat in less than one hour.
But we must clarify that he had no problem with watching Hannibal cook for two hours or more. Especially if it meant that Hannibal was going to use the Murder Husbands’ (TattleCrime.com official TradeMark of Murder Husbands merchandise) apron that Will had bought from Freddie Lounds’ last Christmas. Hannibal had made a comment about how clever it was, and aesthetically pleasant, contrary to other things that Freddie sold on her page. ‘Nothing here is vegetarian’ it read in a rather not so eye-destroying font over a chopped, bleeding arm on top of a cutting board. Hannibal loved it. (Not as much as he loved his shirt that read Murder Husband #1, and Will’s shirt that read Murder Husband #2, that they used to sleep and their matching coffee mugs).
Will also had no problem watching Hannibal cook for hours if it meant that Hannibal was going to discard his suit jacket and waistcoat in order to roll his sleeves up. Will especially had no problem watching Hannibal grind meat for hours, nor to watch those shoulders work.
The problem was when he was alone in the kitchen, with no cannibal in sight to roll his sleeves up.
But, sometimes, Will would take the time to cook, even if it took him two hours or more. Just to make Hannibal happy, because he was a jerk sometimes (this applies to both of them) but not all the time (this also applies to both of them).
That’s why he was currently wearing the ‘Nothing here is vegetarian’ (Tattlecrime.com official TradeMark of Murder Husbands merchandise) while grinding meat in Hannibal’s old meat grinder.
Will had asked for free reign in the kitchen for a night because he wanted to eat burgers. Then, he watched for twenty three seconds as Hannibal considered every second of his life that had made him marry Will Graham, and the next forty six seconds of Hannibal pondering the pros and cons of gutting him right there.
It seemed that Will Graham had ended victorious over food after all when Hannibal dramatically sighed.
“Just remember to turn on the smoke extractor.”
And because Will wasn’t a complete jerk all the time, he was making burgers, yes, but homemade burgers with fresh meat, and herbs and all that paraphernalia that Hannibal liked. He used fresh buns he bought from Hannibal’s favorite bakery, Hannibal’s herbs from his herb garden, he had followed the recipe he had found on the internet on how to make the fanciest burgers on earth. He sliced the most round and red tomatoes, the greenes lettuce, and he used Hannibal’s homemade mayonnaise. Nothing, I repeat, nothing, could go wrong.
Except that of course it did.
The smoke extractor was as old as the house, and Hannibal almost never needed to use it, so it wasn’t exactly clean, Will discovered. But that was later, he first discovered that the smoke extractor made the most awful and loudest of noises.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Will cursed, or he supposed he did, because he couldn’t hear neither his voice nor his thoughts over the thunderous roar of the damned thing.
He pushed a button, searching for maybe a silencer or a button that made the extractor not scream like a troyan army towards its enemy. Instead, the extractor was lit up with the most yellowish, old and greasy light known by men.
The smoke coming from the grease of the burgers cooking in the stove was increasing, so Will opened a window. Then another. It didn’t make it better.
In his desperation, Will threw open the smoke extractor, pulling out the protective layer just to discover the thick grease clinging to the interior walls.
“Oh, come on!”
The night ended with a grumpy Will Graham learning two things: the importance of correctly cleaning smoke extractors and that you should always freeze the home-made burgers for at least one hour if you don’t want them to shrink when cooked.
III.
“How do you do that?” Will asked, sitting on the stool placed in the kitchen for the sole purpose of letting him drink wine while enjoying his favorite past-time: Watch Hannibal cook with his sleeves rolled up.
Will also may have been drunk. Very. And horny. Also very.
(But who could blame him?)
“Do what, my dear?” Hannibal asked, face lit up by the controlled flame coming from the pan. Will’s pupils grew wider at the new wave of fire, if that was still possible.
“That,” Will’s mouth was cotton dry, no doubt of that; and Hannibal loved it, as much as he loved to peacock himself for his husband, sauteing the vegetables with ease and the grace of a ballet dancer.
“Do you want to learn?” Hannibal smiled at him, still making the mushrooms jump in the air and land perfectly in the pan without even having to look at them. “Come here, dear.”
