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Hannibal dislikes rest stops on principle.
They are liminal places. Neither destination nor departure, only the weary in-between. Still, the road demands its rituals. Fuel. A drink. A moment to step out of the car and stretch cramping legs.
The parking lot is covered with snow, though someone had ploughed away most of it. Only one space remains, flanked between two cars, one of which was parked too close to the line. Hannibal manages to guide his car into the space anyway. Perfectly centred given the circumstances.
His thick coat keeps out most of the cold as he makes his way toward the convenience store. The door chimes as he enters, but the woman at the till is too busy staring at her phone to notice. Hannibal walks past shelves of candy and selects a bottle of water from the fridge. It is as he turns that someone bumps his shoulder.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Sorry,” a voice says immediately.
Hannibal tilts his head. The man is a bit younger. Handsome, with pretty lips and dark brown hair with scattered grey. His eyes, though—
They are like Will’s.
Neither in shape nor colour, Hannibal decides. But in their softness, in the way they try to read him, appraising without even realising.
An empath’s eyes.
Something in Hannibal’s chest wrenches. He had loved Will Graham with the reverence of a man who had finally found a God to worship. He had loved Will Graham with the hunger of Tantalus, but with the certainty that it was holy.
Yes, his love for Will had consumed him entirely.
He tries not to think of how it still does. Despite everything.
The stranger’s smile is apologetic. “I didn’t see you there.”
“It’s quite all right.” Hannibal smiles back. He notices the paint smudges on the man’s fingers, specks of blue and yellow. “An artist.”
The man blinks, then laughs. “Is it obvious?”
“Only to one who pays attention,” Hannibal replies, and watches the man’s shoulders relax. “Oil or acrylic?”
“Mostly acrylic,” the man admits. “I try to be careful, but still—” He gestures at the smudges ruefully. “It follows me.”
“As many good things do,” Hannibal says.
The man smiles again. He goes onto his tiptoes to reach for the pack of crisps on the top shelf, but his fingers fall short.
Hannibal steps closer, extends his arm, and plucks the crisp packet from the top row. “Allow me.”
The man’s eyes widen. “Oh. Thanks.”
“Of course.”
Their fingers brush. The man flinches, and his head jerks up to meet Hannibal’s gaze. For a few seconds, he just stares, peering up through long lashes, and slowly, something wary blooms in his eyes.
Ah. Hannibal smiles in amusement. This one recognises monsters.
Interesting.
“You too,” the man says, and his voice is kind, but his gaze stays alert.
Prey, Hannibal realises. But still, he is prey with sharp instincts.
Hannibal leaves the man to his perusal and goes to pay for his water. He ignores the cashier’s attempt at small talk and finds some relief in returning to the cold.
In the car park, a man stands beside the battered car parked uncomfortably close to Hannibal’s. He is tall, angular, with black hair, glasses and sharp cheekbones that seem ready to slice through skin.
His scowl only grows as Hannibal approaches.
“Seriously?” the man snaps. “That’s how you park?”
Hannibal pauses. It’s always fascinating how some people announce themselves with hostility. He glances down at the space between the cars. It is tight, but not impossible. Merely inconvenient.
“Is there a problem?” Hannibal asks.
“The problem,” the man says, gesturing sharply, “is that I can’t get in. Because you decided to wedge your—your tank in here like you own the lot.”
Hannibal’s eyes flick to the man’s car. Its tyres are just by the line, and the angle is sloppy.
“You are parked too close to the line,” Hannibal says calmly. “It reduces the available space.”
“Oh, wow.” The man’s scowl deepens, as though Hannibal had insulted his mother. “So it’s my fault, is it? Rather than you squeezing in your enormous car.”
Hannibal feels his eyelid twitch. The man’s voice is grating. It reminds him of a snarling Chihuahua. Loud, with no substance.
The man is holding a Starbucks coffee cup from across the road. The bottom of his trousers is wet from trudging through the snow. Perhaps that is why he’s upset.
The man stalks closer. “People like you—”
Hannibal’s eyebrow lifts. “Like me?”
“Yeah,” the man retaliates. “People who think the rules don’t apply because you’ve got, what—” he glowers at Hannibal’s car and coat— “a fancy car and loads of cash.”
Hannibal smiles. “I assure you, the rules apply to me, which is why I parked within the lines.”
“You squeezed in. You did it on purpose."
“I chose the only available space,” Hannibal says. “And I parked as correctly as circumstances allowed.”
“Congratulations,” the man said flatly, his coffee cup sloshing. “Do you want a medal? Excuse me for not clapping until my hands freeze off.”
Hannibal hums, trailing his eyes down the line of the man’s throat, pausing over the Adam’s apple.
