Work Text:
Will woke to the sun glaring through their bedroom window, still tinged red from dawn. It came over the hills at just the right angle. Hannibal was a solid, motionless lump beside him, only the top of his head visible.
"You should've bought curtains," Will whispered.
Hannibal didn't stir.
Will sat up and stuck a pillow behind his back and stretched. He'd been home less than a week, but his feet already hurt less. His back, recovered from Beverly's sagging guest bed, hardly ached at all. Hannibal would, eventually, wake up and make breakfast, and he'd even started asking what Will wanted.
Will hoped that would last past the initial period of relief that he wasn't dead. It was nice having some say in what he ate, if only in the mornings.
"I was thinking about bookcases while I was gone," Will said softly, not quite whispering now. "Building some, I mean. If you hadn't bought any by the time I got home. It doesn't look like you've bought much. That chair for the kitchen. The dining room table. But you've still got your books stacked against the walls in the study."
He picked up Hannibal's current book from the packing box being used as a bedside table. He'd finished Montaigne and started Don Quixote, in the original Spanish. Of course. Will flipped through the book. He could pick out a few words from half remembered high school classes, but that was all.
"Seems like a weird choice for you," he said.
"It's a classic story," Hannibal said, words slurred by sleep. He turned over and draped his upper body across Will's lap.
Will stroked his exposed back and then pulled the blanket up to cover him. The mornings were getting cooler. He slid his fingers through Hannibal's fine, soft hair. "You'll have to teach me Spanish too," he said.
"I said we'd start with French."
"We did. I can talk to people now. I don't need to read Montaigne."
"Everyone needs to read Montaigne," Hannibal mumbled. He curled an arm around Will's waist. "Your accent is nearly unbearable."
"Yeah, yeah. I'll get better."
"Will you? When?"
Will tugged his hair gently. "Give me time. It took a while to drop the Georgia drawl."
Hannibal turned his head just enough to look up at him. "Why did you?"
"There are southern accents you can get away with up north, and there are southern accents that make people think you're a dumb hick. Guess which kind I grew up with."
"Do you really think it made such a difference?"
"I know it did. My grades went up, and it wasn't because I was working any harder. People don't know they're doing it. Well, most of them don't."
"And the ones that do?"
"You're not the first person to call my accent unbearable. We can't all be mysterious foreign nobility."
Hannibal made a disgruntled sound and turned his face toward Will's thigh again. "It has been to my advantage to remain set apart. It excused my eccentricities and allowed for few close connections."
"What about Lithuanian?"
Hannibal eyed him from under the fringe of his hair. "What about it?"
"Would you teach me?"
"It would be useless to you."
"Not if we go there."
"We won't."
Hannibal said it with such finality that the words might've been carved on a stone tablet and dumped on Will's chest. Their quiet force left him breathless for a second.
"Okay," he said. He marked that down as a subject not to be raised again for a good long time. "It'd be nice to understand that story though. About the woman and the snakes. I can remember how it starts." Hannibal always told it the same way, and he'd heard it a handful of times now. He spoke the first few words in Lithuanian as well as he could remember them.
Hannibal didn't raise his head, but he did stare, fixed and unblinking and blank, for long seconds after Will was done.
"Unbearable?" Will asked.
"No. I haven't heard anyone speak in that language for decades." He laid a hand on Will's stomach and kissed his thigh. "Your pronunciation is surprisingly good."
"I don't know any of the words. I only know what it sounded like when you said it."
"Perhaps that is the tack we should have taken with French. The shape of the words first and their meaning afterward." He sat up and kissed Will's neck. "What do you want for breakfast?"
"Ham and eggs?"
"How do you want the eggs prepared?"
"Those scrambled ones with beurre noir that take forever?" Will said hopefully.
Hannibal smiled. "Then I will be back after a suitable fraction of forever has passed."
"Breakfast in bed? If this is what I get for being terrible at French, I'm not sure I want to improve."
"It is not. You can come to the market with me later and negotiate for vegetables. That should give you an accurate idea of how far you have still to go."
