Work Text:
Leaving the Uffizi Gallery was harder than Will expected it to be.
His back hurt like hell because being pushed off a train seemingly did that to his body. All his muscles ached because being pushed off a train and then walking the remaining trek through the train tracks all night into the morning and then into the afternoon until he reached Florence, would do that to a person's body. Who would have thought?
The weariness of the last few hours (days, weeks, months, life) was finally catching up to him. It made his sore muscles ache even worse, and the headache developing on his already exhausted mind was becoming so bothersome to the point Will could simply lay on the ground and fell asleep over the stone stairs (even if that wouldn't do any good to his aching body) or in the same room as Hannibal (that was a worse idea than to sleep on Florentine floor) even after... well, everything.
That's a testament to how fucking exhausted Will was.
Hannibal looked like he could use a nap or two, too.
Hannibal looked tired, his usual styled-back hair fell over his eyes giving him a soft look to him, accentuated by his soft-looking sweater. Will didn’t remember if he ever saw Hannibal dressed down like this. He had a still-fresh laceration on his cheek and it brought Will back to Hannibal’s office so far back in their history, when he first saw Hannibal bleed and how he wanted to sit down with him a clean those cuts. The urge to do it came back too, uninvited and with even more force.
Will had seen Hannibal on the bench in front of The Primavera like this, but just now he could stop and see. Inside the Uffizi had Will been too entirely focused on the feeling of having Hannibal back in front of him, the relief of it had eclipsed everything else. Now, he was able to catalog these little things without the excitement of their encounter and all the nerves; Hannibal’s face, Hannibal's clothes, Hannibal's careful walk so as to not put weight on the wound of his leg.
Hannibal looked soft without his clothes and his person suit. Approachable. Vulnerable. Also tired, so very tired. Also content. At peace, now that he had Will at his side.
Will had never thought of the Chesapeake Ripper being able to be wounded. In his mind, The Chesapeake Ripper (Hannibal) was a mythical creature out of the realm of their reality, not bound to any human flaws. Bigger than the Earth, powerful beyond imagination, invincible. The proof that Hannibal (The Chesapeake Ripper) was human was refreshing, welcomed. It was further proof of his vulnerability, his mortality.
If Will were to stab him and put an end to Hannibal Lecter, this would be his best chance.
The knife inside Will's pocket felt heavy, weighted down with the lives lost, the responsibility Will shouldered, and Hannibal’s new extraterrestrial mortality. The last one was the heaviest. The knowledge that if Will were to aim and to maim, that would be it. Hannibal Lecter would cease to exist in the physical world.
Will stroked the blunt side of the blade with his thumb. People always talk about how revenge is best served cold; how sweet it is. Nobody talks ever about how heavy it feels or how bitter it can get.
Will could take a step toward Hannibal, using his own exhaustion and wounds as a cover to lean onto him and find an open. He took a deep breath and instead, he went in the opposite direction and rested his back against a tall stone column.
The thing about revenge it’s that nobody ever explains why it’s better to serve it cold. Because when is still hot and raw, it’s impossible to not burn yourself.
Hannibal observed Will with that neutral look of him. Neutral and calm until Will retrieved a packet of cigarettes and lit one up. Just then Hannibal’s face morphed from openly neutral to slightly surprised.
Hannibal didn’t say a word, but he raised both brows in that stupid pretentious face he made every time Will did something he thought unexpected or curious or interesting.
Will wanted to say ‘is this or stabbing you, so you better shut up’ but it wouldn’t be them if they showed their hand so easily. So he ended up with “I’m trying to keep you away from my lungs.”
A smile flashed on Hannibal’s face. Small and quick, the slightest upturn of his lips that translated as a laugh in any other person. He was pleased with the barb. There was a sparkle of joy in his eyes that Will treasured deep inside his chest.
Hannibal tilted his head as if saying ‘fair enough’ and Will expected him to get on a tangent about how it would also put Will’s tongue and heart out of the table; or start listing which other organs were still able for consumption (clearly not liver, but maybe heart could still be salvageable).
Hannibal did neither of those things.
He extended his hand up to Will, holding his middle and index fingers together, silently asking for a cigarette too.
Will released the smoke in a surprised cloud, succeeding on not choking but just barely. He mimicked Hannibal’s raised eyebrows as he deposited one cigarette between Hannibal’s fingers with the same sense of dull acceptance.
“You’re the last person I thought I would see smoke.”
“I don’t smoke,” Hannibal answered the unspoken question, accepting the lighter Will offered him. “But I tried during my youth for curiosity’s sake, as I tried many other things for the same reason.”
Will imagined a young Hannibal, the one in the picture inspector Pazzi had shown him. Young Hannibal, walking alone through Florentine streets. The orange hue of the cigarette ember decorating the sharp lines of his face. Grey smoke floating on a warm night. Hannibal holding elegantly the cigarette, always focused on aesthetics even when alone, taking deep lungfuls of smoke that bothered his nose and scratched his throat just to see how it felt.
