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Will isn’t entirely sure where he ends and Hannibal begins. They’re connected in way that probably isn’t healthy. It’s certainly not for everyone surrounding them. He can’t bring himself to care, though, not anymore. He used to get extremely anxious about it, fretting over where on earth whatever it is he and Hannibal have is going, but all of that was thrown out the airplane window. Everything that made him nervous is residing at the bottom of the Atlantic.
Either way, it’s not as if he could extract himself from the man if he tries. There are some separation surgeries that are impossible to survive, for both parties.
Will yanks his blade across the throat he’s holding. There’s a gurgle and a splatter, eyes rolling back, and the body drops from his grip to land at his feet. It’s not the most artful job, but not everything has to be a Botticelli.
If Hannibal disagrees, he’s not saying anything. He watches from his seat, hands folded and a strange little smile on his face.
They stare at each other, silence filling the room as the record skips, Sinatra breaking off for a few beats.
They were very fond of Sinatra, this couple, and even more fond of the era he occupied. Their house had somewhat of a 1960s feel to it. Maybe it was only nostalgia, but it was classy, and Will had enjoyed eating with them.
“I’ve Got You Under My Skin” tumbles back into the room as the needle finds a groove again.
Will almost laughs, because it’s so fitting.
________
Hannibal watches Will’s shoulders move with heavy breath. He’d taken the initiative, this time, returning from the hall powder room only to shove a kitchen knife in the husband’s jugular.
The wife hadn’t even gotten a chance to scream. Will’s hands were on her quickly, and he murdered her while the husband watched in dying, mute horror, knife handle sticking out of his neck.
Hannibal didn’t have to lift a finger. It was quite the show.
He watches Will begin to wipe fingerprints off of surfaces, and blood off the soles of his shoes. It’s odd, maybe a bit amusing, definitely thrilling, the place Will has taken in Hannibal’s life. Hannibal knows that he had a large part in it, in allowing Will to worm his way to Hannibal’s core.
People’s lives, even his own life - they’re like tinker toys: wind them up and watch them go. They scurry around, frantic and chattering, and some may even walk themselves off the table, smashing to pieces on the floor. Hannibal plays with them until they break or worse, and then finds a new lot. Some of his toys have been more interesting than others, but never has a toy come to life for him, until Will. He’s found himself a real-life Pinocchio. Will’s cut his strings, and he is not broken, and he’s somehow made himself Hannibal’s equal. His companion.
It’s definitely odd. The devotion Hannibal has for his toy-made-man is all-consuming, but he can’t seem to be bothered by the idea. He may be Will’s, but Will is also his, and it has been that way long before Will decided to return the favor and stake his own claim. This suits Hannibal fine, the knowledge that the blood-splashed man in front of him is entirely his own.
Hannibal is proud of the accomplishment. Will is not Jack’s, he is not Alana’s. He is Hannibal’s
The fingerprints are gone, Will is staring again, and so is Hannibal. He stands, walking close enough to feel the heat radiating off of Will’s torso. He smells like iron and sweat.
He’s still breathing heavily, looking at Hannibal’s lips with his own parted mouth. Hannibal accepts the desperate invitation, hunger written in his hold on Will’s face.
_______
Will stares at the ceiling from their bed. Hannibal is asleep next to him, warm with nothing to separate them. Will looks over at his face and chuckles. He looks very different, in something as peaceful as sleep. It’s an act that is incredibly hard to picture Hannibal doing, unless observed first hand.
Obviously, everyone sleeps, but it almost seems like he wouldn’t. He sleeps even better than Will does, though Will has the fuzz of his thoughts to thank for that.
They’re getting better, the longer he’s here. Hannibal shifts and Will inhales deep, letting contentment fill up his lungs along with his breath. If he’s lucky, they’ll be here long enough that the fuzz dissipates entirely. Or rather, he’ll be with Hannibal long enough - the place doesn’t matter, as long as he has this. He doesn’t see that changing anytime soon though, and he’s grateful. Will has chosen this, chosen Hannibal, and he intends to keep to it. That line was crossed long before Will even realized the line existed.
