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The front door of the Wolf Trap house gave its familiar groan as Will pushed it open, admitting a swirl of icy January wind that carried the scent of pine and impending snow. He was bone-tired, the kind of tired that settled behind the eyes like lead shot, after another day spent wading through the wreckage of someone else's mind.
He expected barking, the usual joyous riot of dogs launching themselves at him.
Instead, he found quiet. Purposeful quiet.
Hannibal Lecter stood in the narrow kitchen, sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled precisely to the elbows, apron tied with surgical neatness over charcoal trousers. He was portioning out food into the dogs' bowls—not just kibble, but carefully warmed chicken breast sliced thin, mixed with rice and a scattering of steamed vegetables. The dogs sat in a perfect semicircle around him, patient as courtiers, tails sweeping the floor in slow, contented arcs. Winston's head rested against Hannibal's calf; Buster watched with bright, trusting eyes.
Hannibal did not startle at Will's entrance. He never did.
"Will," he said, without turning, voice low and measured, a velvet blade. "You are earlier than anticipated. The roads must have been kind."
Will let the door close behind him, keys clattering onto the side table. "You're... here. Feeding my dogs."
Hannibal straightened, turning with economical grace. The apron was spotless; not a drop marred the pristine fabric. "They expressed a preference for something more substantial than dry food this evening. I obliged."
Will rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the rasp of stubble. "You let yourself in."
"The door was unlocked." Hannibal's gaze flicked to the deadbolt, then back to Will—mild reproof wrapped in silk. "A vulnerability. We have discussed this."
Will exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if he had more energy. "Yeah. We have."
Hannibal removed the apron, folding it once, precisely, and set it aside. He crossed the small space between them and placed a hand at the small of Will's back—firm, guiding, the touch lingering just long enough to steer Will toward the living room without ever feeling like force. The palm was warm through damp flannel; Will felt it like a brand he would never admit to craving.
The fire was already lit, low and steady, casting amber across the worn couch and the pile of blankets Hannibal had evidently brought from somewhere—perhaps his own car, perhaps conjured from thin air like everything else about him. He eased Will down onto the cushions, then drew the thickest wool throw over him, tucking it around shoulders and knees with the same meticulous care he used when arranging a plate or a corpse.
Will watched, helpless, as Hannibal moved to the kitchen again. The soft clink of a saucepan followed. Minutes later, he returned with a mug of hot chocolate—dark, fragrant with cinnamon and a whisper of something sharper, perhaps ancho chile. A faint spiral of cream floated on top, deliberate in its asymmetry, like a signature.
Hannibal settled beside him. Not touching, but near enough that Will could feel the heat radiating from his body, steady as a furnace. Their knees brushed when Will shifted under the blanket.
"Drink," Hannibal said quietly. "It will restore some equilibrium."
Will wrapped cold fingers around the mug. The first sip was perfect—rich, warming, cutting through the chill that had settled into his marrow. He closed his eyes for a second, letting the heat spread.
Hannibal watched him. Always watching. The firelight turned his eyes the color of old bourbon, calm and unreadable and impossibly deep.
Will's chest ached with something he refused to name.
This—Hannibal here, in his house, tending to his dogs, his fire, his shivering body—was more than friendship. It had to be. And yet it couldn't be. Hannibal was elegance incarnate, a man who walked through the world like he owned every shadow in it. Will was frayed edges and bad dreams and a pack of strays no one else wanted. Hannibal's attention was a gift, a temporary indulgence, the way one might feed a stray cat that wandered too close. Generous. Detached. Kind in the way beautiful things are kind to lesser creatures—because they can afford to be.
He would never want more. Not from Will. Not like this.
And yet here he was.
Hannibal reached over, adjusting the blanket where it had slipped from Will's shoulder. His fingers brushed the nape of Will's neck—deliberate, lingering, then withdrawing as though nothing had happened.
Will's pulse jumped anyway.
If the world was ending, the song whispered through his head again, soft radio memory from the drive home, I'd wanna be next to you.
He looked at Hannibal sidelong. The man sat with perfect posture even on this sagging couch, one hand resting lightly on his own knee, the other close enough that Will could feel the air stir when he breathed.
Hannibal turned his head slightly. Their eyes met.
"I find your company... restorative," Hannibal said, voice so low it was almost lost in the crackle of the fire. "Even when you are silent. Especially then."
Will swallowed. "You don't have to stay."
"I choose to." A small, private smile curved Hannibal's mouth—not mocking, but something softer, something that felt dangerously like truth. "When I contemplate the shape of an ending, I discover a certain... preference for proximity. To you."
Will's heart gave a painful lurch. He wanted to believe it meant everything. He told himself it meant nothing—or at least, nothing reciprocal. Hannibal spoke in riddles and metaphors because that was his nature. Will was reading desire into courtesy, affection into observation.
He was an idiot. A hopeful, lonely idiot.
But the dogs were curled at their feet, content. The fire burned steady. The chocolate was warm in his hands, and Hannibal was here—solid, real, close enough to touch if Will ever found the courage.
He wouldn't. He couldn't ask for more than this.
But this... this was enough.
Will leaned back into the cushions, letting his shoulder brush Hannibal's—just barely. Hannibal did not move away.
Instead, he shifted fractionally closer.
Will closed his eyes, breathing in cedar and spice and the faint metallic undercurrent that always clung to Hannibal like a secret.
If the world ended tonight, he thought, he would take this quiet fiction: Hannibal's hand eventually finding its way to rest over his on the mug, fingers overlapping in careful possession; the slow, even rhythm of Hannibal's breathing syncing with his own; the dogs sighing in their sleep.
No confession. No desperate reach across the impossible distance between them.
Just this.
Just company that felt like home.
And if that was all he ever got, Will decided, staring into the firelight, he would be content.
He would die with a smile.