This one would taste delicious.
It should be a dish that flatters sharpness. Something lean that benefits from tenderness coaxed out.
A ballotine, Hannibal decides. Stuffed with morels and tarragon, glazed in a blackberry–red wine reduction. He’d plate the meat over a sweetcorn velouté with charred leek and crispy potato dice.
Hannibal slips his hand casually into his coat pocket. The switchblade is not a necessity. He rarely needs weapons, but he appreciates tools the way he appreciates fine cutlery. Clean, precise and always honest in their function.
He would make this quick.
The man huffs and adjusts his glasses. “You know what? I’m wasting my time arguing with mouthbreathers like you—” He stops abruptly and glances behind Hannibal’s shoulder towards the store. “Oh. Hey! Will!”
Hannibal blinks, finding himself oddly thrown. A face flashes to the front of his mind—sharp, deep eyes, a stubbled jaw and clever, careful words. He gives his head a shake and turns to see the artist from before stepping out into the cold with a couple of crisp packets under an arm.
“Will.” The transformation in the scowling man is startling. His shoulders loosen, and his scowl melts into a gentle smile. He lifts the Costa cup and waves. “I got you coffee!”
Will—this new Will, who didn’t belong to Hannibal—comes close and takes the offered coffee. He nods politely to Hannibal. “Hi.”
“Hello again,” Hannibal says smoothly.
Will frowns at his friend. “Mike.”
The tall man’s eyes widen. “What? This guy parked like a psychopath. I can’t get in.”
Hannibal offers to Will, “I parked within the lines.”
Mike makes a face at him. “Nobody asked you.”
Will closes his eyes and sighs. “Mike.” A muscle in his cheek tightens. “Seriously?”
“What?” Mike says, instantly defensive. “What? He did.”
Will opens his eyes and glances at Hannibal again, and Hannibal sees the assessment, the instinctive cataloguing of threat. Not fear, exactly. Something more experienced.
Will turns to Mike. “Take the crisps and get in.”
“No. You get in first.”
“Mike.”
“I’m serious,” Mike insists, angling his body so he’s half between Will and Hannibal. “Get in the car. I’m not leaving you out here with—with this creepy guy who definitely has, like, a freezer full of—”
“Mike.” There is a new sternness in Will’s voice.
Mike presses on anyway. “Basement vibes. I’m getting basement vibes.”
Hannibal finds himself smirking. The accuracy is almost charming.
Will exhales through his nose. He looks both frustrated and fond. “Mike. Please. Get in the car and start it.”
Hannibal is amused to see Mike—who a moment ago was a snarling dog yapping at ankles—fold at the plea beneath the words.
“Fine,” Mike mutters. He snatches the crisp packets from Will’s arm and then, leans in and presses a kiss to Will’s forehead.
Something sour twists beneath Hannibal’s ribs.
Once, he had desired to do the same intimate gesture. But to a different brow, a different face, a different Will.
It’s harder now to school his expression.
Mike pulls back and glares at Hannibal again. He swears under his breath and sidles into the thin gap between the cars. It is almost entertaining to watch Mike attempt to fold his long frame through the opening. His coat scrapes Hannibal’s door, and his elbow bumps the other car’s mirror, before he’s finally in the driver’s seat.
“Sorry about him,” Will says quietly. “He’s protective.”
“He is protective,” Hannibal says. “That is not a bad thing to be.”
“Yes, well,” Will says quietly. “He’s had reason to be.”
Ah. So this one has been hunted before.
Hannibal tilts his head, considering. He is still set on eating Mike. The man's rudeness alone warrants it, but more than that, it seems unfair that such uncouthness has found love in the form of this lovely artist with such doe-like eyes. Mike does not deserve Will, Hannibal is sure.
A small voice in the back of his head tells him that he, too, does not deserve his Will. Hannibal silences the voice and mulls instead on how easy it would be to arrange this next meal.
He’d follow their car from a distance. Wait until they stop at their house—perhaps at Hawkins, just a couple of hours away.
He would wait until dark. Until the house was silent and the streetlights cast long shadows. The lock on the back door would be simple. He would move through the hallway like smoke, his feet making no sound on the carpet.
Will would be the easier target. Hannibal would press a chloroform-soaked cloth to his face and catch him as he sagged. The struggle would be minimal, more choked sounds of distress than fists. He would hug Will to him as the man trembles, and shush him by caressing his hair
Mike would hear something. They always do. He would come downstairs, likely clad in nothing but boxer shorts and a t-shirt. When he sees Will, that sharp, snarling anger would return, but this time, edged with true fear.