Hannibal flicked the lighter and it made a spark, two sparks, three sparks, but no flame.
Hannibal sent a murderous glare to the plastic lighter as if the thing had a proper consciousness and it was refusing to work just to inconvenience the doctor in particular.
“I also smoked while I worked in the ER. Nicotine works just as good as caffeine and the tobacco was far more palatable than the hospital’s coffee,” Hannibal continued explaining, mumbling the words with the cigarette between his lips, still flicking the spark wheel without success. A frown started to worm itself between his brows as he continued struggling with the lighter and the lighter continued refusing to work.
Maybe, Will thought, the lighter was doing Hannibal a favor. The tobacco Hannibal must have smoked in his youth would surely be better than the packet of store-bought cigarettes Will had found at the side of the train tracks and picked it up because why not? And because, honestly, even if he didn’t smoke he really could use one after, you know being thrown off a train.
Hannibal finally managed to bring a flame to life at the same time a gush of wind blew it off. No matter how Hannibal tried to cover the flame with his body and his free hand, he was a human and no match against a force of nature.
Hannibal dropped his shoulders and Will felt strangely endeared by the pathetic scorched black tip with no ember of Hannibal’s cigarette.
He had never seen Hannibal other than immaculate; never performing a task short of perfect. But here he was, struggling to light up a cigarette against the wind like any other simple mortal on earth.
“Here, try again,” Will said more cheerfully than he intended, gaining himself a glare from Hannibal. He covered the spaces Hannibal couldn’t reach, making a bunker with his hands around Hannibal’s to cover the flame together.
It still didn’t work.
Hannibal huffed, shaking the lighter. Will caught sight of the flesh of Hannibal’s thumb, slightly bruised and growing a darker shade by the bite of the metal spark wheel.
Will treasured the scene. The image of Hannibal doing something less than perfectly, needing help, his body able to bruise and bleed. Hannibal, human, with flaws and ticks that weren’t directly connected to cannibalism and murder.
It helped to cement further the idea that Hannibal was human, with all the things that humanity entails.
The lighter still refused to work.
“Here,” Will said, offering his own lit cigarette halfway consumed and Hannibal sighed again, defeated, trading the cigarette and lighter for Will’s cigarette.
Will fidgeted with the thing for a moment, then clicked the spark wheel and the flame came alive. Hannibal looked murderous, releasing two powerful puffs of smoke from his nose like the caricature of a bull, and Will assumed that was how he must look like when he decided someone had to die.
“That thing has a personal vendetta against me,” Hannibal said and Will resisted the urge to laugh.
“As do many other people,” Will teased back.
Hannibal agreed with a demure tilt of his head, already resigned to the idea.
Will basked at the moment. The genuine experience of being fully behind the veil in such a pedestrian slice-of-life-like scenario. But it shattered quickly, bringing them to that limbo where they were bound to live.
“Do you?” Hannibal asked overly casual, as nonchalantly as someone can be while asking ‘are you planning to kill me?’ while taking another drag of the cigarette. Maybe more nonchalantly, since he was Hannibal and not another simple mortal. He was mortal, but not simple.
He returned the cigarette to Will, their gazes locked as Will took it.
Will forced his shoulders to relax, but the tension was palpable. He focused his eyes on Hannibal’s chin, borrowing some of Hannibal’s casual neutrality when he answered.
“Would I be sharing a cigarette with you if I did?”
Will tried his best as to not succumb to his anxiety and cover with his hand the knife-shaped form inside his pocket. It would be a too-obvious tell.
“Probably not, but it’s always difficult to predict you,” Hannibal said, trailing his eyes to Will’s hand, observing how the ember consumed one of the thin circles of gunpowder. Then he returned his gaze to Will’s eyes. “Maybe the knife in your pocket just confused me.”
Will tensed, refusing to let a shiver run through his body. Neither of them did or say anything while the cigarette kept consuming itself between Will’s fingers, trailing a line of smoke upwards.
Hannibal continued to watch him, eerily still and calculating, waiting for Will to do something. Will drew the cigarette to his lips.
The litter was slightly damp, and Will couldn’t stop himself from dragging the tip of his tongue over the yellowish tip. Hannibal’s wet saliva brought an uncomfortable relief to his chapped lips.
It made Will think of teenager-like scenarios. Like a high schooler drinking from the same bottle as their crush did a moment earlier, relinquishing in the fantasy of a secret kiss. The tobacco was bitter, probably (surely) nothing like the elegant and expensive brand young Hannibal –and posteriorly– slightly less young but still young surgeon Dr. Lecter used to smoke.
The remaining of Hannibal’s saliva was getting cold on his lips, and Will had that oh moment where puzzle pieces came together; that spark of realization in which he found himself wondering how Hannibal’s lips would feel pressed against his (plush, soft, probably); how Hannibal’s saliva would taste (warm, with a bitter aftertaste of tobacco); how Hannibal’s hair would feel between his fingers (soft, soft, soft); how Hannibal’s tongue and teeth would feel (hot, sharp, powerful).