Will moves a few stray hairs out of Hannibal’s face.
He’s always known that Hannibal, in as classy a way as possible, likes to throw the shit at the wall to see what sticks. Will just happens to be one of the things that stuck, if a little shakily at first. It’s interesting, how he transitioned from plaything to something actually important in Hannibal’s life. Actually, immensely important - important enough that he built a new life for Will. Something they could inhabit together. He’d made a place for Will, something Will isn’t sure he’s ever seen Hannibal do. It wasn’t on a shelf either, it was next to him. It was in him.
They’d shoved their hands into each other’s minds and hearts and got them stuck there - wonderfully, horrifically wedged in bones and muscle.
________
Hannibal watches Will study the Botticelli like is he finding a thousand new details, even though he’s seen the painting almost every week since they came here.
It’s endearing, the fervor in which he’s taken to Florence. It’s also flattering.
Hannibal watches Will, and thinks of all he’s done for him; things he’s completely dropped solely for his sake. He built this life for them, for him, in one of his favorite cities. But if he had found that Will did not like it, Hannibal would have picked them up and made another life, in another city - in every city until Will loved one as much as Hannibal loves Florence.
They leave the Uffizi with their hands laced. It’s near noon, and they’re meeting Abigail for lunch. Will speaks to him in hushed, fond tones about their surrogate daughter, and Hannibal smiles.
He knows how much he would do for Will. It’s concerning, as much as it is intoxicating.
________
It’s well after dinner when Will’s phone rings. He doesn’t recognize the number. It’s true that the only two contacts saved are Hannibal and Abigail, but no one else should have his number, either.
Will stares at the screen for a beat and then answers, before realizing it might be an awfully bad idea to do so.
“Pronto.”
“Hello, Will. How are you?” Jack’s voice comes ringing through the line, deep and clear and full of intent.
Will slams the end button.
________
Hannibal sits next to Abigail on the piano bench, playing the instrument with her. He never did get to teach her the harpsichord, but the piano was the next best option.
They break and he pushes the hair away from the side of her face, looking at the puckered and scarred area where her ear used to be, wondering briefly how she explains it away. He taught her well, he knows it must be believable.
He thinks back to the time of the injury, and glances behind him towards the kitchen. Will hadn’t come out of his chrysalis, then, not yet. It was such a different time, from where they are now.
Will walks back into the living room and asks what piece they were practicing, fond, and in the beautiful, transformed state Hannibal’s made him to be.
_________
Jack calls again, in the middle of the day this time, when Will is alone in the large apartment. Abigail is in school and Hannibal is at the university, and Will feels trapped into staying on the phone. There’s no one to overhear, and something about Jack’s voice is comforting.
It’s an echo of his old life, who he used to be. He wouldn’t trade this for it, he never would, but sometimes he thinks back to it. It was marginally simpler before Hannibal, and Abigail, and everything these last two years have brought him. Jack used to be a stable constant, before Hannibal took his place as a somewhat less stable, but still very constant, entity.
“How are you, Will?” He asks again, and he’s genuine about it. Underneath everything, Jack had been his friend. And there’s a hint that he still thinks that. Will does too.
Will doesn’t speak, not sure what to say. He’s committed to this call, however dangerous it is, so he might as well think before he opens his mouth.
“You can be honest with me Will.”
Jack always did have somewhat of an authoritative, fatherly tone with Will. It still hasn’t left.
“I’m fine, Jack,” Will accedes.
“Hannibal treating you well?” He says this tightly, but with an air of slight amusement that conveys he can’t quite believe he is actually asking this question.
Will nods just as tightly, and then realizes a nod cannot be seen over the phone.
“…Yes, he is.”
A pause.
“Why are you calling, Jack?”
“I think you know, Will.” That’s another idiosyncrasy that hasn’t dulled. Jack’s ability to give a straight answer declines significantly when he feels like you should already know what he wants.
Will thinks he does, Jack can’t want anything else, but he does not answer.
“I know where you are. It wasn’t hard to follow the trail, if you know where to look. And I know where.”