The fight would be brief. Mike is all sharp angles and nervous energy, but no real strength. Hannibal would catch his wrist as he swung, twist it until something cracked, and Mike would go down with a cry that Hannibal would have to muffle. A knee to the solar plexus, a sharp blow to the temple. He’d inject Mike with a sedative and then bind and gag him, before tossing him into the car boot.
And once he has Mike and Will both in his wine cellar, he’d take his time.
He would keep Will bound to a chair, gag him because the man would no doubt scream as Mike is hung up by his wrists, sedated but just aware enough as Hannibal strips meat from him piece by piece.
The preparation would be an art.
A ballotine, yes. He would remove the thighs first, the meatiest part of that scrawny frame. The meat would be pale and tender. He would season it, then stuff it with morels, tarragon and breadcrumbs soaked in a red wine reduction he'd prepared earlier. The ballotine would be poached, then seared to crisp the skin, and sliced delicately.
He would feed Will by hand.
Small bites. Perhaps Will would refuse to eat, spit it out, but a spider gag would solve that matter. The artist would cry. Hannibal is certain of it. Those wide, soft eyes would well with tears, and he would sob around the gag, his shoulders shaking with the force of his grief.
The thought sends a frisson of delight through Hannibal.
Will Graham had never cried like that. His tears had always been angry, defiant, the tears of a man who understood exactly what Hannibal was and yearned for him anyway. But this Will—this Will Byers—he would cry the way an angel cries when shown the beautiful face of the Devil. He would weep with the purity of one who has never imagined such wonderful depravity.
“We should go. I’m sorry again for my husband. He’s an idiot sometimes.”
Hannibal focused back on Will, whose fingers are still etched with paint.
Soft hands, he thinks, made for colour. For creation.
How beautiful they’d look holding Mike’s right arm, roasted, seared and seasoned.
"No apology necessary," Hannibal replies.
Will frowns at him, and Hannibal sees it again—that flicker of recognition. He is reminded that this Will, like his own Will, recognises monsters.
"You're dangerous," Will says.
Hannibal finds himself pleasantly surprised. “Am I?"
"Yes." Will's voice is calm, but the tightness around his mouth betrays him. "I don't know what you are, exactly. But I can feel it.”
Hannibal smiles warmly. “How perceptive.”
“It’s not my business.” He holds Hannibal’s eyes as he speaks. “I’m not…” Will pauses, “—interested in whatever you do. Whatever you are. I have my husband.” He glances back at the car. Inside, Mike is craning his neck, watching through the windshield like a guard dog. “He is everything to me.”
Will’s gaze returns to Hannibal, and his eyes are no longer as soft. Instead, they’re narrowed with determination.
“But,” Will says, and something old, tired and dangerous edges his tone, “if you touch him—if you ever come near us again—” His eyes darken. “I will destroy you.”
Hannibal's brows lift. No, this is no predator. But neither is he wholly prey. This Will is something more broken than either, menacing in the way a cornered animal would lash out to protect what’s his. A creature of teeth and more strength than Hannibal had realised.
“You should also know,” Will continues softly. “That Mike and I are not alone. Those who love us will not rest until we are found or avenged. They, like us, have faced down things you couldn’t imagine.” He lifts his chin. “This is my warning. Take it.”
“Will,” Hannibal murmurs, tasting the name in his mouth. It is not his Will, but the sound of it stirs old hunger. Excitement flutters low in his belly. It has been so long since anyone has offered him something so honest.
Now, this is something he can respect.
Hannibal steps close, closing the distance between them, and quicker than Will can react, curls a hand over the man’s nape and pulls him in. Their faces merely inches apart, he whispers into Will’s ear.
“I shall respect your claim over him,” Hannibal murmurs, thumbing Will’s fluttering carotid pulse. "But have care with your threats. Monsters do not like being named."
Will shoves him away, his face pale but his eyes fierce. He stumbles back a step, his breaths coming fast, and Hannibal sees both fear and the furious protectiveness of one with too much to lose.
Mike erupts from the driver’s seat, slamming the door into Hannibal’s car on his way out. He struggles to extricate himself from the gap, his gangly limbs knocking into the windows.
“Hey! Stay away from my husband, you freak!"
Hannibal chuckles. He steps back and slides into his own driver's seat. Mike slams his fist against the back window as the car reverses, his swearing muffled but his rage clear. Will has grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back, trying to placate him, but Mike is still yelling, seeming ready to chase after Hannibal.
Hannibal drives away. A glance in the rearview mirror reveals Mike hugging Will, the smaller man’s face buried in the crook of Mike’s neck as Mike caresses his back. As though Will is the one in need of protection.
Hannibal almost laughs at that. A thought comes to him, sweet and seductive at the same time.
He does so miss Will Graham.
Perhaps it is time to pay his own Will a visit.