Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night in Cuba was fresh and comfortable, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and the distant hum of insects. Their house, set apart from the city, rested in near-absolute silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of the dogs in the yard. It was precisely that tranquility that made any unusual sound stand out — like the sharp, unexpected slam of a door.

In the bedroom, tangled in rumpled sheets, Hannibal and Will stirred from the deep drowsiness of the night. Neither of them moved right away. The warmth of their bodies, the comforting weight of the embrace, the laziness — it was all far too strong to be disturbed by a possible threat.

“Do you think it’s the FBI?” Will murmured, his voice hoarse and soft against his husband’s firm chest.

Hannibal, still with his eyes closed, slowly ran his fingers through Will’s damp curls, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of his husband like an old addiction.

“Unlikely,” he replied in a low breath, indifferent.

“So just some poor soul who walked into the wrong house?” Will mumbled, his nose pressed against Hannibal’s warm skin.

“Apparently so.” The answer came with the feline calm of someone who knows he is in control, accompanied by a firmer squeeze on his lover’s waist.

Will let out a sleepy laugh.

“Oh, poor unfortunate soul.”

They said nothing more. They only listened.

The intruder betrayed himself with every step: the creak of the front door, the hesitation on the wooden floor downstairs, the hurried breath that echoed through the hallways like an uneven drum. Doors opened one by one, groaning in the silence. An amateur. Desperate. A man walking toward his own end.

And Hannibal and Will remained still, patient, like predators waiting for the right moment.

The footsteps climbed the stairs. The intruder was approaching. Finally, the mistake: the bedroom door was thrown open too quickly.

In an instant, the lazy air of the room turned into sharp steel. Two cracks cut through the silence. The blades glinted in the dim light, precise, relentless, striking their marks.

One knife sank deep into the left eye. The other into the throat, choking the scream before it could even be born.

The body collapsed heavily onto the white rug. Hot blood spilled in waves, spreading quickly across the expensive fabric.

Hannibal didn’t even open his eyes.

“Beautiful aim, vita mia. Your precision is becoming more impressive each day.”

Will yawned, lifting himself just enough to look at the body.

“Hardly. I was aiming for the mouth.”

His gaze lingered on the crimson stain expanding across the rug.

“We should…”

“No.” Hannibal cut him off, pulling him back close with ease. “Leave it there. We can clean it in the morning.”

Will raised an eyebrow, biting the corner of his lip.

“Don’t you want to take an organ for dinner?”

“I don’t eat the flesh of thieves.” Hannibal sighed, almost amused. “It’s impure, full of cheap alcohol and drugs. Not worth it, mon petit. Just go back to sleep.”

Will chuckled softly.

“So we’re just going to sleep with a corpse in the room?”

“I see no problem. We’ve slept in worse places.”

Will closed his eyes, giving in.

“Yeah… I suppose you’re right.”

“I usually am.”

A comfortable silence settled in, wrapped in Hannibal’s yawn and the slow breathing that lulled Will back toward sleep.

“I’m sure you’re not,” Will murmured, nearly asleep.

Hannibal only smiled in the dark, satisfied.

On the floor, the intruder was still breathing. Fragile. Rattling with wet coughs. A grotesque gurgle filled the room, each failed attempt at air mixing with the sound of blood dripping onto the rug. He tried to crawl, leaving red streaks behind him. His trembling hand slapped weakly against the doorframe, a mute plea.

Will, without opening his eyes, muttered lazily:

“I told you we shouldn’t have bought that white rug. He’s staining it all over.”

“He’s already been punished for it,” Hannibal replied with an indulgent, almost paternal tone. “Don’t worry, Will. Tomorrow we’ll roll him up in that rug and go buy a new one. Now go back to sleep.”

The body convulsed one last time, choking on its own blood. Then, silence.

And they went back to resting, while the corpse, ignored, slowly turned the bedroom into a crime scene.

Chapter Text

The morning sun slipped timidly through the cracks in the curtains, tinting the room with a soft golden glow that clashed grotesquely with the dark stains drying on the carpet. The air still carried the metallic scent of blood, mixed with the fresh aroma of coffee drifting in from the kitchen.

Hannibal was already up, impeccable in his morning calm. White shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, gloved hands resting lightly as he observed the stiffened body stretched out on the carpet.

Will emerged from the bathroom, hair still tousled, wearing only an oversized t-shirt—probably stolen from Hannibal’s wardrobe. He rubbed his eyes as though what lay before him were no more than a minor nuisance, a cockroach on the rug.

“You’ve already thought about the next carpet, haven’t you?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Perhaps.” Hannibal crouched, assessing the knives still lodged in flesh.

“‘Perhaps,’ he says. Come on, I know you’ve already planned to change the curtains to match.” Will rolled his eyes.

Hannibal smiled, proud of how well his husband knew him.

“Rigidity has already set in. It’ll be more troublesome to roll him now.”

Will chuckled quietly, running a hand down his face.

“This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when you talked about a peaceful life in Cuba.”

Hannibal arched a slight smile, lifting his gaze to him.

“Peace is relative, vita mia.”

Will huffed but didn’t argue. He walked to the kitchen and returned with two steaming mugs of coffee, handing one to Hannibal, who accepted it as if it were the most natural thing in the world to sip coffee in front of a corpse.

“So…” Will took a slow sip. “Do you prefer burning him somewhere, or should we stage him for the police to find?”

“Our art is far too refined for a cheap thief, dear,” Hannibal replied, as if discussing whether or not to use a certain shade of paint in a canvas, rather than a corpse in a crime scene. “Besides, your knife struck his face. It’s far too sloppy to use.”

Will raised a brow, looking at his husband.

“Are you criticizing my knife-throwing methods, Doctor?”

“Of course not, Will. You know I’m your greatest admirer in everything you do…”

“But?”

Hannibal’s smile curved slightly as he examined the body again. “But your aim leaves something to be desired. You said you were aiming for his mouth?”

Will sighed, glanced at the damage, and nodded begrudgingly.

“I aimed too high.”

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll let you practice on me later.” Hannibal teased, and Will laughed.

“Careful, Doctor. Your masochism is showing,” Will quipped, drawing a low laugh from Hannibal.

With meticulous calm, Hannibal removed the knives from the body, wiped them on a white cloth—soon stained red—and handed them back to Will. Together, they lifted the corpse and laid it straight across the carpet, rolling it up neatly.

As Will tied the man’s feet, he grimaced.

“You do realize we’re the only couple spending a Saturday morning like this?”

“Not really,” Hannibal answered, securing a firm knot at the other end of the rug. “We’re simply tending to the house. Every couple has their own routines.”

Will huffed and rolled his eyes.

With steady steps, they dragged the body across the veranda to the damp sand. The sea awaited silently, an eternal accomplice to secrets.

Hannibal paused, exhaling calmly, and looked at Will, who squinted against the morning light.

“Once we’re rid of him, we could stop by town. Pick out a new carpet.”

Will smirked faintly, without a trace of irony this time.

“And maybe get breakfast first. I’m hungry.”

“It shall be done,” Hannibal replied, with the serene certainty of a man who always keeps his promises.

Together they pushed the body into the sea, watching as it sank until it disappeared. The day was only just beginning.