"Great," Will said without enthusiasm.
Hannibal gave him an amused look, got his robe, and headed downstairs to cook.
Will took the opportunity to drag himself to the bathroom on his own. Scooting across the floor on his ass was something he preferred to do in private. A wheelchair upstairs would've been nice, but buying a second one seemed like a waste when he'd only need it for a month or two longer.
The dogs came charging up the stairs a few minutes later, and Will stayed on the floor to give them some attention. More or less ready for the day, he hauled himself over to the closet and dug around in his mostly unpacked bag until he found the last item at the bottom.
He was back in bed by the time Hannibal returned. The tray he carried held the requested eggs and ham, along with bowls made out of halved cantaloupes and filled with figs and pomegranate seeds. Hannibal set it on the bed and climbed back in beside him.
"I got you something," Will said.
"On your trip?"
Will slid a copy of Freddie's book across to him. "It's signed."
Hannibal didn't touch it.
Will grinned at him. "You know you're going to read it. It's all about you."
"It's sensationalist nonsense."
"That's not going to stop you. I thought I'd save you having to pay for it at least."
Hannibal's hand twitched on the cover.
Will kissed his cheek. "The eggs look great, thanks."
"You're terribly cheerful this morning."
Will took a fig from his cantaloupe bowl and popped it in his mouth. "Yeah, I guess I am."
*
Hannibal ended up having to push Will and his antique wheelchair through the market. Wig wouldn't come to heel and, after the third time she'd almost been crushed underfoot or tripped someone with her leash, Will had scooped her up to sit in his lap. Keeping her there occupied both his hands.
"We're going to work on this," Will told Hannibal.
Hannibal avoided his gaze, pretended deafness, and steered them toward a stall piled high with a dozen types of lettuce.
"You can't expect me to know what these are called in French. I don't even know what half of them are in English."
"Try your best," Hannibal said.
He wandered off to look at the radishes, leaving Will stranded with a bemused lettuce seller and a small, wriggly dog. Winston, the traitor, went with him. "Jackass," Will muttered.
The lettuce seller, an older woman with a yellow scarf tied around graying hair, gave him an inquiring look. Will took a breath and did his best. Apparently Hannibal hadn't been exaggerating about his accent. He knew most of the words he wanted, but he had to repeat every other sentence before she got what he was trying to say. He resolved to pay at least slightly more attention when Hannibal was trying to correct him. He ended up with green lettuce with red spots and something long and thin that might or might not be endive.
Hannibal returned with an expression just short of a smile. "And what are we having in our salad tonight?"
"Surprise lettuce and maybe endive. That's what happens when you make me buy produce in a foreign language. I don't even like endive."
"You do when I cook it."
"Take your dog." Will held Wig out until Hannibal took her and held her against his chest.
"She is not my dog."
"You brought her home," Will said. He wheeled himself off toward the cheese. "You named her."
"I did not name her Wig, but that is the name she answers to. Therefore I did not name her."
"It's not my fault I talk to her more than you do. Anyway, you named her Wig in French, and you speak French, so you did name her Wig."
"The feeling of the word is entirely different."
"Uh huh. Sure."
They reached the cheese stand. Will tried to ask about what he thought might be cheddar, but the cheese guy was not as patient as the lettuce woman. He just gave Will a blank stare. Hannibal stepped in with a pleasant smile, smug only when he turned it briefly on Will.
They left with the cheddar, some brie, and a soft goat cheese. Winston nosed at the bag in Hannibal's hand as they walked. "Foie gras," Hannibal said. "I got it while you were discussing lettuce. I thought we might have it seared on the salad. And perhaps a goat cheese and endive tart."
Will looked up at him. "No one has any trouble understanding you. Do you sound in French the way you do in English?"
"It was to my advantage to stand out in Baltimore. When I came to Paris, it was to my advantage to blend in and so I did. Most people take me for a native speaker."
"Is that why you came here? To blend in?"
