Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Three years after the fall finds both Hannibal and Will secluded in a cottage in Argentina, hours from the city, and hours still from any nearby town. Off the map and off the grid, it is Will’s perfect vision of their escape, the one he’d crafted in the seconds that it took to fall from the top of the cliff to the murky bottom. 

Will is satisfied with everything that his life has become. 

He works on fishing lures still, in the evenings before dinner. 

It is more than welcome when Hannibal slides a hand down his shoulder, and it no longer startles him when Hannibal kisses the tip of his ear and whispers, “Any requests for dinner, my love?” 

“Maybe the stomach,” he suggests lightly, knowing Hannibal has recipes stashed in his mind palace for such an occasion, or his new rolodex. 

Hannibal had used their latest victim’s liver two days prior. Otherwise, he might have suggested the organ again. It had been quite a delicious spread of liver slabs, cooked to perfection, not too brown or too pink, accompanied with caramelized peaches and onion compote, garnished with fresh rosemary from their garden. 

Hannibal stays by his side a moment longer, stroking his fingers up Will’s shoulder and to his neck, and Will can sense his delight over the shiver this draws from him. 

“Rate your hunger.” 

This is something new they’ve been doing. Will gets a stomach ache if he eats one of Hannibal’s larger recipes when he’s feeling too stuffed already. Hannibal had suggested they try this and avoid unnecessary ailment, and it’s been paying off. 

“Starving,” he admits and mirrors Hannibal’s smile. 

Tonight, Will is ravenous, sitting adjacent to the head of the table. He is dressed to the nines, as it is a Friday, and he promises Hannibal at least this much on weekends. Every other day, he finds all-day-long pajamas agree with him more often than not. 

Unless he is fly fishing or gardening, in which case he wears the bucket hats Hannibal despises. 

The smell of the meal hits his nose before Hannibal even enters the room. When he does, Will’s mouth waters, and he stares at the red, incredibly textured bowl of food he sets in front of him. 

“Trippa alla Romana, served with honeycomb and finely chopped parsley. It is roman style tripe,” Hannibal explains, sitting with perfect posture in his chair. “I took the liberty of making this meal not so extravagant that you couldn’t also have a dessert.” 

“It’s dessert night too, is it?” Will questions, already digging in. “Not sure I can do anything as heavy as blood pudding tonight.” 

“Not to worry,” Hannibal responds, amused. “I’m baking more of a pie.” 

Will smirks. “You must want something then.” Hannibal knows how much he craves pies. He’d eat pie any time of the day, and any type of pie at that. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Hannibal keeps his eyes on his food, pointedly ignoring Will’s prying stare, so Will returns to his own bowl and the conversation dissents from euphemism into talk of butchering and cattle herding. 

Not too alluring a topic, but it doesn’t stop Will from ambushing Hannibal in the kitchen after dessert, palming his ass and licking into his mouth in the hopes that the night will end the way he wants every night to end. 

If they could have sex everyday they would, but occasionally there just isn’t a place for it. One of them might be too tired, or very occasionally an argument causes them to close off from each other. But, Will can’t say that he hates the outcome of those rare nights, because the day after, the makeup sex is so fucking good he considers arguing with Hannibal for no reason other than to have more of it. 

Tonight, Hannibal is neither tired nor angry with him. He responds instantly, nearly lifting Will off the ground with the strength he grips him in, shoving him hard against one of the counters. 

Will glances down to find remnants of the batter for Pastiera Napoletana . He dips his finger in it and raises it up to his lips, but Hannibal snatches his wrist and the batter somehow ends up on his neck. 

“Oops,” Will mutters, not apologetic in the slightest. 

Hannibal’s eyes grow dark and he leans in to suck the offense off of Will’s neck, licking and teething at the skin enough to make Will groan and buck against him. 

Their following kiss is more biting than gentle, with tongues and teeth clashing in dire yearning. 

“Mmm,” Will smiles, aroused and delighted when Hannibal sucks at his bottom lip. “Take me to bed, Hannibal.” 

“As you wish.” 

“You say that as if this all wasn’t pre-meditated,” Will gestures to the kitchen as he’s dragged out into the dining room and down the hall to their bedroom. Hannibal’s hand is still locked around his wrist, and he doesn’t let go even when they reach the foot of the bed. “I know you better than that.” 

“Are you complaining?” Hannibal asks simply, finally releasing him to grip tightly to his belt loops and drag him forward. He gets to work on his fly, not taking his eyes off of Will’s. 

Will’s breath stutters and he nuzzles his nose against Hannibal’s as he’s stripped down efficiently, methodically.

“You know I’m not.” 

Hannibal removes his own suit jacket and tilts his head toward the bed. Will doesn’t need to hear him say anything, he’s already crawling to the middle of the bed naked, flipping on his back and waiting for Hannibal to follow. 

“Remember when you used to be a gentleman and lit candles every time we did this?” Will asks, regretting it instantly when he sees Hannibal’s eyes dart around the room, looking for matches. “Don’t you dare. I’m not waiting for an hour for you to decide which scent pairs best with evening sex.” 

Hannibal grins back at him, popping the buttons on his shirt slowly before he mutters fondly, “Insolent.”

Will starts stroking himself to see the irritation flash across Hannibal’s face. 

“You know better,” Hannibal scolds, but continues his turtle-paced disrobing, folding, and gathering of the lube in the bedside drawer. 

Will moans softly, arching his back against the sheets. “I don’t even need you, do I?” He means it as a gentle tease, but Hannibal is suddenly over him on all fours, tugging his hand away from his cock before descending down between his legs and sucking his erection harshly into his mouth. 

It is a punishment as well as a reward. 

“Oh!” Will’s hips stutter up and he brushes his hands through the bobbing head of silver hair just within reach. “Nevermind, this is better.” 

Hannibal enjoys nothing more than edging Will on the nights he fucks him. He wants him to be teetering on the precipice by the time he penetrates him, so that Will is incoherent and drooling for it by the time he actually gives it to him. It is a sweet torture. 

“Ah fuck,” Will breaths, squirming when Hannibal starts fingering him open, sucking harder as if demanding he comes in his mouth. 

Just as Will starts rolling his hips to meet the wet heat between his legs, Hannibal eases off of everything and he’s left feeling high-strung and desperate on his back as Hannibal slicks up his own cock and lines up. 

“Give it to me hard,” Will prefaces. 

Hannibal doesn’t even argue. It is an indicator he is almost as far gone as Will is tonight, and a smile spreads across Will’s lips when he slides home. 

They do this often enough there isn’t more than a hint of pain, the ghost of it from times early in their relationship where it was all Will could feel. 

Hannibal doesn’t give him time to adjust, digging his fingers into Will’s hips and fucking him up the mattress with the force of his thrusts. Will’s whole body moves with it and he groans each time he feels his cock graze his insides, glancing frantically at his prostate in random intervals. 

“Come here,” Will begs, because Hannibal is still on his knees, fucking him from above like some untouchable tower. He wants to touch him. 

Hannibal shakes his head, suddenly defiant. 

“You’re going to take it,” Hannibal tells him, with a ridiculously smooth voice, for how intensely he’s fucking him. “Just like this.” 

Will writhes, groaning in a mixture of pleasure and vexation. His thighs are trembling. He can’t do much to argue when Hannibal is relentless in his thrusts, taking him like a machine would. With no regard for stamina or for Will’s wishes. 

It sends a surge of arousal through him that tightens the muscles in his stomach and ass and he is forced to grip the headboard not to touch himself. 

