Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will was sitting on the floor, tucked away in the corner of the room where the light didn’t quite reach. His knees were pulled tightly against his chest, a small blanket draped over his shoulders like a shield. Crayons were scattered around him, along with a thick sketchpad filled with hesitant scribbles; crooked houses, faceless people, dark clouds slashed angrily across the page.

He hadn’t spoken in hours. And Hannibal didn’t press him to.

Time passed in silence, broken only by the soft sound of dishes being washed in the kitchen. Hannibal seemed busy with some mundane task, and yet Will could feel his presence.

Eventually, Hannibal returned. Drying his hands on a towel, he crossed the room without hurry. He stopped near the boy, but didn’t crouch right away.

Will shrank back further, pulling the blanket over his head.

“Will,” said Hannibal, his voice soft, like velvet and glass at once. Dangerous and gentle.

No answer.

The sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor was quiet and measured. Hannibal never moved abruptly. He knew what that did to Will.

There was something about the way he stood near him, like he was giving Will the choice to flee. But also like he knew Will wouldn’t.

Hannibal crouched down. A small plate was set beside him.

“I made porridge. Just the way you like it. Cinnamon on top, not stirred in. I know you don’t like it when it’s all the same color.”

Silence. Will bit down on his lip, hard.

“My little boy looks sad today.”

That was all.

A simple sentence.

But something inside Will collapsed, violently.

A sudden sob escaped him, too loud, like everything he had tried to hold in broke loose at once.

The blanket stirred, and then a small, trembling hand slipped out from underneath. Slowly, he pulled it down, revealing red, puffy eyes and unsteady breathing.

His face was wet. He hadn’t even noticed he’d started to cry.

“I don’t…” the words came out choked, childlike “I don’t want to… wear a dress. Or girl clothes. Even if I’m small. I… I’m still Will.”

Hannibal looked at him with an unreadable expression, but his eyes softened.

“I know you’re Will.”

Will sobbed again, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if trying to make sure it wouldn’t disappear, that no one would come and swap it out. His fingers were ice-cold.

He simply watched Will, with the meticulous stillness of someone holding a wounded butterfly in their hands, one wrong move, and it would fall apart.

Slowly, he extended his hand. He stopped halfway, letting the gesture hover in the air like a silent question.

Will hesitated. Then, with eyes still shining from tears, he shifted forward just slightly, barely noticeable, just enough for Hannibal to understand: it’s okay.

The man’s hand came to rest gently on top of Will’s head, among the messy strands of hair, offering a touch so soft it was barely there. Not intrusive. Not demanding.

“No one is going to take your name,” he said, like stating an ancient, unbreakable law. “And no one is going to put you in anything that hurts. Not a dress, not a uniform, not someone else’s expectations.”

Will shut his eyes tight.

The knot in his throat seemed to tighten before it slowly came undone. He let his body lean to the side, resting against Hannibal’s knees like a tired pup. The blanket slipped a little, revealing narrow shoulders still covered by his favorite shirt—faded blue, too big, with a small tear in the sleeve.

“I… I get scared I’ll forget who I am,” he murmured, almost a whisper. “When I feel like this… so small. It’s like everything disappears. And then… what if one day I wake up and I’m not Will anymore?”

Hannibal leaned in just enough for his voice to reach the boy’s ear without breaking the space between them.

“If that day ever comes,” he said softly, “then I’ll remind you. Gently, patiently. As many times as it takes.”

Will took a deep breath, a trembling sound, like he was pulling all his hidden fear into the open at last.

“Do you promise?”

Hannibal stroked his hair slowly, his fingers threading through it with care.

“I promise, my boy. Always.”

Silence returned, but it was different now. No longer the cold, hollow kind. It was thick, like a warm blanket.

Hannibal sat down on the floor, unbothered by his neatly pressed suit. He let Will curl closer, until his head rested on Hannibal’s thigh, his fingers still clinging tightly to his shirt.

Beside them, the porridge had started to cool. But in that moment, it didn’t matter.

Will was quiet. But it wasn’t the same silence as before.

Now, he was breathing like someone who, for a brief moment, remembered they were allowed to exist.

