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Spooning rice into a bowl, Will stares into the living room, watching Hannibal carefully, something he’s found himself doing more often than not these days. That’s partially his fault, he supposes, the ocean wasn’t kind to them, but especially to Hannibal. Ripping him up, nearly slaughtering him like a lamb. Sometimes he thinks it would have been better for him if they would’ve just died, left down in the unexplored depth of the ocean, knitted together at the ribs, but they’re past that now. Death has finally been taken off the table as an option, and while he won’t admit it out loud, he’s happy about it.
That’s still odd to feel – the happiness at knowing they won’t kill each other. He never thought he could feel that; it’s the closest he’s felt to security in a long while in regards to Hannibal. This silent covenant.
“You need more water?” Will asks as he spoons another heap of rice into the other bowl he’s pulled down. “You should tell me now, since I’m up.”
The house is small, smaller than what he expected for something Hannibal would own, but it’s nice nonetheless. It has a homey feel to it that he truly appreciates more than the glitz and the glitter of the other homes he has seen of Hannibal’s. The smallness is good too, it doesn’t require too much work on his end to update things to make them easier for Hannibal, or, to keep a close eye on him.
It’s better this way, Hannibal has a tendency of overdoing it. He misses being independent, driving, cooking, and showering alone. He misses being the one in charge, the one making the rules and playing Will like a fiddle, but now that Will’s had a true taste of control he isn’t sure he’ll be able to give it up. Though, he’s relatively sure once Hannibal’s healed up enough and fully a person, he’ll have him completely convinced this is what’s for the best. He’s already planting the seeds.
“No,” Hannibal says, “I have plenty.”
Will nods, humming his acknowledgment, and spoons thick red beans and sausage over the rice. Once he’s pleased with their portions and throws some green onion over it for color, he cuts a generous square of cornbread (not his best but well enough) and sticks it in each bowl.
It’s a good meal, something he ate a lot as a kid. Something that’ll keep in the refrigerator for a couple of days and they can keep eating on. Though, he’ll have to make new cornbread, or leave it as is.
He sticks a spoon in each bowl and looks back up at him.
Hannibal’s sitting in the living room, under a thick comforter. He’s already started to slump as he reads through one of the old, beat up books Will picked up from a thrift store. He took his pain medication about twenty minutes ago, so he knows he’s going to start dozing soon.
With that, he walks around the little island and comes into the living room, handing Hannibal his bowl before he sits, stomach growling.
“I’ve never eaten in the living room before living with you.” Hannibal grimaces, a mix of his pain and his distaste for the action. “I can’t say I enjoy it, Will.”
Will scoff a bit, clicking on the TV as he settles onto the couch. “Quit your bitchin’ and eat.”
That’s just how it’s been. Hannibal complains (Will finds that he really seems to enjoy complaining about things) and Will brushes him off. There’s something nice about being the one to have full control. They do what he wants, and even if Hannibal complains about it, he’s just as pleased to be with Will again that he could never really mean it. Small discomforts are something everyone has to compromise for the sake of their relationships – even if Hannibal isn’t fully aware of that fact yet. Or that he absolutely will have to compromise when he’s better too.
Another thing Will’s noticed recently is that Hannibal’s a slow eater. Will doesn’t know if it’s because he doesn’t like his cooking or if it’s because his medicine makes him so tired. If he goes over his memories, he can recall him savoring food, enjoying the feel of it on his tongue like kids with communion wafers after a three hour service, but never being specifically slow. But he tries not to take offense to it. No point in that now.
There will be plenty to get offended by later, he’s sure.
“I used to watch this movie all the time,” Will tucks himself under the blanket, enjoying the warmth they share. It’s an offering, an olive branch. “It’s based on the TV show, this one’s the first of the Lone Ranger movies though. It’s the best one.”
It takes a moment for Hannibal to acknowledge the words coming out of Will’s mouth. He’s chewing so slowly that Will thinks he might completely forget he’s eating, but it clicks and then he swallows.
“I can’t say I’ve watched these movies, or the show. Remakes are rarely done right.” He looks down at his food, eyes fluttering for a moment. His voice takes on a dream-like quality, soft, and sweet in a way he can’t place with any of his other memories of Hannibal. “However, I’m not completely blind to the concept. They are popular pieces.”
Nodding, Will tries to work through his food at a reasonable speed to make up for Hannibal’s slowness. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Hannibal cut through his cornbread with his spoon so he can mix it with the rice and beans. It’s then that he sees the remnants of the old Hannibal, his Hannibal, through the fog of his medicine. He savors, taking it in like some kind of last supper. Like Will has broken his body and bled himself into the pot just for Hannibal to eat.
“This is nice. You cook very well, Will,” he murmurs.
“Thanks, my dad taught me.” Will swallows hard and then coughs because his throat tickles from the force.
When Hannibal finishes he seems, as usual, unsure of where to place his bowl, but Will takes it and puts it on top of his on the coffee table in front of them. That gets him another grimace, but not as hard this time. He’s too tired to really mean it, and besides, there must be some kind of comfort in this normality. At least, a comfort better than where he was before.
Will fully settles once they’re both done eating too, slumping into the couch to enjoy his movie, and the warmth of the body next to him. He could just sink in, he thinks, and float between the levels of heaven and hell. Just him, Hannibal, and this Lone Ranger movie.
It does not take long for Hannibal to start falling asleep either, not that Will’s really surprised by that. He was counting on that. Giving him some time to himself, to enjoy his movie and maybe get some reading in before he decides to take them both to bed. It’s why he plans it this way.
What does surprise him though, what makes this time different than every other time, is that as Hannibal starts to fade into sleep, he gently lays his head on Will’s shoulder. His soft hair tickling his neck, cheek pressed with a kind of certainty–certainty that Will won’t jerk away–that can only be found in those deep in Revelations.
Will takes a breath. He shouldn’t be shy about this, he’s seen Hannibal in every way imaginable and then some. They’ve ripped each other apart, betrayed each other, healed together, but somehow this chokes him. His throat tightens and his chest warms, and when he cuts his eyes to look at him, all he can see is his soft breathing.
His body is slack, warm, and inviting. It calls to Will in a way he hasn’t felt with anyone, not even Molly. Like he’s meant to do something.
They’re in some kind of truce, some kind of security, but the distinct softness of this has caught Will off guard. It causes him to stumble, and for the first time in a long time, he isn’t sure what he’s meant to do.
Deep down he thinks this is probably just because of his medicine. He’s tired and hurting and vulnerable. Will is, somehow, safe, and he’s all he’s wanted for such a long time. Why not give in this once while his inhibitions are lowered? It seems reasonable. The only problem is, it stuns Will so seriously that he isn’t sure how to react. What would be best for him to do.
He just keeps looking down at him, watching his face soften and his body move gently with each breath he takes as he falls deeper into sleep. Feels his heart in his chest, the whooshing of blood in his ears. It feels altogether childish and completely reasonable, like Peter with Jesus. This isn’t the Hannibal he knows, but it’s one that exists. It’s one that he may never see again – that thought strikes him viciously.
“You’re actually endearing when you’re half asleep,” Will whispers, and finally places his cheek to the top of his head. Then, just to balance it out, he adds, “It’s the quiet.”
Hannibal moves, like he may say something, like he wants to, but ultimately the pain medicine is too much (perhaps more on purpose than is really fair), and Will’s body is pulpy and inviting. He lets himself go under.
Turning his head, Will kisses his hair before he can think better of it, tucks his arm around him to hold him in place, and then continues to watch his movie.