And Will, hypnotized and rockhard, walked towards the stove, pulled by a thread hanging from Hannibal’s hands and ending at the tip of his c–
“Hold it like this, and confidently flip your wrist,” it could be that Hannibal was too close to him, his strong chest close to Will’s back. It could be that Hannibal’s strong and veined hands were holding his forearm in the same way he held it when in bed. It could be that Will was super horny, or it could be his inebriated state. Or it could be a mix of all those things, plus Hanibal’s warm breath brushing the spot behind his ear that made the butterflies inside Will’s stomach feel butterflies in their butterfly stomachs, that made Will flip the pan with too much force and confidence and threw all the vegetables into the air with hot olive oil directly towards their faces.
The vegetables that by some miracle had landed back on the pan instead of at their faces had still sadly died, burning in a pyre of fire while Hannibal and Will tried to survive the attack to their faces.
The night ended with two cannibals putting cream on their faces to prevent their burns, and Will being banned from drinking in the kitchen.
IV.
If you asked Will what he had been thinking to let the steak burn to a crisp in the pan, he would blush a bright red and deflect the question.
If you asked why he couldn’t wash the pan with the virulana (the little scrubbing sponge that was not a sponge but steel threads made a ball that for some reason Hannibal had in the kitchen but banned Will from using to scrub the dishes even if he did use it sometimes) Will couldn’t say. So, he took it, because there was no way he could clean Hannibal’s favorite pan without it.
(Why Hannibal had a favorite pan and why that one was Hannibal’s favorite pan, he couldn’t answer either)
Will had been furiously scrubbing the pan for at least forty one minutes when he realized why he couldn’t use that sponge.
He could clearly see the scratches he was leaving in the pan. Not good.
(He still hadn’t learned why that was Hannibal’s favorite pan. Maybe if he had listened at least once to Hannibal when he talked about why it was his favorite pan, he could run now to the store and buy a new one before Hannibal arrived back home)
“Will,” Hannibal asked, like an omen of oncoming death shadowing over his shoulder. Will did his best to not shiver, and failed because Hannibal’s controlled voice was way worse than hearing an oncoming bonesaw to his forehead. He may have come on top of food when Hannibal pondered about killing him (again), but Will wasn’t so sure he could come on top of Hannibal’s favorite pan. “Is that my favorite Essen pan?”
“No.” Will lied, not turning back to look at his husband.
“So I suppose that thing in your hand isn’t the virulana sponge either.”
“Nope. Not at all.” Will lied again, still holding Hannibal’s favorite Essen pan in one hand and the virulana sponge that he has banned from using in the other.
“Will,” Hannibal’s breath was even, and that was the most terrific part of it all.
“Hannibal, my dearest love, my darling, the most handsome cannibal, the most artistic serial killer that I had the honor to marry?” Will may have thrown them off a cliff, but that was long ago; now he had some kind of self-preservation skills. Like buttering up his husband with sweet words and his best puppy eyes.
It seemed to work, because Hannibal kissed him softly on the forehead while still gripping him tight by the waist (hard enough to make Will hiss in pain but shut the fuck up) before saying, low and strained, “get out of my kitchen.”
The evening ended with Will looking down at the floor, hoping to be swallowed; and thanking that he had never met his mother because he would never be able to think of her again after the litany of curses he heard Hannibal call her. And his father. And his grandparents. And the siblings he didn’t have. And his whole family tree. And Jack Crawford. And the whole country of the United States for good measure.
V.
Hannibal always put a pinch of cinnamon on Will’s coffee. Will always argued that he didn’t like it, that he only liked black coffee without sugar, even as he drank the coffee with cinnamon. So, Hannibal stopped putting the pinch of cinnamon on Will’s morning coffee.
“Where do you keep the cinnamon?” Will asked after the first sip of his morning coffee that, for the first morning in months, didn’t have a pinch of cinnamon.
Hannibal, completely unamused and unsurprised, looked at Will over his coffee in the Murder Husband #1 (TattleCrime.com official TradeMark of Murder Husbands merchandise) mug.
“The third shelf, second cabinet, clear jar with red lid. With the spices.”
“Of course.”
Hannibal also always reminded Will that the cupboards were old and its hinges too. Will always complained that he knew it and that he didn’t need to be reminded of it every single day and every single time he tried to open the cabinets. So, of course, Hannibal stopped reminding him.