Will’s moans grow louder and more high-pitched as he slowly approaches the edge once more. A few more thrusts and he’s a goner. He cants his hips up against Hannibal’s and his eyes slip closed as he chases his impending orgasm, but Hannibal gradually slows down to a glacial pace. 

Will whimpers despite himself, squirming when Hannibal’s thrusts become a gentle grinding, barely pulling out, and just rubbing incessantly at his prostate. It is maddening. 

“Screw you,” Will barks, bucking his hips against Hannibal’s cock, encouraging him to move faster. His arousal ebbs off the edge again, and he huffs in exhaustion. 

It is one of those nights. 

Hannibal smirks down at him, and runs a hand over his quivering stomach as he continues grinding into him. He wraps the hand around Will’s cock, and does nothing more than rub a thumb under the leaking head. 

“S – Stop it,” Will mutters, breathing unevenly. His heels start to slip on the mattress. 

“But, you’re making such lovely noises for me,” Hannibal protests with a wider smirk, his thumb tweaking over the slit and Will lets out a sound dangerously close to a squeak. 

“I’m giving you five seconds to stop being an ass,” Will warns. 

Hannibal merely raises a brow at him, a challenge. 

Will snarls and surges up to shove Hannibal bodily down onto his back. He straddles his hips before Hannibal can do anything to stop him and sinks back down on his cock, groaning in relief. 

He bounces up and down for a few seconds, getting back into a rhythm and then he drapes himself over Hannibal’s body, two hands fisted in the sheets on either side of his head as he fucks himself fast and hard on Hannibal’s cock, to get just the right angle. 

If it were another night, Hannibal might have fought him, instead resting his hands delicately over his hip bones. He adds pressure when Will lifts up, as if he’s helping Will ride him. 

“Why can’t you just do what you’re told?” Will bites out, but it doesn’t sound sincere, followed by a series of needy moans as he works to get himself off. “Fucking hell. ” 

“I’d ask the same of you,” Hannibal responds, voice thready and quiet which means he’s close. 

“Hard, come on, do it hard,” Will whispers against his lips, kissing him affectionately, sweetly like Hannibal likes. Hannibal brings one hand up to cup his scarred cheek, and grips Will’s ass with the other.

His upper lip pulls back in a momentary snarl as he starts to meet Will’s thrusts with equal fervor, the sound of skin slapping together increasing by the second.

It feels so good Will sees white when he closes his eyes. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles against Hannibal’s lips, “Yeah, just like that.” 

It is a few seconds more before Hannibal is reaching a hand between them and jerking Will so quickly, he doesn’t feel his own orgasm creep up before it hits him. He topples forward, falling limp against Hannibal’s body as he comes in jolts, groaning when Hannibal continues slamming into his prostate through the whole tumble, over and over until he feels like he’ll die from the pleasure. 

“Will,” Hannibal whispers, strained. He always says his name right before he comes. 

He grips Will’s ass with both hands as he buries himself deep; his cock twitches inside of him as he comes thick and wet. It feels slick and so good as Hannibal’s hips stutter up a few more times, automatically, even as his cock softens. 

Hannibal’s breathing becomes unsteady for a few seconds, catching in his throat as he collects himself. 

“I’ll say it again, I think if we’d started fucking when we met, it could have solved a lot of problems,” Will grumbles, peeling himself off of Hannibal’s sweaty chest and plopping down beside him. 

He turns to find an unamused expression. 

“Making love,” he corrects himself indignantly. “You don’t mind my swearing when your dick is in my ass.” 

Hannibal softens and strokes his cheek. Their chests are heaving in unison and he replies, “I am behooved to admit my world narrows to your face and your body in those moments.” 

“Be hoove, ” Will croons, biting lightly at Hannibal’s shoulder to mask his grin. 

Hannibal nuzzles him with his forehead, always at his most playful in his post-coital state. After a few minutes of lazy kissing and nosing each other’s jaws and cheeks, Hannibal’s eyes glaze over as he falls deeper into thought.

“What?” Will asks bluntly. 

Hannibal blinks and rolls onto his back again. He sighs and it takes him a while to form a response, which isn’t usually a good sign. 

“Do you really think any form of consummation would have made it easier between us? Back then.” 

Will scoffs lightly at the banal question from the man who under normal circumstances would scoff himself at such a question. “Hell no, probably worse.” 

Hannibal relaxes, which makes Will even more curious. 

“Why so serious?” 

Hannibal turns to him, and something clicks in his expression, as if he’s made a decision. It drives Will out of his mind, but he doesn’t think he’ll have to wait much longer for an explanation when Hannibal takes his hand in his and whispers. 

“I have something to show you.” 

Will steps out of the shower, and dresses in grey plaid pajamas. The fabric is soft all over his body and his skin feels warm from the water. It should calm him, but his anxiety is running rampant. His nerves shouldn’t be getting the best of him. Even with Hannibal waiting for him in the study, with some ‘secret’ he’s apparently been hiding from him. 

They had decided on day one; no secrets between them. 

If this is anything big, he’s afraid he might get angry. 

He’s not sure he can handle that tonight. Everything has been going so well. Their arguments had peaked the first few months they’d spent living together; they had found a groove. 

If they fall out of it, Will isn’t sure where they’ll end up. 

He strolls into the study, lined with redwood walls and chestnut couches. The fireplace is lit, spreading an illuminating warmth throughout the small room and Hannibal is in his deep red pajamas, almost as if he were part of the decorum. 

He pats the space beside him on the couch and Will sighs when he takes his seat. 

Hannibal has a thin black journal in his hands. Will had thought it was a book when he walked in, but now he sees an edge of loose-leaf sticking out of the side. 

“What is it that you need to show me?” Will asks, trying to keep his nerves from invading his tone. 

Alarmingly, Hannibal is silent when he hands Will the journal.

Will makes eye contact, trying to pry any sort of answer out of his eyes, but his effort is fruitless. He strokes over the binding, finding no label on the side or the cover and flips it open to find every single page filled to the brim with equations.  

There isn’t a single blank space. 

It looks like a madman’s record keeping.

Will scrutinizes the notebook carefully, chastising himself for his lack of mathematical intelligence. He is able to relax though, knowing this isn’t something that he can’t forgive Hannibal for. At least, he assumes it isn’t. 

“Surpass the efficiency of the universal Turing machine in your spare time?” Will jokes, handing back the notebook. 

Hannibal is staring at him with chilling intent, as if Will is supposed to know what this all means. It’s frustrating.

“Hey, look. I know you think I’ve got a pretty intriguing brain, but the only reason I didn’t flunk math was because I was dating the girl who sat beside me when we took our tests.” 

“This isn’t about math,” are the only ominous words Will receives before Hannibal stands and takes a few strides to his desk, bringing out a small, silver watch from the bottom drawer. 

He takes it back to Will and hands it to him.

It isn’t like a watch Will has ever seen. There is an adjustable number system in the center, where you can twirl the knobs on the side and change the date. The date currently, is the date of their present day, and the time is accurate to the clock just above the fireplace. It may not look like any watch he’s seen, but it also doesn’t look like anything other than that, a watch. 

“Okay?” Will presses, patience wearing thin. 

“Do you remember our discussions about teacups and time?” Hannibal asks calmly and Will nods, a muted dread crawling under his skin. 

With a sigh, Hannibal takes the watch and stretches the band to wrap around his left wrist and Will’s right simultaneously. 

“What are you doing?” Will is half convinced Hannibal’s has gone mad and stares at him wildly as Hannibal begins to turn the knobs on the side of the watch. When he’s done, he holds his thumb over the red button Will hadn’t noticed before on the bottom of the clock.