Will’s about to ask if the call is being monitored, when Jack beats him to it. “I’m retired; no one’s on the line except you and me. But he’s going to get caught eventually. You all are. Don’t you think it’s better if he gets caught by me, than anybody else? I’m only after him, Will.”
Will sits on a bar stool, still not speaking.
“I’ll let you and Abigail go. Just help me catch him.”
He doesn’t ask how Jack knows Abigail is alive, just sits in silence, until Jack sighs, and hangs up the phone.
He’ll call again, Will is sure.
__________
There’s something very intimate in cooking dinner with Will, because Hannibal is able to share every part of the process with him.
Will asks him about his day, plates clanking in the background as Abigail places them on the table. It’s all very domestic, and it’s something that, if told to him years before, Hannibal is sure he would have never suspected to get this much enjoyment out of it, and certainly not for any substantial length of time.
The idea of it is pleasant, but he could have never conceived it working in practice, simply because there was no one with whom he would want to share everything. There was no room for such transparency in his life. Nor was there an interest.
Will peels back the skin on a potato. It’s strange to him, how his own skin seems to flake off around Will until there is nothing left. He is raw and exposed; Will has flayed him piece by piece, and Hannibal gave him the knife.
He doesn’t regret it. Will has accepted this exposed state, he seems to understand its implications, the uniqueness of it. Hannibal only notes that he has yet to give the knife back, and turn it on himself.
__________
The third time Jack calls Will is tempted to throw his phone out the window. Will doesn’t answer, and over a week passes before he calls a fourth time.
He’d given Will time to think.
Will can almost hear Jack’s smile when he picks up.
“I’ll help you,” Will says, and Jack’s grin is loud.
__________
Hannibal waits for his knife, but it does not come. He thinks he might have to pry it out of Will’s hands, soon. He wonders if maybe, Will does not understand as well as Hannibal thought he did.
There must be a give and take, and Will has only taken.
He knows Jack calls, and he knows that Will answers.
__________
Will is standing out on the apartment’s balcony, looking over the city and spinning his phone between his fingers. Jack had just called again. He doesn’t hear Abigail come up behind him.
“Will?”
He starts, nearly dropping his phone.
“What’s up with you, lately? Is something wrong?”
Will slips his phone in his back pocket, and sighs as Abigail comes up to the railing beside him.
“You can tell me. He won’t know, I promise.”
I’m returning the favor, her eyes say.
Will runs a hand through his hair, opening his mouth to speak, then closing it again. They’re silent for a while, watching the city light up the night.
“Do you trust me?” Will asks.
“Yes.”
He cradles her face, brushing the hair away. “I’ll keep you safe, Abigail. Please believe that.”
Will walks back inside, leaving her on the balcony. She calls after him, confused and worried. He knows she would never say anything, not if he asked, but he can’t bring her into this. He won’t put that on her shoulders, and he won’t put her in harm’s way.
__________
Abigail is standing in the doorway, unsure. It’s a different tone than her normal composure.
“Is there something you wish to tell me, Abigail?” Hannibal looks up from the papers scattered on his desk. She almost looks guilty by being here.
“If Will asked you not to speak to me about something, it is courteous to honor that.” There’s a dangerous undercurrent to his voice, but it is not directed at her. Don’t shoot the messenger, is the common turn of phrase.
Abigail starts slightly, but she recovers, musters the strength Hannibal knows she has and stands firm. “I’m worried about him.”
Hannibal says nothing at first, then beckons her to his side. He turns his chair and takes her hands, looking up at her. “Will has a decision to make, Abigail. He might not make the right one. It’s right to be worried about him.”
Abigail stays silent.
“He needs to make this choice on his own. And you need to be prepared if he chooses wrong.”
Abigail’s face clears at the words, focused, and Hannibal can feel her tiny hooks pick at him. She has a small presence in him, just below the surface, no deeper than his capillaries. She’s never been able to get too far into his flesh, not like Will. Will has reached his bones.
Her head tilts slightly as she asks: “Are you prepared?”
She lets go of his hands and leaves his office.