Time moved slowly in that room, like the world outside had forgotten how to pass.

Hannibal remained seated with Will curled up beside him, the boy’s fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt as if it were his only anchor.

For a while, he said nothing. He simply kept his hand resting on Will’s narrow back, tracing slow, rhythmic circles, more presence than gesture.

Then, with the same calm as always, Hannibal reached out to the little plate nearby. The porridge no longer steamed, but it was still warm. He picked up the spoon, tested the temperature against his wrist, as if Will were a baby. And in some ways, he was.

“It’s time to eat a little, sweetheart,” he said, voice sweet but steady.

Will shook his head slowly, almost imperceptibly.

“Don’t want to…”

His voice was small, muffled against the fabric of Hannibal’s trousers.

But Hannibal didn’t argue. He simply raised the spoon to Will’s eye level.

“Just a little. Your body is still yours, Will. But it needs care.”

Will glanced at him, uncertain. Then slowly lifted his head.

Hannibal scooped up a bit more porridge and brought the spoon close to Will’s lips, even as the boy continued to hiccup with quiet sobs. Will stared, hesitated… but eventually opened his mouth. He accepted the food like someone accepting a hug they’re too tired to refuse.

The spoon scraped softly against the plate. Hannibal remained calm, patient.

“That’s it, my dear… just a little at a time.”

Will chewed slowly, his brow furrowed, eyes still glassy with tears. Then he leaned back against Hannibal’s leg again, small and shivering, the blanket slipping from his shoulder.

“I don’t… I don’t like this,” he mumbled, his voice thick with tears and childhood. “I don’t wanna be… weird.”

Hannibal ran his fingers gently through the boy’s messy hair, brushing a strand from his forehead.

“You’re not weird, Will. You’re just feeling hard things.”

Will rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. The taste of porridge lingered, sweet on his tongue, but it didn’t take away the tightness in his chest.

“I’m… wrong, Hann’bal. I’m… wrong. Here…” he pointed to his own body “This… isn’t me.”

The words came out crooked, like the drawings in his sketchbook. But the fear in them was clear. Overwhelming.

Hannibal bent lower, until they were eye to eye.

“You are you. Just as you are. And I know who you are, Will.”

Will sniffled. He shuffled closer, inching into Hannibal’s lap until he was nearly curled there.

“But… what if… what if I grow up wrong? And they put me in dresses… and call me… that ugly name?”

His voice cracked again. The tears returned, not in waves, but slow and heavy, like each one cost him something.

Hannibal held him gently, like he was cradling something small and precious.

“No one’s going to make you wear anything you don’t want. No one’s taking your name. No one’s changing it. You’re my little boy Will. Always.”

Will buried his face in Hannibal’s chest like he wanted to disappear. His tiny hands clung to the man’s coat as if for dear life.

“I’m Will…” he whispered over and over, between soft sobs, like a spell to keep himself safe.

Hannibal closed his eyes and held him tighter, rocking gently, the barest motion, like lulling a frightened child to sleep.

“Yes, you are, my love. My Will. With that voice, with that fear, with that beautiful heart. Whole.”

The little plate beside them was nearly empty now. But Hannibal didn’t rush.

This was more important.

He simply stayed there, saying without words:

You’re safe here.

You can be small.

You can be you. 

Will was still trembling, his body pressed against Hannibal’s chest, as if he wanted to disappear inside him, or maybe just escape his own body for a moment.

“I don’t want to go back, Hann’bal…” he murmured, his voice muffled against the fabric of the coat. “If I go back… they’ll put me back in… the ugly things… they’ll take Will away…”

It was more a wail than a sentence. A mix of fear, confusion, and exhaustion. As if the world was too big, and he too small to carry it all alone.

Hannibal made a low, soothing sound and continued the slow rocking, his fingers stroking the hair damp from crying.

“You don’t need to go back anywhere, my dear. You can stay here, just the way you are.”

Will sniffled hard, his cheeks flushed, his face still hidden.

“Is it safe here?”

Hannibal nodded, even though Will couldn’t see.

“It’s safe here. This is home.”