He takes his other hand and cups Will’s face firmly. 

“Whatever happens, do not take your eyes off of me.” 

“Hannibal, what the hell – ”

“Do you trust me, Will?” He asks, demanding an answer. Demanding Will trust him even without any explanation. 

Why would I ever?

“Yes,” Will confirms, against his better judgement. “You know I do.” 

Hannibal strokes his thumb under Will’s eye, watching him reverently and purposefully when he clicks the red button. 

In his peripheral, Will begins to see the lamps turn into bushes, and the redwood walls turn into birch trees, and oak wood. It is disorienting, but he assumes it would be even more so if he were not staring into Hannibal’s eyes, like a fixed point in a vortex. 

There is a feeling of nausea when he finds himself standing on two feet, crunching leaves beneath socked toes instead of soft cushions against his back. The air smells like New England, not like the cinnamon candles lit on the end tables by their couch. 

“Hannibal,” he says, petrified and trying to catch his breath. 

Suddenly, the world doesn’t feel like it’s turning, and Hannibal takes his hand away from his face, promptly removing Will’s wrist from the watch. 

“You may look at your surroundings Will.” 

Will whips around too soon, a surge of pain rushing to the forefront of his head. He reaches up to grip his temples, and then his stomach churns and he nearly vomits. 

“Shit,” he pants, bending over to grip his knees, but the nausea subsides quickly, turning more into a queasy, manageable, feeling. He is helped by the stroking hand on his back. 

They are in the woods, the woods Will knows all too well. 

“Hannibal, we’re in…” Will turns again, slowly, taking in the full environment. “Holy shit, we’re in Wolf Trap. Am I, are we – ”

“We are not in a dream,” Hannibal tells him, looking miraculously calm for someone who just teleported along with Will. If you could call it teleportation.

Will turns to him, eyes frantically drawn open, and body buzzing with confusion so ripe it feels like rage. “You better tell me what the hell is going on.”

There is a sound of a door swinging open in the distance, and Will finally focuses in on it, his house, or that place that was his house once, his boat on the water. So many yards away and shrouded in morning fog. He squints and sees himself on the porch, a man in a red jacket greeting him at the front door. 

He knows what day this is. The day he had his first meal with Hannibal.

A chill runs down his spine, and cold washes over him like something familiar. 

“Hannibal, what did you do?” he deadpans. 

The hand on his shoulder feels dangerous, like an invitation he knows he should decline, but won’t. He leans into it, as he always has. 

“I have discovered the equation required to reverse and progress time.” 

The words register, but they don’t sink in. He drags Hannibal behind a tree, just in case the other Hannibal and Will recognize them from a distance. He doubts it, but hell knows what kind of time warp tapestry they could be fucking up just by being here. 

It astounds him that he automatically believes Hannibal. He supposes there is sufficient evidence, but it is still such a wild claim to make, even with Hannibal’s ego and yet Will still believes him. 

“Even you’re not that smart,” Will declares sharply.

“I didn’t think so either,” Hannibal responds, completely and utterly fond. He is enjoying Will’s breakdown more than Will would prefer under normal circumstances. 

“So what, you’re the king of Quantum Mechanics now?” 

A small breath escapes Hannibal’s lips. “It was a hobby of mine. More than a hobby. After we escaped the Verger estate and you rejected me, I spent many years in my confinement working still on the reversal of time. It was a passion project that I knew at heart was gainless.”

“And you just accidentally stumbled upon the key to time travel,” Will finishes. 

Hannibal smirks. “To put it mildly.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Will mutters. “Jesus fucking Christ, Hannibal, this is insane. We can – can we go home?” He’s suddenly terrified Hannibal has made a mistake and they’ll be stuck here, in this hellish point in time for the rest of their lives. 

“Of course.” 

Will looks down between them, beginning to feel the freezing effects of the weather in just his pajamas and he shakily reaches for the watch. Hannibal keeps it out of reach, but only to snap the band over Will’s wrist for him. Their hands interlock and Hannibal begins turning knobs just like last time.

He must have built this contraption, not so unlike Alan Turing. 

Will’s head is spinning, from the travel and from the shocking realization Hannibal is more of an inventor than he’d ever given him credit for. 

“Remember, look at me.” 

“Can I close my eyes instead?” 

Hannibal chuckles. “Yes I suppose that works.”

Will leans forward, pathetically clutching to Hannibal’s pajama button-up. He buries his face in Hannibal’s neck, taking a deep breath with his eyes squeezed shut. He is solid and warm and real. 

Everything in Wolf Trap is a nightmare, too familiar and distant all at once. 

It takes only a few seconds before Hannibal is gently stringing his fingers through Will’s hair, pulling him back from the crook of his neck and keeping him in place so he can place a soft kiss on his cheek. 

The room has changed back into the study at home. It is heated and quiet. 

“That was a significantly better ride,” Will mumbles, rubbing at the nape of his neck. 

“It will get better each time you travel.” 

It is suggesting they will travel again. 

He still feels like he’s going to topple over and throw up, but it isn’t as fierce a reaction as last time. He can at least stand on his own two feet. 

Hannibal takes the watch off of both of them and Will finally gathers his faculties enough to ask, “You know that because you’ve been traveling a lot?” 

Hannibal regards him silently, and strokes a hand over his cheek once.

“Come, I’ll pour us drinks.” 

“I feel like I should be pissed at you for not telling me sooner, I mean hell, you’ve been working on this since you were locked up,” Will rambles as he takes little sips of wine. “But, I’m not. This is all too strange. I can’t really figure out what I’m feeling.”

“Naturally, you’re confused. As was I the first time I attempted this. I would have told you Will, if I thought any of it was to be a successful feat.”

“You wouldn’t have built your little watch if you hadn’t thought it was going to be successful.” 

“You’re not the only one who tinkers with things from time to time,” Hannibal reminds him, warmth in his eyes. “I promise you, I did not intend to leave you out.” 

“I know,” Will assures. “I know, I’m not, well I’m not mad. More dumbfounded.” 

“I know the feeling.”

“When did you…” Will licks his lips, and leans forward on his knees. Hannibal is sitting across from him in an armchair, and he’s suddenly giddy and enthralled. He wants to know more about how this works, what Hannibal has discovered. What they can discover together. “This is insane,” he says not for the first time tonight, “When did you get it to work?” 

“Four days ago.” 

“Could be worse,” Will says under his breath. Hannibal could have been keeping it from him for weeks. 

“I spent one day tampering with the new contraption, and the next three fretting about the right time to tell you,” Hannibal explains, cheeks pink even in the dim lamplight. 

“It’s a hard thing to tell someone.” Will will give him that. 

“Even harder to tell someone who shares a past similar to my own. I wondered what this power bestowed upon us could mean. If it could be detrimental to the people we have become now, and our histories which have shaped us. I do not want any new dents and crevices in our beautiful statuesque creation. I did not want to rust the marble or crack the porcelain”

Will knows it’s Hannibal’s way of saying; I don’t want to ruin what we currently have . 

“Did you try to do it anyway?” he asks bluntly. 

The offended huff of breath brings a smile to Will’s face. Perhaps he’d be vindictive if anything drastic had changed between them due to Hannibal’s experiments, but he supposes he wouldn’t even know if that were the case. 

“I only changed small things. Very small things. Things that would be recognizable, but would not effect our current status. After many attempts, I traveled back to the present and had discovered my efforts reaped no results. I believe by going back in time, we create a parallel timeline, which does not affect our own.” 

“Convenient,” Will says with a devious feeling stirring up inside of him. 

