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There is a scorched, acrid scent in the frigid Alsacien air, discernible as soon as Hannibal opens the car door. It is even stronger when he steps inside the house. A haze of smoke hangs heavy down the hall. The dogs are huddled together in their bed by the fireplace in the living room, looking mournfully at Hannibal as if he is to blame for the smell assaulting their sensitive snouts.
The smoke leads into the kitchen, from which issues the discordant sound of a stainless steel skillet landing none too gently on the glass stove top. Hannibal inhales deeply, and under the initial bitter nose that sticks in the back of his throat, there is the lemon, thyme, the sweet, smoky hint of toasted pecan, and the sharp woody smell of asparagus.
Curiosity replaces mild concern, and he steps into the kitchen. Will has flung open every window and the back door in an effort to clear the smoke and the room is caught in a strange flux of moist heat from the oven and various stove eyes, and bitter cold from the winter wind.
The sink is overflowing with dishes. The island is covered in used measuring cups and spoons, mixing bowls, three different cutting boards but only one knife, the lemon press and garlic press, and every single part of the food processor disassembled and coated in a thick grey sauce.
Under any other circumstances, finding his kitchen in such a state of disarray might cause him some measure of irritation, but in the centre of the mess is Will in nothing but one of Hannibal’s aprons and a pair of boxers, cursing under his breath as he scrapes at the saucepan with a wooden spoon. He looks particularly appealing with his skin flushed in the heat, hair even curlier than usual, damp from steam.
Hannibal clears his throat and Will doesn’t exactly jump, but it’s a near thing. He’s certainly not the skittish thing he once was. Will turns around, arms crossed defensively across his chest and glares.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Hannibal says, drawing a finger through the grey sauce and bringing it closer to sniff. Goat cheese, red wine vinegar, dijon mustard. It doesn’t smell nearly as unappetising as it looks.
Winston, the lone mutt willing to suffer with the smoke to stay close to his master, sniffs hopefully at Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal wipes it on a dish towel and goes to get a treat from the jar on the shelf instead.
“You aren’t supposed to be home for another half hour,” Will says, lips pinched.
Hannibal holds out one of the handmade dog biscuits and Winston takes it from his fingers delicately. “Were you planning a visit from your fairy godmother to clean the place in the next thirty minutes?” He casts a pointed look around them.
Will huffs a breath, a little derisive tilt to his head, and turns back to the saucepan. “I might have gotten a load of dishes started.”
“Will,” Hannibal says, closing his eyes for a second and taking extra effort to keep his tone even. “We’ve discussed the proper care for ceramic and the stainless steel.”
“Some of it’s pyrex,” Will snaps, gesturing in the general direction of the mess on the counter.
There is no good reason for Hannibal to find his attitude anything other than uncivil, let alone endearing and mildly arousing. “I’ll take care of the dishes,” he says. He feels rather magnanimous.
Hannibal can’t see his face, but he has the distinct feeling Will is smirking. Well, Hannibal has long ago given up any animus over being played by him. These days it’s manipulating him into domestic labour and sexual favours, which Hannibal would gladly do regardless. Certainly there’s a thrill at how Will knows exactly where to apply pressure to get what he wants, and isn’t ashamed to do it.
“I was going to shower and put on something a little more appropriate for dinner.”
“Well then,” Hannibal says, stepping close to slide a hand around Will’s waist, between skin and apron. Will is warm, stomach fluttering under his touch, and he allows Hannibal to tug him back to lean against his chest. Hannibal presses a kiss behind his ear, another under the corner of his jaw. “I’m glad I came home early.”
He rests his chin on Will’s shoulder, taking in the contents of the pan and Will says, “Royal bream, mullet, and scallops, with roasted asparagus and sweet potato medallions. It’s almost ready, except the topping for the potatoes. I still have to add the pecans--the first batch burnt.”
That is perfectly obvious, but Hannibal keeps that observation to himself, as well as the thought that the meal seems a rather ambitious first solo effort. “I hope I don’t sound unappreciative in asking what inspired your sudden culinary experiment?”
Will flips off the stove eye and turns in his arms. His brow is arched in an expression that Hannibal has come to learn can lead to either very pleasant things, or very disagreeable ones, dependent entirely on how Hannibal proceeds. Will says nothing, only holds the wooden spoon to Hannibal’s lips. Showing any hesitation now will not work to his favour, so he opens his mouth obediently.