Hannibal walked beside him in silence back toward the car. He shifted the straps of the bag into the crook of his arm and stroked Wig's head.
"It's likely that we will be discovered eventually," he said at last. "You must be aware of that."
Will looked down at the cobblestones that clunked under his wheels. It took him a few seconds to get his answer out. "I know. I don't like thinking about it."
Hannibal rested a hand on his shoulder. "I know you don't. I chose this place in part because I will blend in and in part because you will stand out. The lone American in a small village and his unremarkable French lover. The focus will be on you, not on me. I hope that it will give us more time than we might have otherwise."
They reached the Bentley. Will got himself into the front seat and held Wig. Hannibal somehow loaded the ridiculous monstrosity of a wheelchair into the trunk. Will looked up at the bright blue autumn sky until Hannibal slid into the driver's seat beside him.
"How long?" Will asked.
"Days or decades. It's impossible to say."
Will wanted to reach for his hand but stopped himself. It would feel too much like clinging for comfort in the dark.
*
The shift from summer to autumn happened in an afternoon. The air had taken on a crisp, clear, October quality, and Will sat out on the patio breathing it in while he threw sticks for the dogs. Winston always got there first, but that didn't stop Wig from trying. She was a pale blur among the dark grass and the little blue speedwell flowers that covered the slope beyond the garden.
Hannibal stepped out and stood behind him. "In Italy, they call them occhi della Madonna. The Madonna's eyes." He paused. "It is more likely to be years than days."
"You don't know that. All it would take is a little bad luck."
"You value this place."
Will threw the stick one more time and then wrapped his arms around himself. "Don't you?"
"Yes. But not as much as you do." He draped a sweater over Will's shoulders.
"I'm not an invalid, Hannibal. It's just a few broken bones."
"If you're not cold, you needn't put it on. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes." Hannibal brushed his fingers across the back of Will's neck and stepped back into the house.
The sweater was Hannibal's, soft and chocolate brown. Will pulled it over his head and pushed up the sleeves. The dogs came running back to him. Wig bore the stick triumphantly in her mouth and refused to give it up.
*
They lay in bed together that night, and Will saw that Freddie Lounds's book had joined Don Quixote on the makeshift bedside table. Will looked at Hannibal over his glasses.
"I might read it," Hannibal said. "I haven't decided yet."
"You're going to read it."
"You sound very certain about that."
"You couldn't be any more of a textbook narcissist if you starved to death staring at your own reflection in a pond."
"You should leave the psychoanalysis to those of us with a degree."
"Sure," Will said. He went back to his own book, which was actually Hannibal's tablet. He'd loaded the latest issue of the Journal of Forensic Sciences onto it.
Hannibal put an arm around him. Will smiled to himself and leaned into him, slouching down so that he could prop his head on Hannibal's shoulder. Hannibal's hand slid under his arm and spread out over his stomach.
"You lost weight while you were away."
"I haven't stood up since that night. It's probably muscle. They weren't exactly feeding me foie gras at the hospital either."
"A dreadful oversight. I'll speak to someone about it."
Will set the tablet aside and turned toward him, arm across his waist. Hannibal kissed the top of his head. He ran his fingers through Will's hair and rubbed lightly against his scalp. He picked up Don Quixote with his other hand.
Will meant to go back to his own reading, but his eyes were heavy. After a few minutes, Hannibal slid Will's glasses off and set them aside. "Sleep," he said.
"It's early."
"You're tired. Healing takes a toll on the body. At least close your eyes."
Will gave in. He was tired, and Hannibal's touch felt so good. He slumped down further, mostly horizontal and still as close as he could get to Hannibal's solid warmth. Hannibal moved his hand absently through Will's hair and over his neck while he read, and the familiarity of it lulled Will toward sleep.
"I read far too late while you were away," Hannibal said.
"S'that why you were always awake when I called?"
"Yes. I found no reason to stop without you here to put my arm to sleep and force me to move."
Will smiled. "You want me to stay on my own side of the bed?"