A silence followed, heavy but lighter than before. Will no longer cried hard, only sobbed now and then, as if his body still remembered.

“I’m… tired…” he said softly, dragging out the words.

“I know,” Hannibal answered, his voice even softer. “You can rest, my boy.”

Gently, he adjusted Will in his lap, pulling the forgotten blanket to wrap them both. A symbolic protection.

Will blinked slowly, his eyes heavy but still open, still caught in that space between sleep and fear.

“You… will stay?” he asked, his voice almost fading away.

“Always.”

Will sighed, a tiny, relieved sound. Like someone letting go of a weight.

Then, slowly, he closed his eyes. And, for the first time that day, he slept.

Still Will.

Chapter Text

The day began with the sound of rain. Thin, persistent, tapping against the car windows. Will sat curled up in the passenger seat, his hood pulled so low it nearly covered his eyes. His hands were pressed between his legs, fingers moving in small, repetitive motions — as if each gesture helped hold him together.

Hannibal glanced at him sideways as he drove slowly through the damp streets. He sighed. He had rehearsed what he would say, but now, faced with Will’s tense silence, everything sounded too cold.

“Will…” he began, each syllable chosen with the care of someone walking on thin ice. “Today… I won’t be able to see you, my dear.”

The boy didn’t respond. His gaze stayed fixed on the window, unmoving. A second later, his shoulders lifted—barely—and a familiar tension settled between them.

“You do have an appointment,” Hannibal continued, his tone firm yet gentle. “But it will be with a colleague of mine. Dr. Hartmann. He’s… competent.”

Will frowned. Still, he didn’t look at him. The rain seemed more interesting. Or maybe just less painful.

“He knows you’re Will. That you’re a boy. That you don’t like too many questions. That you need silence. I wrote it all down, alright? He’s going to listen to you.”

A barely audible sound escaped Will’s lips. Something that sounded like “no.”

“I know,” Hannibal said softly, resting his fingers on the boy’s covered knee. “I know this scares you. But it’s just for today. Only once. After that, it’ll be me again. I promise.”

Will shook his head. His hands were trembling now, small against the fabric of his hoodie, and his body had begun to fold into itself.

“I don’t want someone else, Hann’bal.”
The voice came out thin, almost childlike. A trace of regression. “He doesn’t know my real name. He’ll look at me wrong. He’ll… he’ll talk like the other one did.”

It wasn’t just fear. It was memory.

Hannibal pulled the car up in front of the clinic. He parked in silence. Waited for the rain between them to quiet, too.

“I’ll be waiting for you right here, Will,” he said at last. “The entire time. You can go in, say the bare minimum, stay silent if you want. Then come running back to my arms. And I’ll be here. Where I’ve always been.”

Will hesitated. His chest was rising and falling too fast for it to be just breathing. Still, he opened the door. Stepped out of the car like someone walking toward a sacrifice.

[…]

The room was way too clean. Sterile. The air conditioning was colder than necessary, and the ticking clock was the only thing that felt alive.

Will sat on the couch they pointed to, hesitating. His eyes flicked around the room too fast—never settling anywhere, like he was looking for a way out.

Dr. Hartmann sat across from him, legs crossed, clipboard on his lap. He gave a quick, professional smile.

“Good afternoon, Miss Graham,” he said, reading straight from the file. “Or… can I call you Willow?”

Will stayed still.

“Will,” he corrected softly, barely letting the word out. “Just Will.”

“Oh, right, of course. Will.” His tone was neutral, but the smile disappeared. He scribbled something on the clipboard. “Hannibal passed on his notes. Looks like you’re dealing with frequent dissociative episodes, with some regression. Are you aware of that?”

Will didn’t answer. His eyes dropped to the floor. His fingers nervously tangled together, almost squeezing themselves.

“Hm.” The doctor kept going, expression blank. “It was also mentioned you wear ‘masculine’ clothes as part of your identity. Just confirming: you identify as a trans guy?”

Will blinked slowly, body curling inwards. But he gave a small nod.

“Okay, just for the record.” More scribbles on the form. “And your legal name is still the old one, right?”

Will froze. His heart sped up. He knew what was coming.