Hannibal smirks, unwilling to elaborate what he’d specifically done to their timeline. Will can think of a few ideas, ideas he also won’t voice. Not right now. 

“Can we go to the future?” Will asks, though he doesn’t exactly want to.

“I believe so. I have not yet attempted, and I do not believe I will.” 

“I think that’s for the best.”

Will is jittery with energy all of a sudden, and he gets up to pace in front of the coffee table, running a hand over his beard in thought. 

“And you told me because – ”

“Because there are no secrets between us, Will.” 

Right. And because I’d consider gutting you if you kept this from me. 

“Yeah, I’m, uh, I’m an idiot,” Will’s laugh is bordering on hysteria. He covers his face in his hands. “Hannibal, Christ, this is real. What the hell are we gonna do?” 

“Keep it to ourselves,” Hannibal suggests. 

Will rolls his eyes hard. “No shit.” 

Will drops to his knees by the side of the armchair and rests his chin on the arm of it. Hannibal watches him closely now, cocking his head in an almost suggestive matter. Not sexual, no, but in that way he used to encourage Will. The kind of encouragement that has no place in this life any longer, because Will has already succumbed to all of Hannibal’s whims and manipulations. 

Will has a revelation. 

“You want to play,” he says plainly.

“I had no interest in shaping the past by myself. Or tampering with other timelines, if it is better put that way,” Hannibal responds, eyes gleaming. 

“You’ve created something incredibly dangerous,” Will tells him, and can’t make it come across as anything other than sultry. “Of course you would, you’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The Devil in a man’s suit.” 

Hannibal trails a finger down Will’s jawline.

“My love, I knew you would understand.” 

“Understand what?” Will asks innocently, allowing himself to be dragged up and pulled into Hannibal’s lap. His neck is kissed until Hannibal actually decides he deserves an answer. Will can already guess, though.

“We have an opportunity to toy with our regrets, watch new outcomes, and create an entirely separate universe from our own. It is like a canvas waiting to be painted, you can always change a painting. The product, however, is always made up of the same ingredients.” 

“Pigments and solvents?” Will questions, sardonic. 

Hannibal cocks a brow at him and Will slides off his lap, shimmying into the small space between Hannibal and arms of the chair.

“Yes, okay, yes. I’m intrigued. I’m drawn in. I want to experience this with you.” 

Hannibal grins, kissing him with gratitude. 

“I have a feeling toying with our regrets really isn’t a good plan,” Will starts, and raises a hand to ease Hannibal. “But, we’ve never done anything conventional in our relationship. Who the hell cares if we time travel? You figured it out, we might as well make use of it.” 

“There will be no ramifications, anyhow.” 

“Not for us. God knows what sort of timeline we’ll be creating for the other…reflections of us.” 

Ideas are already sprouting up in Will’s mind like poisonous weeds. They could travel for years, and always return to this day. They might never stop traveling; it might become an addiction.

Will stands to grab his drink, knowing with a sudden and solemn clarity what his first request will be. 

“I believe we each have formed ideas about where we would like to go,” Hannibal states as if reading his mind. “Any restrictions you’d like to place before we go on our adventure?” 

Will quirks a brow at him. Adventure is an odd term for this. He would have gone for the term ‘disaster.’

“Um,” Will’s mind goes blank. “I don’t want to go somewhere that doesn’t have to do with us. I’m not the ‘let’s stop World War II’ type, or the ‘save the Titanic’ type. That doesn’t interest me.” 

Hannibal laughs. “I had only planned on traveling throughout our shared past, and our own personal pasts, if you are open down the line.”

Will furrows his brow with an instinctive resistance, but he won’t bother fighting with Hannibal about subjects that haven’t even been suggested yet. 

“Are we taking turns?” he asks.

“That may be most efficient.” 

Will chugs the rest of his drink, relishing the burn of the wine on the lining of his throat. He sucks in a sharp breath before whispering, “Abigail.”

Hannibal’s expression grows cold, but not violent. He understands, and perhaps he’s already traveled to visit her himself in the time he’d spent experimenting. 

“I want to get it over with, because I know I won’t be able to stop thinking about it until I see her. Just one trip, that’s all I’m asking.”

“I won’t deny you this, Will,” Hannibal reassures, gesturing for him to come back to sit with him in his armchair. He does, sliding against his side with a sigh.

This subject has never been comfortable to discuss, and so they don’t. 

The wound is still there, as bright as it had been the day it happened. Will no longer blames Hannibal for her, or he’d drive himself mad, but the rift between them because of her death does show its face now and again. More often than not Hannibal’s own sorrow over her death drowns out the fissures in their forgiveness, and right now is one of those moments. 

Will takes Hannibal’s hand in his own and rubs his knuckles. 

“Bring me to Abigail when she was hidden away in your house on the cliff. When the bluff had not yet been so eroded enough to fall.”

Chapter Text

Hannibal straightens Will’s collar, patting down his arms, brushing away specks of dust that don’t exist. Will restrains himself from telling Hannibal that he doesn’t need to look pristine or perfect. That this is just Abigail. 

It is the day after. Will had suggested they both needed some sleep before they went traveling again. They are getting dressed after indulging in some Belgium waffles. 

Hannibal had joked, “Never time travel on an empty stomach,” but the joke had nearly fallen flat if not for Will forcing out a dry laugh. The mood this morning isn’t light. It is heavy as if Will had swallowed a handful of stones. 

Currently, they are dressing in ways that make them resemble the men they used to be more than five years ago. The men that Abigail knows and respects. 

Somehow, no matter how many times he splashes water on his face and jerks his gaze back up to the  mirror, Will still feels too vibrant and stable. 

“I need to look like I’m on the verge of a seizure,” he mutters when Hannibal stalls in front of the bathroom door to wait for him. 

“She won’t notice,” Hannibal persuades. “Or if she does, it will not matter to her. She might be glad to see that you are doing alright.” 

“I’ll just be glad to see her, ” Will replies solemnly. 

Will dries his face off with a towel and ruffles his hair up just a bit more, trying to regain that frizzy bounce he used to have. He follows Hannibal out into the living room when he is finished in the bathroom. 

“Okay, I’m ready.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Will purses his lips, hands twitching with abrupt aggravation. Instead of arguing with Hannibal, he steps closer, wraps shaky fingers around his elbow, and allows his scent to calm him. Hannibal must have switched back to an old cologne. It reminds him of open-spaced offices and red curtains. With a hint of veiled bloodlust. 

None of those natural woodsy scents melded with kitchen spices. 

“I want you to know this isn’t a punishment for you,” Will starts slowly. “I don’t want this to be a negative experience. I don’t want to hate you.” 

“I am aware,” Hannibal says warmly, a smile present in his eyes. 

“You said you had some stuff to tell me,” Will adds softly. “What is it?” 

Hannibal strokes his calloused fingers through Will’s hair, fluffing it up even more than Will had in the bathroom. His gaze is reminiscent, but his voice as stern as a professor’s. 

“I want you to remember that nothing we do in the past will change our future. You cannot fix anything nor destroy anything between us. If that is your goal, I apologize.” 

Will bites back a scoff. 

“I’m really not trying to make matters worse, don’t worry. We have enough history.” 

“It is but a reminder.” 

Don’t try to save Abigail. We will never see the outcome.

Will digests the unspoken words bitterly, not knowing why Hannibal would assume he’s trying to change the past. He isn’t an idiot, he remembers the rules of time travel, or at least this version of time travel and not the type depicted in films. He’s really never going to enjoy Back to the Future ever again, but he bites back a comment about that specifically. 