And Will, for the first time opening the cabinets without Hannibal reminding him about its hinges, opened it with too much force. He saw in slow motion how the cabinet fell while he stood completely still with the cabinet door still in his hand, detached from the fallen cabinet and the broken jars of spices.
The morning ended with Hannibal, unamused and unsurprised, looking at Will while sipping his coffee in silence.
(+1)
Hannibal didn’t think of himself as petty. But Will did. Will also thought of himself as pettier.
Will also considered himself way prettier than the young thing plastered to Hannibal’s side all night at the Opera, looking at his cannibal with wide, sparkling eyes as if Hannibal was the person who hung the stars in the sky.
Will made no comment, no expression. Hannibal, instead, amused to no end, looked at his husband with an expression that clearly said ‘What are you going to do?’ while he played with his, naive and not-as-pretty-as-Will, food.
Hannibal went as far as brushing one lock of hair behind the ear of his food, and even wink at him, just to, instantly after that, look at Will for a reaction and receiving only a cold, blank stare behind a flute of champagne in answer.
When the night ended, and they were entering their home again, Hannibal tried to not show he was on edge. But he failed. Miserably.
Will, on the other hand, was a wall of stone. He hadn’t shown a single emotion in the whole ride back from the theatre. Hannibal was expecting a killing spree in a rampage of jealousy in the best of cases, maybe a kiss, hopefully maybe a throughtfull fuck to teach him his place. But received instead: absolutely nothing.
Well, not completely and absolutely nothing.
Instead of walking the stairs up to their bedroom, Will headed for the kitchen, and of course, Hannibal followed him. Curious, curious cannibal.
“If you fucking think that I will kill a young, stupid kid that flirted with you,” Hannibal heard Will speak over the sound of banging pots and pans as he searched for something. “You’re crazier than Chilton claims.”
“You’re fucking crazier than Freddie claims that I am if you think I will do something that stupid as if I didn’t know it would make you fucking happy,” Will said while furiously scrubbing Hannibal’s shining new favorite pan, with the metal sponge that he shouldn’t use to scrub pans, until it was 'unsalvageable.
Will huffed, scrubbing so furiously that there was sweat forming on his forehead, “next fucking time you do something like that it won’t be only the pan but your whole fucking kitchen,” he said, throwing the scratched pan into the sink.
Hannibal winced, but made no comment about his abused pan, and instead kissed Will’s wet hand and said, “let’s go to sleep, dear?”
The night almost ended with Hannibal sleeping on the sofa, but Will was merciful.
(+1)
Hannibal was out of town for the week (some kind of psychology seminar that Will didn’t care enough to listen to), the dogs were in doggy daycare, and Will had a hammer in his hand and a personal issue to address with the kitchen.
The first to go were the fucking cupboards, especially the spice cabinet with its old hinges. The second to go was the fucking smoke extractor and Will made sure to hit it enough with the hammer that nobody would be able to tell it was a smoke extractor anymore. Maybe a piece of contemporary art, but definitely not a smoke extractor.
(After hitting it with the hammer enough, Will made a mental note to tell Hannibal about it. Maybe they could use some couples therapy from time to time; hit the loudest smoke extractor every time you want to stab/gut/shoot/kill/choke/open the skull of your spouse and eat his brain. You know, to relieve stress)
The counters followed them without much fuss because Will didn’t hate them that much.
Then, the stove, then the floors, and so on. The pipes were ugly, old and the water was always too cold or too hot, so they met Will’s wrath too. The only one who survived was the microwave because Will would die before parting with such a brave little thing.
When Hannibal arrived seven days later, was to two happily barking dogs and a new, shiny kitchen with countertops that matched the windows, a stove with six calibrated burners and two ovens; cabinets that could face a tornado and don’t even dare to move from their place; a sink with best water pressure than most houses’ showers; new floors, a smoke extractor silent as a mouse with a bright lamp that wasn’t covered in grease; a microwave in plain sight and Will Graham sitting on his stool-to-watch-Hannibal-cook drinking a beer after a week of hard work destroying (and remodeling) a whole kitchen.
“Welcome home!” Will grinned, too proud of his job, holding up his bottle of beer in gesture of a toast “What do you think?”
The night ended with Hannibal carrying his husband upstairs, the new kitchen forgotten until they managed to leave the bed.