“Can I use it on the form?”

“No.” His voice was tight, almost pleading. “No… just write Will.”

The psychiatrist hesitated, then forced a smile.

“That makes things complicated, but alright. We can fix it later.”

But that was a lie. He’d put the dead name in the report.

Will felt like he’d been slapped. His chest tightened, the sounds around him faded. He tried to take a deep breath, but his throat locked.

“Okay… about the regressions. Do you feel in control when they happen?”

Silence.

“Do you use a pacifier? Baby clothes? Hannibal mentioned this but didn’t say much. I need to understand.”

The word “pacifier” hit like a loaded gun. Will lowered his head. Tears started welling up, uninvited.

“I just get small… when it hurts.” he whispered. “It’s not a game.”

The doctor made a cold, indifferent sound.

“I get that. Lots of patients use that to cope. But it’s important to grow past those habits, right? Maybe we can work on that together.”

Will’s stomach twisted. Those words—“grow,” “habits”—felt harsh. Nothing hurt more than being treated like a problem to fix.

Inside, he began to fade away. Like a shadow pulling back. Like a kid learning to hide in silence.

[…]

The session lasted 37 minutes.

Hannibal read every second of it in Will’s face when he returned: red-rimmed eyes, uneven breathing, shoulders too tense for such a thin boy. He didn’t speak. Didn’t cry.

He just opened the car door, got in, and dropped onto the seat with a soft thud. Seconds later, he slid to the side, resting his forehead on Hannibal’s arm like it was the only safe anchor in the day.

“Did he say your dead name?” Hannibal asked quietly.

Will nodded.

“Used ‘she’?”

Another silent nod.

“Did he touch you?”

Will shook his head, a fragile no.

Hannibal stayed silent for a while. Started the car. Drove carefully to the nearest park. Stopped under a leafy tree. The silence between them was heavy and wet, like the sky.

“Come here,” he said, opening his coat and reclining the seat. Arms outstretched. “Come be little with me.”

Will crawled slowly into his lap, like he no longer fit inside his own body. He lay down with his head against Hannibal’s chest, eyes wide and empty. No words came anymore. The world had failed him again. But Hannibal hadn’t.

“You’re Will,” Hannibal whispered, stroking his hair. “My little boy. Nothing and no one can erase that. And I’ll never let anyone try.”

Will didn’t answer. He just closed his eyes, clutching his fists tight against Hannibal’s chest, as if trying to shrink until he could fit inside the warmth of that voice.

There, to the sound of rain tapping on the car roof, he regressed slowly. Let himself be small, safe, and far from everything that hurt him.

The rain outside had grown heavier, drumming softly against the window in a slow, steady rhythm — a sound that filled the quiet spaces left hollow by Will’s pain. Curled in Hannibal’s lap, he had stopped moving. His body still trembled now and then, like echoes of a memory that refused to fade.

Hannibal said nothing anymore. He just held him. One hand rested gently at the nape of Will’s neck, tracing slow circles with his fingers. The other kept the coat wrapped tightly around the boy, as if it could shield him not just from the cold, but from whatever had been broken inside those four sterile walls.

“Hann’bal…” Will murmured at last. His voice was small. Frayed. It carried the hesitant weight of a child who still wasn’t sure if it was safe to cry.

Hannibal looked down at him instantly.

“I’m here, darling.”

Will sniffled, his face still buried against Hannibal’s chest.

“He said… I should learn to… stop this thing of ‘being a child’… That it’s not healthy… That you let me act spoiled…”

Hannibal’s throat tightened. But he didn’t react with anger. He only held him closer. Gentler. His voice came low, steady — a calm edged with something fierce.

“You’re not spoiled, Will. You’re hurt. And if regressing helps you breathe… then we’ll let it happen. As many times as you need.”

Will curled in deeper. The words dissolved before they could even form. Everything hurt — not in cuts or bruises, but in absence. The absence of care, of listening, of gentleness.

“I tried to speak,” he whispered, as if confessing something shameful. “I tried to say it hurt. But he just kept writing. Didn’t even look at me.”