_________
A week passes and Will finds himself sitting on an old stone wall in the courtyard of a large stone building, trying to quiet the fuzz in his head.
It’s gotten worse, ever since Jack called.
Will watches him walk calmly up to the University, exactly on time. It’s late, but there are still several offices with lights on. Hannibal’s is one of them.
He offers Will a smile, and Will tries to return the gesture, but it’s forced and ugly.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Jack reassures him.
Will does not respond to the attempt at comfort, and instead offers, in a tight but still sincere voice: “It’s…good to see you Jack.”
Jack claps a firm, and in his own way, affectionate, hand on Will’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you too, Will.”
They’re silent for a while, standing out in the night under the shadow of the old building. Jack is the first to speak again.
“Is he inside?”
Will nods, and points to a window, 3 floors up. Jack walks towards the wooden double doors, and Will follows.
“You don’t have to come with me Will. You shouldn’t, actually. You need to leave, or I might not be able to keep my promise.”
Will looks at Jack, shakes off his nerves and his guilt, and stands firm. He’s made his choice, he needs to stick with it. The only flaw in this logic is that he still hasn’t convinced himself it is the right one.
“I want to come with you.”
Jack raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.
_________
Hannibal works at his desk, unhurried and meticulous.
He is prepared, for whatever choice Will makes. Hannibal makes a point to never be unprepared for anything.
He shouldn’t have to be prepared for this, he doesn’t want to be. But he must, and he is.
_________
There’s music coming from the record player in Hannibal’s office. Will can hear it through the door - Sinatra. It’s the record Will decided to take from the couple they killed, about a month ago.
It’s not Hannibal’s usual choice in records. It had struck a chord with Will though; he could relate to the words.
It’s muffled, but Will can just make out the lyrics.
“I’d sacrifice anything…”
Will smiles, soft, a calm washing over him at the memory. He opens the door for Jack, ushering him inside and locking it behind them both.
_________
“Where’s Will?”
Abigail’s voice is soft. She’s sitting in a chair near the fireplace in Hannibal’s apartment office, reading a book for school.
“I assume he is with Jack Crawford.” Hannibal does not look up from his papers. His voice holds a nonchalance about the subject that is not honest, though it is almost impossible to tell.
“Is he making his choice?”
“I believe he is.”
Abigail closes her book and looks at him. “If he was making the wrong one, he would have met him last night, when you were at the University.”
It’s a highly valid point, and Hannibal smiles, small. Will may return his knife yet.
__________
The lock clicks, and Jack turns around. There’s an impatient anger in his movements. Will can see the realization dawning on him.
“Will, where is he?”
“At home, with Abigail. I’m going to be going home tonight. You can too, if you promise to leave us alone.” Will’s voice holds a dangerous quality. It leaks into the implications his words offer, making his intentions nothing less than crystal clear.
“You know I can’t do that.” Jack stands firm. Will knows he’s going to try and reason with him. It won’t work, not this time.
Something like a chuckle rushes out of Will, short and barely there. “I’m not going to let you kill him, Jack.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small knife, and Jack does the same. They’re still several feet apart.
“You’re not yourself, Will. Let me help you. Let me help Abigail!”
Will’s voice remains even. “I am myself, Jack. I have never been more myself than when I’m with him.”
Jack takes on a fighting stance, and Will feels his gut fill up with guilt. Jack had been his friend, he is a good man. He doesn’t deserve this death, at Will’s hands. Distantly, he hears Jack apologize for how this is going to end.
He takes advantage of Will’s hesitation and lunges, and his blade plunges into flesh.
Will gasps in pain, whispers “I’m sorry,” and swings his own knife.
__________
Hannibal hears the front door bang open, and Abigail shout.
“Will!”
A thump rings through the rooms, followed by Abigail’s running footfalls. She reaches his study, hands and shirt covered in blood.
Hannibal stands, abrupt, fluttering his papers. When he reaches the front door, Abigail at his heels, he finds Will unconcious, soaking in red.
Something in Hannibal inflates at the sight.
“Abigail, check the fire escape down the hall for blood. Clean it up, and then go to your room.”