The sound of pleased surprise Hannibal makes is purely reactionary. The fish is tender and flakey, with a rich umami flavour thanks to the Maillard reaction, seasoned with fennel and fresh red chili. The asparagus retains the slightest crispness, flavour brought out by the lemon and sea salt. He doesn’t even realise he’s closed his eyes until Will makes a faint, amused sound.
“I should probably be insulted by your lack of faith,” Will says, setting the spoon aside.
“It’s delicious,” Hannibal says honestly. His brow furrows in confusion. “Why did you never say anything?”
“What, and deprive you of the opportunity to show off your own skills? I’m not some amazing chef, I’ve just never been a fan of fast food and frozen meals, and I can follow a recipe. Besides, I certainly don’t know how to run a kitchen,” he says, a self-deprecating look cast at the mess around them.
“As usual you downplay your talents,” Hannibal says.
“I thought of telling you before, but I figured I’d save it for a special occasion.” Will is smiling now, more pliable in his hands. The stress over being caught unawares is melting. He drapes his arms over Hannibal’s shoulders.
Hannibal must take a moment, retreating into his mind, checking the date and rifling through his memories for any hint of what special occasion Will refers to. When the realisation comes to him, he smiles in dark pride.
Will grins back and presses a quick kiss to his lips, biting hard enough to sting when they part. “I figured this time I could dress up the meal a little more before laying it out on your table,” he says cheekily.
Hannibal can’t resist stealing another kiss, licking along the seam of Will’s mouth until he opens. Will digs his fingers in the back of Hannibal’s neck, and he sucks on Hannibal’s tongue with a hungry little sound that goes straight to Hannibal’s cock. He slides his hand over the smooth, exposed skin of Will’s back, cold from the winter air and Will shivers.
When Hannibal grabs a handful of that pert ass, however, Will makes a muffled protest and pulls back, dancing out of Hannibal’s reach. “I went out in that snow at the crack of dawn to get the fish. I bought some stupidly expensive bottle of Châteauneuf du Pape Blanc. I have been slaving over the stove for hours, and I already burnt one batch of pecans. We are not letting my food go cold and get ruined.”
Hannibal cages him into the bend of the counter, and Will gives himself away by not even struggling when Hannibal leans in to nibble along the column of his neck. Will lets his head fall back and sighs. “I swear to god, Hannibal, if you make some pun about eating me instead, I will leave this fucking house.”
Hannibal bites down hard on an old bruise over Will’s collarbone, faded to pale yellow, and sucking it back to a vivid purple-pink. It’s gratifying, the gasping, wanton sound Will makes, the way his fingers entwine in Hannibal’s hair and hold him in place. They both know if Hannibal tries to take him to bed, Will won’t resist.
Will has made this incredibly romantic gesture, and that is a very rare thing indeed. Hannibal can’t allow it to go to waste. He makes himself withdraw, even when Will reaches out, hips straining forward, letting out a helpless, lost moan.
He masterfully resists the urge to make any comment about saving Will for dessert and goes to gather the china and flatware, and crystal for the wine. The burnt smell is still permeating the air and he says, “Perhaps we should take dinner in the conservatory this evening.” He manages to dodge the towel that Will swipes at him on his way out of the room.
There is a chill to the air in the conservatory, and after he sets the table, Hannibal builds a fire. He leaves off the chandelier and lights candles instead. The soft, warm light reflects in the windowed walls, faintly illuminating the snow drifts outside, but beyond that, it is pitch black this far outside the city. The conservatory is an island of light and warmth in the dark.
Will brings in the dishes and disappears long enough to pull on a pair of slacks and one of Hannibal’s sweaters. Besides the pleasure it brings him to see Will dressed in his clothing, Hannibal enjoys the way his scent lingers after. He will wear clothing to the office without laundering it, smiling when he catches a hint of churned earth and suede, and the crisp, clean scent of the river.
They sit together at the side of the table, huddled close to the fire and one another. The dogs have gathered hopefully around the table, watching carefully for any dropped crumb. Will pours the wine and takes his in hand, holding it up but not drinking. He has a thoughtful look on his face. Hannibal leans in to steal a quick kiss from those pouting lips and murmurs, “What are you thinking, my love?”
Will smiles, nuzzles his cheek against Hannibal’s. “An appropriate toast,” he says, then raises his glass higher in salute. “To Randall Tier, whose ending facilitated my beginning.”
“To Randall Tier,” Hannibal agrees, and clinks their glasses together.