“I believe you,” Hannibal replied. “And you don’t have to explain anymore, my love. Not today.”

Will went quiet. For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing and the rain tapping on the car roof.

Then, with the tips of his fingers, Will gripped the inside of Hannibal’s coat collar and pulled it closer — a small gesture from someone still fighting to exist. Still needing to be seen.

“Call me…” he murmured. “The way you call me when I’m little…”

Hannibal pressed his lips to Will’s forehead.

“My little boy,” he said, with all the tenderness intact. “My small Will. My brave little one. Nothing will ever change that.”

A tear slid from Will’s eye — silent, warm. But for the first time, it didn’t come from pain. It came from relief.

“Don’t let anyone call me that other name again… please…” he asked, voice rough and breaking.

“Never,” Hannibal promised. “Not even in thought.”

Then Will pulled the pacifier from the inside pocket of his coat. He didn’t look at Hannibal. Just placed it slowly in his mouth, hands still trembling, and curled back into his chest — surrendering to the place where everything was allowed.

Outside, the world stayed cruel. But inside the car, with the windows fogged and the sound of rain muffling everyone else’s rush, Will fell asleep.

Hannibal didn’t move. He stayed there, the boy’s small body in his arms, as if guarding that fragile peace were the most sacred thing he’d ever been tasked with.

Will woke up slowly. He was still nestled in Hannibal’s lap, his eyes swollen. The rain was now just a whisper against the glass — a distant background, as if the world had shrunk just enough for him to fit inside.

Hannibal noticed his eyelashes fluttering and gently stroked his head, his fingers sliding slowly through his hair.

“You’re awake, my little one?”

Will made a sound of recognition but didn’t answer. He just rubbed his eyes with a closed fist, in an automatic, childlike gesture.

“Are you hungry?” Hannibal asked, his voice delicate, as if speaking to a frightened little bird.

Will hesitated for a second… then nodded slowly.

“Then let’s go.” Hannibal carefully settled him into the seat, covering him with a little blanket he kept for difficult days like this. “No loud noises, no bright lights, no crowds, I promise. Just something warm. Just the two of us.”

Will didn’t respond with words. But when Hannibal got out of the driver’s seat and walked around to help him with the seatbelt, the boy held his hand for a moment. Weak. But strong enough to say: take me with you. Protect me again.

[…]

They stopped at a small corner diner. The kind with warm yellow lights and the smell of bread baking in the air. It was almost empty, and Hannibal chose one of the farthest tables, in a corner with a window view.

Will sat quietly, his hoodie sleeves covering his hands and his eyes downcast. He couldn’t say much yet. His eyes held that vague glow of someone who hadn’t fully returned from regression.

Hannibal ordered for him: oatmeal with honey and banana cut into small pieces. A glass of warm milk. And tea for himself.

When the food arrived, Will looked at it for long seconds, as if needing permission to exist in that moment.

Hannibal moved the bowl closer.

“You can eat with your hands if you want. No rush. No one is watching. Just me. And I’ll never laugh at you.”

Will took the spoon with trembling fingers. A piece of banana slipped and fell back into the oatmeal. He frowned, frustrated. But Hannibal just reached out patiently.

“Want me to help you?”

The boy didn’t answer. But he dropped the spoon and turned his body slightly to the side, letting Hannibal get closer.

And Hannibal, as if he had done this hundreds of times, scooped a small spoonful, blew on it gently, and brought it to his mouth.

Will opened his lips without resistance. He chewed slowly. The warm, sweet taste seemed to melt the pain, spoonful by spoonful.

“It’s… good,” he murmured softly.

“I’m glad,” said Hannibal. “You deserve good things.”

A few more spoonfuls, then a pause. Will rested his head on Hannibal’s shoulder, still chewing slowly, eyes half-closed.

“I want to sleep again… later,” he murmured. “But I don’t want to be left alone anymore.”

“Never,” Hannibal replied, kissing the top of his head slowly.

Will sighed, and for the first time that day, a faint trace of relief appeared on his face. There was still a world out there that treated him carelessly — but here, between the oatmeal and the arms that held him, he was only what he needed to be:

A loved little boy. Whole. Untouched.