_________
Will inhales sharply, hissing through his teeth as the needle pierces his skin. Hannibal pulls the thread through his flesh, slowly, intimately.
Will had come to halfway through his second set of stitches. This was his fifth, and final.
It hurts to breathe; he must have a bruised rib, maybe even fractured. But he has to speak, Hannibal has to know.
“…Jack….” Will cringes with pain and effort.
“I know.”
“I..did it for you…” he gasps, gripping Hannibal’s arm tightly.
Hannibal nods, hands gentle on his wounded hip. He finishes the neat line of stitching with a knot, bandages it, and stands, pulling Will with him. Hannibal cradles his face, foreheads almost touching. One hand traces it’s way down Will’s spine, lightly, raising goosebumps and causing a shiver.
“Thank you, Will.”
Will exhales, eyes closed. His head lolls to the side somewhat, exposing his neck, and Hannibal slowly places a kiss there.
The world becomes languid, unhurried and indulgent in its passage of time. Hannibal moves his lips to Will’s jaw, to the corner of his mouth, and stops, pressing a hand into the small of Will’s back and resting his forehead on Will’s temple. They exhale in warm, tiny puffs, sharing the air.
Will repeats to himself over and over that this is right, but something inside of him still struggles to reconcile Jack’s murder.
He’s killed several people since arriving in Florence, and they meant nothing, until now. Will gasps again, as Hannibal presses his thumbs into his hips and runs his mouth over his jugular.
This kill, this means everything. All that he used to be is dead, and everything that he is, that he should be, consumes him.
Will thinks to himself, how grand a gesture this was, and how deep his devotion runs. There’s nothing of him, now, that Will has kept for himself. Hannibal runs his hands over him, and Will can feel everything they are tangling together, intertwining and completely inseparable.
He thinks, as he noses Hannibal’s jaw and his cheek and captures his mouth, that, at least, Jack died for this.
They’ve reached their bed, and Hannibal undoes him, in every way he can.
__________
In the privacy of their room and in the presence of Will’s gift Hannibal feels any covering he had disintegrate. He is bare, and so is Will.
Will is stripped down to his nerves, to almost nothing. He’s been remade.
This is how it should be. This is right.
__________
Hannibal is changing Will’s bandages. It’s early, Abigail isn’t awake yet, and the morning is still grey with the setting moon.
“Did it feel good, to kill Jack?” Hannibal’s voice is direct. There’s an emotion lying just beneath it. Will is still not used to how easy it is for him to reach out and grab those feelings, to pull them out like flowers in soft earth.
Will watches Hannibal tape gauze on a row of stitches, and decides to be honest. There’s nothing left to hide anymore.
“No. But it felt right.”
Hannibal quirks the corner of his mouth up, helping Will stand. Will bites his lip from the pain.
He looks at Hannibal’s face, searching, and he finds pride, as expected, along with a multitude of other things. One of them looks like love, in it’s rawest form. Will reaches for it, picks at its petals.
“You knew he called.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Hannibal smiles at him. “You needed to make this decision yourself, Will. It was necessary that I did not interfere. I was waiting for when you would show me the same level of fidelity and dedication I have given to you. But that cannot be forced out of person.”
“I would never have chosen differently,” Will knows this is true; it’s carved into every inch of him, overlaid with Hannibal’s fingerprints.
“I know, Will. But some things must be proven. Saying you will or you won’t means nothing without the actions to support it.”
Will’s smile only just reaches his eyes. There’s still a needle sticking into him, in his heart and his mind, trying to fault him for his actions. But its effects are dulling, however slowly. Soon Jack’s bloody, dead face will not be an end in Will’s mind. It will only be a beginning.
The thought brings small bubbles of euphoria into Will’s throat. “Have I supported it with sufficient action, then?” His tone borders on flirtatious, needle be damned.
“I believe you have.”
Will dares to chuckle, against the pain in his ribs and the small stabbing in his heart. Both will pass. And when they do, he will still have this. It’s a mild pain, compared to what he would suffer if this new life was lost.
He thinks this again, over breakfast, when the news announces Jack’s body was found, 4 blocks from the University.