Huh. So that was how it felt like. That was the moment of truth, the terrible (wonderful, dreadful) ‘oh’ moment. Will was incredibly proud that Hannibal’s eyes didn’t bore into his soul nor had melted his face off with the intensity of his eyes. Will was proud that he hadn’t immediately torn open his stitches and spilled his guts at Hannibal’s feet.
The lighter had a personal vendetta against Hannibal, but it seemed that the universe had one against Will.
He was in love with Hannibal Lecter.
(Are you happy, universe? He had just admitted he was in love with Hannibal Lecter)
Will took the last drag of his cigarette before crushing it with his shoe, smearing ashes all over century-old stone streets. Then, Will walked down towards a trash bin a few steps away from where they stood, all the way with Hannibal’s eyes boring holes on his back
Will stood purposefully petulant at the side of the bin, showing Hannibal the knife as he held the thing over the bin before dramatically dropping it inside.
There.
Hannibal acknowledged the action with an overly casual nod.
“Do you think we have time for me to take a nap at your place?” Will asked, stretching his back as he returned to Hannibal’s side. Then they both resumed their walk.
Hannibal hesitated for a second, weighing the pros and cons of it before he said, “It should be safer if you were to nap in the plane, we may be short of time.”
“Great,” Will sighed, rolling his shoulders. The action made their knuckles brush, and then Will realized how close they were walking by. Will made no move to put any space between them, but he did turn his face to look at Hannibal.
Will bit his tongue when he realized how nonsensically handsome Hannibal looked up close with his soft hair falling over his tired face; with the dry scabs decorating his cheekbone, and day-old stubble. He refused to say any of that out loud.
“Coffee?” Will asked instead.
Their hands brushed again. Hannibal seemed to be even closer now, and their shoulders brushed along with their hands.
“I could make some for us, yes,” Hannibal agreed. “You look like you could use a cup.”
“Try a jar,” Will rolled his shoulders again. Another brush. He felt one of his bones make a soft pop.
More brushes. They were short of time but that didn’t seem to stop Hannibal from walking purposely slower. Will had seen him take a beating twice, three now, he knew Hannibal could take it.
Will shook his head, rolled his eyes with a sigh, and took Hannibal’s hand in his.
“If you want to hold my hand, commit to it and do it.”
Hannibal looked perplexed at their fingers entwined, with big eyes open wide. He blinked once, then twice, then thrice. Will felt a stab of pride at shaking him so much of his edge. Hannibal squeezed his hand, then did it again to make sure he wasn’t the one suddenly developing a case of encephalitis. He pursued his lips to control a smile but he didn’t succeed.
When he spoke next, it was with the same casual, detached tone he would use in his office, “Are you committed, Will?”
Will swore he regretted throwing his knife into the trash at that moment. He stopped in his tracks and Hannibal stopped at his side.
Will honestly had no energy left to deal with that. He only wanted a cup of strong coffee and a plane seat where he could sleep, and maybe share a blanket with Hannibal and maybe drop his head on Hannibal’s shoulder and wake up with neck pain but still holding Hannibal’s hand.
He didn’t even want first class. Will was so tired he was sure he could sleep in the wing of the plane if the crew tied him well enough to it.
Will didn’t answer verbally, but he took a step towards Hannibal and with his free hand cupped Hannibal’s cheek and guided them into a kiss.
Hannibal tasted, as expected, slightly like tobacco. Will mentally congratulated Hannibal for having some self-restraint and not biting him during their first kiss but waiting for the second. Hannibal’s lips were soft, softer than they looked and even softer than Will had imagined, and his hair was soft (soft, soft, soft, so soft ) between his fingers.
Will was slightly surprised (and maybe a little bit disappointed) when he didn’t find himself pushed against a column, pressed between stone and Hannibal’s warm body and soft-looking sweater. His back instead was very grateful for that.
Hannibal sighed in the kiss and Will’s heart swooned, endeared by it and by the way Hannibal leaned into the kiss and wrapped his arm around Will’s waist, softly placing his hand on the small of his back.
The kiss ended far too quickly for Will’s taste – and judging by the way Hannibal leaned further following Will’s body, and pursuing Will’s lips for another short, chaste kiss, Will assumed that it had felt too short for Hannibal too.
But that was alright. Once they were settled wherever Hannibal deemed safe enough to settle, they could resume it and kiss each other senseless as much as they wanted.
For now, they were short of time, and Will would very much like some coffee. They would have time later to get acquaintanced with each other's tongues, teeth and bodies correctly.
“Let’s go?” He asked, squeezing Hannibal’s hand.
Will saw the intricate machine that was Hannibal’s brain work behind his eyes. He could almost hear it as Hannibal weighed the idea of being caught by the FBI against kissing Will again.
After a moment he decided that another kiss (as long as it was short and chaste) wouldn’t hurt. Then, they started walking again.