All Will really expects is to just spend time with her, get a feel for how things could have been between the three of them if nothing terrible had transpired. 

He misses her still, after all this time. He is sure Hannibal does as well. 

“Have you seen her already? Without me, I mean. I won’t be mad,” Will says, cocking his head ponderingly to catch Hannibal’s eyes in his. This is the most intense avoidance of eye contact Hannibal has exhibited in a long time. 

“I could not,” he whispers. 

Will wants to kiss him, but he chooses instead to wait, rubbing firmly at Hannibal’s elbow to signal that he is ready. Hannibal gives him a look and he rolls his eyes.

“Yes I’m ready,” he assures. 

Hannibal stretches the wristwatch up and over both of their interlocked hands. When the band snaps back, Will’s skin gets caught between the metal braids, and he yelps. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, but Hannibal is unresponsive as he swivels the knobs with acute precision, completely serious and devoid of expression. 

Once more before their trip, Will glances at the fire place to make sure it is completely hampered out. He instinctively grimaces towards the lights that are still on due to his experienced past with electricity bills. He forgets that they will be returning to this moment when they are done, and not a single second will have gone by. 

Even after three years without dogs, Will worries for the scampering paws and bristly fur that don’t exist. They will come home to an empty home to fill the spaces with themselves, as they always have. 

“Will,” Hannibal’s voice is demanding. “Close your eyes.” 

He does.

Will doesn’t tuck himself into the crook of Hannibal’s neck, not this time. He stands there with his hand still gripping Hannibal’s elbow, the other gripping his fingers tight. He can feel the texture of the ground beneath his feet start to shift from rug to gravel. 

The chirping of birds starts to sound and the smells change from that cinnamon at-home aroma to that of New England wilderness. It is not as stark or as worse a scent as Wolf Trap, but America’s air is still ripe with pollution, especially in places close to the city, even with the addition of the stench of salt water emanating from below. His senses almost explode with the force of the shift, and he is blinking his eyes open unsteadily. 

Hannibal was right, this trip wasn’t even as bad as the last, which wasn’t all that bad to begin with. Still, the mild nausea remains. 

The first thing Will looks at is the bluff. 

It is bright, lit by warm daylight and scattered with summer greens and blossoms. 

There is more rock than before, dirt and gravel lining what will soon fall away in a depressive erosion. Hannibal peers over the side as well, and for a moment they are both lost in the night they slayed the Dragon. Will remembers the searing heat of the blood on his skin, some of it his, some of it Hannibal’s, most of it Dolarhyde’s. 

“In Greek mythology, memories are thought to be the creation of Heaven and Earth. A lovechild of the two. The goddess of memory Mnemosyne was an inventress of language and words to bring remembrance to the past, though I find the connotation between memory and diction to be a weak one. I often find silence and memory to be a more effective amalgamation.” 

“Or sensation and memory,” Will contests. “I can feel the contrast between the hot blood and the cold air of that night. I can feel it almost as clearly as I can empathize with someone else’s mind.” 

“I believe memories are best left in one’s mind.” Mind palace, he doesn’t say, but means. “As well as ossified sensations.” 

“Feelings that have been forgotten like an old shoe?” Will snarks, still laser focused on the waves crashing up beneath the cliff. 

Hannibal tilts his head in consideration. 

“Tell me Will, what do you feel when you remember Abigail? Do you feel the cool length of steel that ended her life, or do you feel the water in the lake, soaking you up to your knees when you take her fly fishing in the visions you conjure up?” 

“I feel…” Will’s words get caught in his throat, as he tries to remember how it felt to fall from the bluff. He can’t recall, and yet the moments before the drop are so clear in his mind. “I feel her soft hands when I told her that murder was the ugliest thing in the world. I feel her trust, I don’t feel the pain. Not anymore.” 

“A good start,” Hannibal whispers, reaching a hand out. 

Will takes it without a second-thought, and Hannibal leads him up to the front porch of the cliff house. He takes his hand away, most likely out of respect for Abigail than anything else. Abigail’s version of what Hannibal and Will might mean to each other is vastly different than how the world sees them in their present time. Ignorance might be bliss, in this case. 

Hannibal takes a deep breath, reaching for the key which is buried under a potted plant. Will holds back an ‘unoriginal’ comment for the sake of keeping his nerves at bay. The more silent he is, the better. 

“The Hannibal Lecter in this timeline is not due to return to this house for another five days. We have ample time to spend as many of those days as you wish here with her. Unless you only wish to stay for a few hours, in which case that is also acceptable,” Hannibal tells him in a low voice. 

Will blinks fast. “Right,” he responds. 

“Do you know how long you are wanting this visit to last? This is your visit, not mine. I want to make sure everything goes according to your plan.” 

“I, uh, I don’t know.” 

It is the most honest truth Will can offer him at the moment. He’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it, as they say. 

Hannibal moves the key in the lock, and the door clicks open, creaking a few inches wide, and Will grabs his arm in shock. 

Hannibal stops, calm and prepared for this.

“Do you need a few more moments, Will?” 

“No,” Will replies in a rush, panic cresting inside of his stomach, threatening to boil over into hyperventilation. He internally works to pull himself together. At this rate, he might actually resemble his encephalitis-ridden past self, on the verge of a breakdown at any moment’s notice. With finality, he reaffirms, “No, it’s okay.” 

Hannibal nods, and opens the door entirely, revealing a house completely identical to the one Will had stepped foot in three years ago. The piano is still in the same place, the couches, and the kitchen which lit up brightly in the short distance between the living room and the hall. The only difference is that it feels homier, lived in. Will knows why. 

“Where…” 

Will doesn’t need to finish his question. 

“I have her working on her Italian. She is most often in her room, practicing. That or the kitchen, as she has quite the appetite,” Hannibal explains fondly, catching himself belatedly. 

Italian. Because they had been planning to live in Florence. The reality of it washes over Will like gentle waves, but cold ones, the sensation not so different from dipping your toes in a frozen lake in the middle of summer. 

Will feels stupid, as this trip had been his request, and yet he does not know how to proceed. Hannibal as always, takes the lead. 

“I will fetch her. Do not dwell on this, Will, it will only be harder on her.” 

Will nods, choking back some feeling threatening to escape him, a feeling he can’t name even as it crawls under his skin and attempts to scratch for the surface. 

Hannibal vanishes down the dark hall to the right of the kitchen, and Will startles at the mumbled voices emerging from there as he waits in the foyer, watching the shadows until they both appear before him. 

Abigail is adorned in a white sundress, speckled with multicolored flowers all in shades of fall colors. She looks like a doll, even more so when her eyes widen like saucers, as big as softballs, the second she sees Will.

Hannibal’s hands cover her shoulders, large in contrast to her petite frame. 

“Abigail, it is alright. Will knows everything,” he tells her.

She visibly relaxes, and Will’s heart aches. 

“Does this mean, are we – ” Abigail looks back and forth between the two of them, much like a dependent child, even at her age. “Are we leaving then?” 

“Not now, Abigail,” Will says, shocked that his voice comes out as steady as it does.

“Right,” Abigail huffs, slapping her own forehead, turning to Hannibal. “You said it was going to take a while. I remember.” 

Hannibal crosses the room to stand by Will’s side and she tails him like a dog; Will’s heart throbs painfully in his chest again, realizing with perfect clarity what they all could have had if things had gone down differently. 

Up close, Will can see her freckles and the vibrance and youth in her eyes. 

She eyes both of them curiously, always too clever for someone her age. 

