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The world was blanketed in white, the snow stretching endlessly in every direction. The icy roads gleamed under the faint light of a winter afternoon, treacherous and unforgiving. Will Graham gripped the steering wheel of his old truck tightly, his breath visible in the frigid air despite the heater working overtime.
The truck groaned and rattled as it crawled along the icy road leading to his old house in Wolf Trap. He could almost hear Hannibal’s voice in his head:
“It’s a miracle this vehicle still moves at all, Will. Why not let me buy you something more reliable?”
Will had always bristled at the idea. He liked the truck. It was a stubborn, flawed piece of machinery that matched him in more ways than he cared to admit. But now, as it sputtered and lurched on the icy incline, he wondered if perhaps Hannibal had been right.
“Come on, girl,” Will muttered, patting the dashboard like a beloved pet. “Just get me to the house, and I’ll let you rest. Please.”
The truck replied with a metallic wheeze that did little to reassure him. He was so close. His old house loomed ahead, its silhouette barely visible through the swirling snow. Inside, hidden in a corner of the bedroom, was the gift he’d painstakingly selected for Hannibal. Something rare, beautiful, and perfectly suited for a man with Hannibal’s refined taste. He had stored it here, safe from Hannibal’s curious gaze, intending to retrieve it before Christmas.
But now his truck was making noises no vehicle should ever make, each one more alarming than the last.
“Don’t you dare die on me now,” Will muttered, his voice tinged with desperation. “We’ve made it this far.”
The truck, apparently unimpressed by his pleas, gave a final, shuddering cough and came to a halt.
“Goddammit,” Will muttered, smacking the steering wheel.
He stepped out into the bitter cold, pulling his coat tightly around him as the wind bit at his face. The road was a sheet of ice, and the snow was falling faster now, covering everything in a thick, white layer.
He popped the hood and stared at the engine, which offered him no answers. His mechanical knowledge was limited at best, and the frigid air was already numbing his fingers.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, fumbling with his phone. He dialed Hannibal’s number, knowing he’d hear about this later but not caring.
The line rang once before Hannibal answered, his voice smooth and warm like mulled wine. “Will. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“My truck’s dead,” Will said, shivering as he spoke. “I’m stuck on the road to the old house. It’s freezing out here, and I really don’t want to wait for a tow truck. Are you busy?”
There was a pause, and then Hannibal’s voice, tinged with amusement, replied, “I’m never too busy for you, Will. I’ll be there shortly.”
Will felt a wave of relief. “Thanks. Just—”
He broke off mid-sentence as a faint creaking sound reached his ears. He turned to see his truck beginning to slide backward on the icy slope.
“Oh no. No, no, no!” he yelled, dropping the phone and scrambling toward the vehicle.
Hannibal’s voice crackled faintly through the phone lying in the snow. “Will? What’s happening?”
“Shit! Fuck!” Will yelled as the truck continued its slow, inevitable slide. “There goes my car!”
The old truck crept backward like a reluctant dancer, its tires failing to find purchase on the ice. Will tried to grab the handle, to stop the vehicle somehow, but the slick ground betrayed him, and he slipped, landing unceremoniously on his back.
He could only watch as the truck skidded sideways, teetered precariously on the edge of the ditch, and finally tipped over, landing with a muffled thud in the snowbank below.
For a moment, there was only silence, save for the faint sound of Hannibal’s voice coming from the discarded phone.
Will groaned, sitting up and brushing snow off his coat. “Perfect,” he muttered.
He picked up the phone, wincing as he put it to his ear. “You still there?”
“Yes,” Hannibal replied, his tone dry but laced with concern. “Are you injured?”
“Just my pride,” Will said, standing and dusting himself off. “The truck’s in the ditch. It’s not coming out anytime soon.”
There was a soft sigh on the other end of the line. “Stay where you are, Will. I’m on my way.”
Hannibal arrived less than twenty minutes later, his black Bentley slicing through the snow like a predator through its prey. He stepped out, the picture of calm elegance, his dark coat billowing slightly in the wind.
Will stood by the roadside, arms crossed and cheeks flushed from the cold. He looked both sheepish and irritated, his breath misting in the frosty air.
Hannibal’s gaze swept over him, noting the snow clinging to his coat and hair. “You look positively miserable,” he said, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Thanks for the observation, Doctor Lecter,” Will muttered.
Hannibal approached him, his gloved hands reaching out to brush snow from Will’s shoulders. “You truly are a magnet for misfortune,” he said, his tone teasing. “Let’s get you warmed up.”
Will allowed himself to be shepherded into the warmth of the Bentley, the heated seats a welcome relief from the biting cold. Hannibal returned briefly to the ditch, surveying the truck’s position with a critical eye.
“It’s unsalvageable for now,” he said when he rejoined Will in the car. “We’ll call for a tow in the morning.”
Will sighed, leaning back against the seat. “That truck’s been through a lot. Hate to see it like that.”
Hannibal glanced at him, a small smile playing at his lips. “You have a remarkable capacity for sentimentality, even for inanimate objects.”
Will shrugged. “It’s not just a truck. It’s...history.”
Hannibal didn’t argue, instead reaching over to take Will’s cold hands in his own. “History or not, I’d prefer not to lose you to frostbite over it.”
Will snorted softly, the sound turning into a chuckle. Despite the ordeal, he felt a warmth spreading through him that had little to do with the car’s heater.
Back at home, Hannibal ushered Will inside, taking his coat and leading him to the living room, where a fire crackled in the hearth. He handed Will a glass of brandy and a blanket, his every movement precise and deliberate.
“Sit,” Hannibal instructed, gesturing to the couch. “I’ll make us something warm.”
Will sank into the couch, the heat from the fire seeping into his bones. He watched as Hannibal disappeared into the kitchen, his movements as graceful and efficient as ever.
When Hannibal returned, he carried two steaming mugs of cocoa, each topped with a delicate swirl of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon.
“Cocoa?” Will said, raising an eyebrow.
Hannibal’s lips quirked into a smile. “Even I can appreciate the simple pleasures of the season.”
Will accepted the mug, the warmth seeping into his hands as he took a cautious sip. It was, unsurprisingly, perfect—rich, smooth, and indulgent.
As they sat together by the fire, the tension of the day began to melt away. Will glanced at Hannibal, his expression softening.
“Thanks for coming to get me,” he said quietly.
Hannibal reached out, his hand resting gently on Will’s knee. “Always, Will. You are far too important to me to leave stranded in the cold.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in silence.
“I’ll have to get back to the house tomorrow,” Will said eventually. “The gift’s still there.”
Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “You went through all this trouble for a gift?”
Will smirked. “It’s Christmas, Hannibal. Even you can’t be above tradition.”
Hannibal’s gaze softened, a rare warmth in his eyes. “I look forward to seeing what you’ve chosen.”
Will leaned back, feeling a contentment that was rare for him. Despite the chaos, despite the cold and the wrecked truck, he was here, with Hannibal, where he belonged.
And that, he thought, was the best gift of all.