Hannibal curled his arm more tightly around him. "No."
Will could feel Hannibal's steady heartbeat and his warm skin. He yawned, drifting, more relaxed than he could remember being since he left. He nearly always fell asleep before Hannibal did. Part of it was the work he'd put in during the summer, but part of it was this: lying in Hannibal's arms with the lights still on. It gave him the illusion that he might be safe from his nightmares.
*
Of course, he wasn't safe.
He lay on their kitchen floor, paralyzed. The tile was all different. Hannibal had replaced it while he was gone and now each one was painted with eyes that watched him or fingers that touched his back and thighs like crawling bugs.
Hannibal stood over him. Will tried to ask him what was going on, but he couldn't get a full breath. He looked down and saw a spike driven through his chest like he was a butterfly pinned to a board. Blood foamed into his mouth and blocked his throat.
Hannibal paced slowly around him. He watched Will's struggles with distant interest. He picked up an axe from the counter and chopped off Will's feet.
Will woke covered in sweat and shaking so badly that he couldn't free himself from the covers. He clawed at them with uncooperative hands.
"Will?" Hannibal's voice, soggy with sleep. Hannibal pulled at the sheets and then reached for him.
"Don't touch me," Will said. He'd expected to hear fear in his voice, but it came out strong and clear.
Hannibal stopped with his hand in mid-air. He let it fall and sat up against the headboard. Will could feel his eyes on him in the dark. He turned away and let his feet hang over the edge of the bed. If he could walk, he'd be gone. But he was stuck here, in bed with his nightmare.
"Do you want water?" Hannibal asked.
"No."
A brief pause. Hannibal's soft breath. "Do you want me to leave the room?" he asked.
Once the offer was made, Will didn't. He shook his head, but didn't turn toward him, didn't reach for him.
"What do you want?" Hannibal asked quietly.
Will pressed his elbows into his thighs until it hurt and his palms against his eyes until he saw red. He said nothing.
Hannibal laid a hand on his back, and Will jerked away from it.
"If you won't tell me, there's nothing I can do," Hannibal said.
"There's nothing you can do anyway."
"Then it won't hurt to tell me, will it?"
It wouldn't hurt Will. It might hurt Hannibal. Right now, he wanted to hurt Hannibal. "Do you remember the first night we were together? On the boat?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember what I said to you?"
"You told me a number of things that night. I haven't forgotten any of them."
Will bent lower and curled his fists into his hair. "I said I missed you. I still do. I want–" He couldn't finish.
The house creaked, and the wind whistled across the roof tiles. Will shivered. His T-shirt was soaked through.
"You want the man you thought I was," Hannibal said.
Remorse crept into Will's mouth, along with the bitter taste of regret. "Not always. Just. Sometimes."
"When you are afraid in the dark and you want someone with whom you know you will be safe."
"I'm not afraid," Will said, but they both knew that was a lie.
"You trust me not to hurt you. You trust me more than I trust myself. But not with this."
"I trust you not to hurt me physically. Other things hurt more. And they hurt for longer."
"Things I have done to you."
Will stared out the dark window, eyes aching. "Things you could do to me. It would be worse now."
"And still you have managed to lower your defenses." With one finger, Hannibal traced the outline of the sextant on Will's back. "You let me care for you."
"That was one night."
"Suppose it could be more than one night. Is that something you would want?"
The pit of yearning that opened inside Will was so wide and so deep that it nearly swallowed him whole. He breathed slowly for a few seconds and backed away from the edge. "Is that really something you think you can promise?" he asked.
"You should be safe here, at least. In our bed." Hannibal paused. "I would like to make sure that you are safe here."
"You can't keep me safe from my nightmares."
"I can try." Hannibal paused. "That night on the boat, you said you had thought I was on your side. Is it so difficult to believe that I am?"
"You're on your own side, Hannibal. You always will be."
"Do you truly think that's fair, after all that has passed between us?"
Will was silent as he peeled off his wet T-shirt and pulled the extra blanket up from the bottom of the bed. He stuck his legs back under the covers and wrapped up, chilled through by sweat and nightmare and hope.