“You both seem different,” she declares. “Did you take him shopping?” she asks of Hannibal who grins widely at the assumption.

“I suppose I did,” Hannibal checks out Will’s suit from head to toe, and in hindsight, they should have gone for something a bit more frumpy for the full effect. 

Will shrugs, unwilling to confirm or deny. 

“I thought you looked too high society,” Abigail admits, poking the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “Not a fisherman’s hat in sight.” 

Will finds himself laughing, barely recognizing the noise as it passes his lips. 

“Shall I make us lunch?” Hannibal asks  and Abigail bounces up on her toes in response. Will nods, smiling weakly as Hannibal passes him and heads to the kitchen. He’s giving him time alone with her to assess and realign himself with this version of their life, with Abigail. 

Before Abigail can follow Hannibal into the kitchen, Will gestures for Abigail to sit with him on the couch. They sink into the cushions together and Abigail puts socked feet up on the glass coffee table. 

“Hannibal tells me you’ve been learning Italian?” Will starts off simply.

Abigail’s eyes brighten, excited to share this bit of her life with him. She seems happier here, happier than he’s ever seen her. It brings Will a sort of peace he hadn’t been expecting, to know that she lived well in the days before her death. 

“Hannibal avrebbe ragione!” She enunciates every word properly. 

Will cocks a brow, impressed. “I hope you just insulted him.”

“No, but I can give you some insults if you want.” Abigail bites her bottom lip, eyes rocking back and forth as she tries to remember. Suddenly, she leans close to his ear and whispers, “I begged him to teach me an Italian swear even though he told me it wasn’t polite, and he said not to repeat this to anybody if he told me.”

“You can trust me,” Will lies, inclining his head closer so she can tell him. 

She whispers it as softly as she can and he smirks, “Okay, I’m going to check and see if Hannibal needs any help I’ll be right back.” 

Upon entering the kitchen, Will waltzes up to Hannibal and bluntly says, “Hey cagacazzo,” to which Hannibal drops his wooden spoon in the broth he’s brewing. 

Hannibal lets loose a deeply irritated sigh, glancing in the direction of the living room. He shakes his head, disappointed in Abigail’s lack of constraint. 

They are almost immediately falling in the rhythm of actual domesticity. Will has to say he’s impressed neither of them are losing their minds, or at least not to a noticeable extent. 

“What is it you needed, Will?” 

“I actually came in here just to say that to you.” 

Hannibal glares at him and Will raises up both hands in surrender, backing off before he gets steaming hot liquid flung across his face. Can’t have any more scars screwing up his features. 

It is as if Abigail reads his mind, ready with the question he’d hoped to avoid this whole trip.

“So, what happened to your face?” she asks bluntly. 

“Uh, accident on the job. Rookie mistake to get stabbed in the face, I know,” Will responds with an embarrassed chuckle. It isn’t quite untrue; it’s not like Abigail knows the scar was given to him three years prior, in the future. Damn that’s confusing. 

“Can I touch it?” 

Will nods, and smiles gawkily as she reaches out to run a finger down the jagged edges. 

“Gnarly.” She shudders. 

He is about to respond with, you should see the brand on Hannibal’s back, but that would open up a door to many questions he is very unwilling to unanswer. 

“There’s something else about you other than the clothes and the scar,” Abigail notes slowly, observing him as if he were a puzzle. Adrenaline rushes up his spine, unwelcome as she continues analyzing him. “You look younger.” 

Funny. 

“Good dermal hygiene,” Will murmurs awkwardly. 

Abigail smiles, elated to have company after so long without. 

The heady smell of broth begins to waft in from the kitchen, a mixture of some savory spices and lots of pepper. There might be a hint of cinnamon, but his senses might just be confused still from the sudden shift from home to here. 

“I should show you all the dresses Hannibal bought me after lunch. I think he thinks I’ll be going to lots of different places in Italy. He got you a wardrobe too. Guy clothes are kind of dull though, uh, no offense,” she rambles. 

Will knows well what kinds of clothes Hannibal bought for him. He’d changed into a selection of them the night of the Dragon slaying. Quite a bit of time had been spent in this house before nightfall, mulling over the loss of Abigail, and reminiscing about teacups and time, of forgiveness torn to shreds. 

This house doesn’t carry the same weight as the same house had all those nights ago. 

“Not offended,” he reassures fondly. 

Hannibal enters the room a minute or so later, bringing with him a tray of three bowls and utensils. The smell grows closer and Will’s mouth waters as usual. 

“Feet off the table, Abigail,” he says the second he registers her posture.

“Sorry.” 

They eat in the living room with bowls placed on the coffee table. 

“It is not anything heavy, as I was eager to spend time with the three of us all in the same room,” Hannibal announces. He eyes Will knowingly. “Just a simple pork-based broth.” 

Will eyes him back. “Thank you, Dr. Lecter.” 

“Are you still his psychiatrist?” Abigail asks Hannibal loudly, downing a spoonful of searing hot broth without so much as a wince. She shirks back a bit when she sees their shocked faces, and turns to Will. “He doesn’t tell me much.” 

“I tell you enough,” Hannibal reminds. “Enough so you do not fret.”

“I’m not a kid.” 

“I am aware.” 

Hannibal easily falls into his role of father figure, one Will would have guaranteed he’d forgotten or at least lacked in. It is almost too easy, slipping into their old shoes.

Will blows on his broth, spinning the questionable contents around with his spoon. As the silence stretches on he finally answers with, “We have conversations.” 

“Do they help?” Abigail blinks and adds, “The conversations.” 

Will gazes at Hannibal, allowing himself to remember the betrayal and the manipulation. The ear down his throat, Abigail’s missing ear which is now covered by her long deep brown locks of hair. He thought perhaps this trip would dredge up those feelings of anger and rage, but instead he looks upon them with indifference. 

“Yes, they help.” 

“Blow on the broth or you’ll burn your tongue, Abigail,” Hannibal warns lightly, and Will can see Abigail physically steeling herself from retorting. 

She does as she’s told instead, and Will marvels at the way Hannibal is able to order her around and get her to listen. They were both fathers to her once. Will feels so far away from that reality, that he can’t even feel himself in that role. Not even as it’s staring him right in the face. 

A revelation crashes over him, and he eats his broth in silence. 

After their late lunch, the sky begins to darken, not yet evening, but growing closer. 

“Are you leaving?” Abigail rasps, nearly desperate, as they clean their dishes from the counter. It is the voice of a girl afraid to be alone, even if she has been countless times, even if she claims to be an adult. Perhaps she merely misses the delight of company. Will can understand that; the need to be with those who understand you. 

She sits on the couch, watching them from where they stand above her, with wide and pleading eyes. Gentle in her femininity sided with the ferocity of a hunter. Will is proud. 

“We can stay the night, can’t we Hannibal?” Will asks, knowing this is the only night he wishes to remain here. He can gift this Abigail with the comfort of their presence while the night wind whispers its dark encouragements to her through her window. 

Hannibal merely nods, giving no indication that he is opposed.

Abigail grins, standing up beside them.

“He never stays overnight,” she tells Will. “I get kind of nervous. It gets so quiet here late at night, but I think I’ll feel safer.” 

“We’ll just be in the next room over,” Will assures softly. 

“A board game before we retire?” Hannibal suggests, and Will whips around with an incredulous expression on his face. Hannibal merely smiles, that cordial smile he gives at dinner parties and passes Will to open a cabinet behind the piano.

Abigail trots up beside Hannibal, still very much a puppy waiting for a treat. Her grin continues to spread wide over her face as they pick through board games. 

Will stands watching them, somber and delighted all at once. 

It should worry him that this trip has only been getting easier, more revealing. He knows what he must do tomorrow, before they leave. For tonight, they will just enjoy each other’s company.

They end up taking turns playing Go against each other. 

Abigail had passed on Monopoly and Chess, in the argument that she was too tired and honestly had “zero brain energy” enough for them. 

Hannibal had passed on the game of Life in part because “Life is taxing enough as it is, and I do not care for their limited selection of real estate,” and because he claimed it was a game for children. 

Will had passed on Sorry because he doesn’t know anything about it and hates learning how to play new games, and because he hates apologizing. 

They all pulled a hard pass on checkers, so Go had been the only option, really. Unless they wanted to play Operation, which nobody actually bothered to acknowledge. 

Will and Hannibal both (properly in wine glasses) share a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, and Hannibal pours Abigail a glass of natural grape juice, in a wine glass as well, so she doesn’t feel left out. 

The light in the room starts to drain quickly as they all lose time. Abigail beats the two of them at quite a few rounds, and it doesn’t even shock Will who had sensed her intelligence from miles away the first time they’d spoken.

Will wonders how many easy days there could have been in Florence. In Hannibal’s grandiose apartment, under pseudonyms and false identities. What would Abigail have been to them? Their fake legal daughter? It is such a hazy image to conjure up and Will has tried many times before, but it’s even harder to imagine now. With Abigail right here, before them, spending time with them. 

Hannibal looks at home, but absent all at the same time. 

It is as if he has detached his inner self from this moment in time altogether, as if this reality would be too difficult to face. He faces it like a dream instead, watching the acts play out from afar, not pouring any emotional involvement into it. 

If it’s easier for him to stomach it this way, Will can’t fault him for that. 

“I believe it is around the time you should be heading to bed,” Hannibal tells her lightly, folding up the game to place back into the closet. Will isn’t sure anyone else in the world has played Go as long as they just did. Too bad there was no Jenga in this house. 

“You’ll come visit again soon, right?” Abigail asks, of Will mostly because Hannibal must visit often. “Before we, you know, scidaddle.” 

“Of course,” Will promise, a smile forming easily now. “Soon, Abigail.”

“We’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Before we leave,” Will adds, to make sure Hannibal understands. 

“Yes.”

Abigail gives a jerky nod and follows Hannibal’s gentle nudging down the hall and to her bedroom. They watch her go and vanish behind her door, before they stroll to the kitchen in unison, slowly as if walking on ice. 

Hannibal turns the light on, and Will feels a dam break in his mind.

His eyes well up and he grips Hannibal’s shirt in handfuls, finding it hard to breathe suddenly. He hadn’t felt this coming, not for a second, and Hannibal grabs hold of him so he doesn’t fall, keeping him plastered to his chest as he sobs into his shirt, unable to control the heavy expulsion of his tears and his cries. With each intake of breath comes a stuttering frantic noise, throat threatening to stop working if he continues his breakdown at this rate.

“Hannibal,” he weeps, lost right there and then.

The name is muffled into Hannibal’s shirt, and Hannibal strokes his hair through it, soothing him as best he can. Will tries to gather himself together, but water isn’t finished crashing through the empty spaces of his mind. The dam more than broke, it shattered into a thousand pieces. All at once; he hadn’t noticed the cracks in the concrete until it was too late. 

Hannibal is remarkably quiet, but Will supposes there isn’t much he can say.

I’m sorry is too abhorrent. It’s alright is too dishonest. Please stop is too impolite. 

“It will pass,” Hannibal whispers instead, into his hair, and Will can feel the love and affection in his voice like a physical touch. There is empathy there as well, so often hidden in his presentation.

Will burrows himself further into Hannibal, only just feeling the pain subside. Being held steadies him, where before he felt like falling. 

Will pulls back after a few more minutes, and Hannibal’s arms immediately release their tight grip. He watches Will reverently looking for any sign that he might topple over again, or continue crying. Instead, a laugh stumbles out of Will when he sees how wet Hannibal’s front is. 

“Your shirt,” Will blubbers through lingering tears and a sore throat. The situation suddenly seems entirely humorous. He laughs again, brightly and hysterically. “Shit, your shirt.” 

“They are just tears,” Hannibal demonstrates by swiping a thumb under his eye, gathering dampness on his skin. “They will dry.” 

“Will they?” Will asks, looking Hannibal in the eyes for answers. 

Hannibal meets him with an earnest expression.

“They will.”

Will doesn’t think about it when he’s taking his shirt and pants off for bed, in the same bed as Hannibal. Doesn’t think about it when Hannibal does the same and climbs in next to him.

There are two bedrooms in this house, and Will doesn’t even think about it then when he mutters, “You really were presumptuous about what our sleeping arrangements would be back then,” as he presses his back up against Hannibal’s chest, allowing himself to be spooned. 

It feels safe, and he feels loved.

It occurs to him only in the morning when he is awoken by a yelp from the open doorway of their bedroom. Abigail is standing there in light blue button-up pajamas, staring at them. 

“Abigail – ” Will begins, not even sure what he’s going to say. Hannibal’s arm is still slung over the side of Will’s chest. He stirs at the noise. 

Instead of saying anything, Abigail snorts, instantly covering her mouth.

“Sorry, I’ll – ” she giggles. “I’ll go make coffee.” 

Hannibal sits up completely when she’s gone, rubbing at his eyes.

“Was that–?” 

“Yes,” Will snaps, burning with embarrassment. His cheeks are red and his hair is frazzled with sleep. He feels foolish and idiotic all at once, and blames it on Hannibal who is just blinking the world into view. He smacks the back of his head hard before tossing his feet on the floor and grappling for his clothes. “Why wasn’t I thinking.” 

“Will, Abigail is not stupid.” 

“I know. Neither am I,” he mumbles, not quite believing it. 

“What do you think crossed her mind, when I suggested you and I would be taking her to live in Florence? That we were just good friends?” 

“Well, at the time – ” No, Will doesn’t have an argument for that. “Shut up.” 

Hannibal smirks, stepping into his pants, and getting to work on the taxing job of grooming his hair. It is more unruly than it looks. 

“You sure you want to take your coffee on the road? We can sit and drink,” Abigail suggests, gesturing towards the living room. They are all squeezed into the narrow kitchen, enjoying the sweet and bitter smell of black coffee. 

They are drinking out of small, portable, cardboard cups. 

“We need to get going, Abigail, I’m sorry,” Will says, patting her shoulder, almost surprised to find solid flesh beneath his fingers, not an apparition. “We’ll visit again, soon.” 

“You better!” she declares with ill-confidence. 

Hannibal pulls her in for a hug, stroking her hair once, down to the tips. It is growing long. Will hugs her too, short and sweet. He tries not to linger in fear that he’ll break down once again.

They’re heading out to the living room to say their goodbyes, when Will pulls Abigail to the side, still in earshot of Hannibal. He bends down slightly to make sure he’s looking her in the eyes. 

“Abigail, I want you to promise me something.”

He can sense Hannibal watching him, intently and curiously. Wondering what his goal is, especially with the knowledge they cannot change the past. That the Hannibal and Will of this timeline are out there right now, about to make the same mistake they had made all those years ago. 

She nods, innocence and independence blended into one. 

Will glances at Hannibal, firm in his decision when he turns back to her. 

“You must listen to Hannibal and you must trust him, do you understand? Do whatever he asks of you, no matter what I do or say. Trust him.” 