"Only tonight then," Hannibal said. "Trust me that far."
It was the tiny crack in Hannibal's carefully modulated voice that did it, the ache shining through. Will reached for him, and Hannibal grasped his hand at once. "Maybe it's not fair. I don't know. I dreamed about you."
"I guessed you had. What did I do?"
Will turned the dream over in his mind, the axe, the tile, the spike. "You looked at me like I didn't matter," he said.
"There are many crimes you could charge me with, but at least I know I've never done that."
"No. Never. What would you do if I said yes?"
"Change the sheets. Bring you tea. A dry shirt."
"You do that anyway most of the time."
"I do. When you don't flee to the kitchen or the spare bedroom."
"I can't go anywhere right now."
"No. You can't."
"You like that."
"I would be lying if I said I didn't find it a relief at the moment." Hannibal smoothed his hair back and kissed his forehead. "I'll start the tea."
He got up and walked down the stairs. Will was left to listen to the creak of floorboards and curl onto his side. His casts felt heavy and awkward on his feet, weighing him down like stones tied to his ankles. The entire night felt like sinking.
Hannibal returned with a tray. He set it on the table by the window and then reached for Will.
"You don't really have to change the sheets," Will said.
"We will both sleep better if I do."
Will slid his arms around Hannibal's neck and let himself be lifted. Hannibal held him for a moment. For once, Will wasn't eager to be put down. He ducked his head against Hannibal's shoulder and looked only at the soft glimmer of light against his chest and his collar bone. He stroked the short hair at the back of Hannibal's neck.
The floor creaked under their combined weight as Hannibal leaned over to set him in the chair. He draped a blanket over Will's legs, and Will was cold enough not to protest the delicate treatment. Hannibal got him both a T-shirt and a sweater, and Will pulled them both on.
The tea tray, black lacquer and painted with iridescent green leaves, held a white china teapot and two cups with gold rims.
"You went shopping while I was gone," Will said.
"We do need dishes. Unless you planned to steal the ones from the rented house."
Will picked up his cup and took a sip. It was something light and floral, soothing on the tongue. "How much did you get?"
"The tea set. Champagne flutes. Some small wooden bowls. I waited for most of the dishes and the rest. You should have some say in those."
"You might not like my say. If I were looking for you, I'd start with this kind of thing. The fancy dishes, the wine you drink. The Bentley. At least you got a different color."
Hannibal had set about stripping the bed and paused now in shaking a pillow from its case. "I shouldn't have brought up the possibility of our discovery."
"It's not like I didn't know."
"You don't like to think about it."
Will shrugged, both hands wrapped around the teacup and dwarfing it. "What I like won't change anything if they come for us."
"For me."
"Don't start that."
"You've done nothing."
"Harboring a fugitive is a felony if the crime is murder."
"A felony without a particularly stiff penalty."
Will took a bite out of something that looked like shortbread but tasted of cheese and rosemary fresh from their garden. "If they find us and you need to run, then run. You're looking at the death sentence. I won't blame you for leaving me behind. Temporarily."
Hannibal held one corner of the clean fitted sheet balled in his fist. His features were shadowed by the upward glow of the one small lamp he had lit. He turned toward Will, expression raw and eyes hard.
Will looked down at his tea. "Sorry."
Hannibal finished remaking the bed. Only the soft tap of his bare feet on the wood floor broke the silence. When he had finished, he went down on one knee by Will's chair and bent to rest his forehead on Will's thigh. "I don't think I could leave you," he said. "Whatever the situation."
"I don't really want you to. Not even temporarily." Will bent over and pressed his cheek to Hannibal's back. "The tea's good. Thanks."
"You're warm."
"Yeah."
"You've been cold often since you got back."
Will slid his hands through Hannibal's hair. "Are you going to keep me warm?"
Hannibal looked up at him with the same torn open look as before, his sincerity as transparent as his anger. "Yes," he said. "Always."