Abigail cocks her head, confusion bubbling up in her mind and Will can feel Hannibal’s shock like a whip lash against bare skin. After a moment, she nods, and Will feels a tension lift not only from his shoulder, but from his entire body. He feels fifty pounds lighter. 

“Alrighty,” she adds for emphasis, though he can see she doesn’t fully understand. But, she will. She will do as Will tells her to do. And her fate will be sealed the same as it had been in his own timeline. 

Hannibal’s gaze is burning through the back of his neck on the way out of the house. With the last of their waves goodbye, Hannibal shuts and locks the door, leaving the key back under a potted plant. When they are far enough away from the front door Hannibal grows close to him to mutter, “What was that, Will?”

Will sighs, glancing once over the edge of the bluff before backtracking towards the watery steps that line the cliff face down to the shore. 

“It hit me last night, just how different things could have been.” He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t need to. Hannibal knows as well as he does what could have changed. “It didn’t feel therapeutic for me to save her, or warn her. Any of that. I thought it might be when I first requested we come here, but when I was faced with exactly what this is, I knew I had to keep this timeline on the same track. For my own peace of mind. This isn’t about changing someone else’s history so I can get a better night’s rest. This isn’t about changing something that can’t be changed. This is about not being able to say goodbye. I just said goodbye,” Will’s voice cracks in the last sentence, and he looks down at his feet, feeling unbalanced for a moment. 

“I’m not willing to dwell on what could have been if it endangers what we’ve become, what we spent so many years becoming. Hannibal, you mean more to me than any of our regrets.” 

He looks up to see Hannibal’s eyes glistening and Will takes his hand and squeezes tight. 

“Turns out I just wanted to say goodbye. I never had the chance.” 

“Even all the time I spent with her here,” Hannibal whispers, “I too never had the chance.”

Will swallows an upsurge of emotion in the form of bile, nauseous only at how intense the feelings this trip has brought about are. 

“I hated you for her death for so long, but seeing what her life was like here…seeing how much love you put into every ounce of her existence, teaching her for our future, I know now that her loss meant as much to you as it did me. I’m sorry if I’ve ever underplayed that.”

Hannibal sucks in a breath, pressing his lips in a tight line.

“Will, you mustn't." 

“Forgive you?” Will finishes. “I forgave you a long time ago. Right now, I’m making sure you understand why I had to do what I just did.” 

“I understand,” Hannibal tells him softly. “Oh Will, I understand.” 

Will takes Hannibal’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply, making him understand the depth of his love, of his devotion. 

“Does this mean you want to stop?” Hannibal asks, a little breathy from the kiss.

Will’s nose is still touching his, and he hums in question, stroking Hannibal’s cheeks gently with his thumbs. He can’t take his eyes away from his. 

“Time traveling.” 

“Oh no,” Will says with a chuckle. “Definitely no.” 

Hannibal smirks, “And where would you like to go, my love?” 

Will shakes his head, making a disapproving clicking noise with his tongue. “No, no, it’s your turn, Hannibal. You get to choose, but…”

It can’t be anything as emotionally taxing as this trip has been. He needs something else first, something harsh and in direct contrast to this. Something unclean.  

“I want to see your darkest fantasy,” Will murmurs against his lips, “Take me there.”

Chapter Text

They return home first, cardboard cups of coffee left on a rock outside of the cliff house. Hannibal had made a fuss over the act of littering, even though they were set to abandon the timeline not a moment later. 

“It is uncouth in any setting, Will,” he explains when they are home.

Doesn’t even have the decency to pretend to be worried about the Butterfly Effect in that timeline, instead acting like cleanliness is next to Godliness even when he spends his free time brutally murdering human beings. Hypocrite, he thinks affectionately. 

Will takes a few moments to focus on quelling his nausea before he waves a hand at Hannibal in dismissal. He takes the few strides from the living room to use the bathroom. He splashes water on his face and only feels minutely better.

He takes a few deep breaths, pulls himself together, and then comes back out. 

Hannibal is still in the living room, but a bowl of pretzels has materialized in his hands. He must have darted to the kitchen; he’d made this so quick. 

“These will help your body refrain from feeling queasy,” he explains. 

Will hikes up to the bowl and mumbles a gruff “thanks” before picking around for the saltiest few he can find. They taste good, even though they look like any cheap store-brand pretzel. He supposes there’s not much variety in pretzels, even for people with Hannibal’s taste and money. 

“You too,” Will orders, lifting a pretzel up to his lips.

“I’d rather not.” 

Will cocks a brow and then puts the pretzel between his own teeth, nodding up at him. 

Hannibal sighs and leans forward to take a bite from it, a large one so his lips brush Will’s in the process. Begrudgingly, he chews and swallows. 

Though Hannibal would never admit it, he is prone to human conditions. Will would guarantee Hannibal is feeling just as nauseous as he is between these trips, and refusing to acknowledge it is only going to make it worse. They still have to work on Hannibal’s forts one of these days. 

For now, Will can settle for a peek behind the curtain. 

Hannibal hasn’t told him yet where he is planning on taking them, but he seems resolute in his decision, silently having made it the instant Will requested he take them to his “darkest fantasy” or the place where he can reenact it, at least. 

After Hannibal retreats to the front door to retrieve their morning coats on the coat hanger, he comes back, already starting to fiddle with the date and time on his watch.

“Hey, hey before that – ” Will grabs the wrist of the hand turning the knobs. “I want to make sure you know what I mean when I’m asking you this.”

Hannibal’s jaw shifts, and he watches Will carefully. 

Will continues.

“I’ll know if you’re lying to me. I’m not fooling you when I say I want to see your darkest desire. I don’t want you to bring me back to some time early in our relationship and pretend that taking me on a date to some underground adult theater is your fantasy because I know you better than that. I think you know me better than to think I’ll shy away from you now.”

“I had my reservations about where I am about to take you, but I promise you Will, I am not disingenuous in my choice,” Hannibal assures, showing Will the watch. “You want a fantasy that even I could not consider for more than a brief, intense, passing thought. I will give it to you.” 

Will shudders, trying to figure out what the date means but fumbling with his memory. “Good,” he asserts as he tugs his own hand through the loop of the wristband. Setting his thumb on the red button, he looks Hannibal in the eyes finding only carnal delight dancing in that golden haze. 

“You’ll tell me when we get there?” 

“Of course. I must give you ample time to change your mind, if need be.”

“I won’t,” Will promises.

It might be a mistake. God knows what Hannibal has planned, but Will has found in the last three years that he is not morally opposed to anything. He will do just about any single act of depravity and come out of it calm and collected, heart beating at the same rate it does when he beats eggs for breakfast. 

Will always keeps his promises, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t keep this one.

Will clicks the button, closing his eyes too late. The room had already started to shift, and the nausea hits him like a kick in the stomach, just after it had subsided. 

“Shit,” Will groans, back curling as he tilts his forehead against Hannibal’s collarbone. 

The ground beneath him is suddenly crunchy and the air is cold. 

“We are here,” Hannibal announces a few moments later. 

Will opens his eyes, and is shocked to find himself back in Wolf Trap.

It is a different day than their first trip here. The first difference is that night has fallen, like a navy filter over the skies and trees. It is hard to see through the brush this late at night; Will remembers Randall Tier crashing through his window, his shape obscured in the trees and the night until he had made a mess of Will’s house. Yes, they are back in front of his home, but of course Will isn’t clued in on the specific moment. It could be any day, any time. 

Will is a shred nervous, as nothing good ever came from this place. Perhaps his dogs are the most valuable memory he holds, but aside from that, he often found pain and isolation to be the major factors involved in living at home.  

He doesn’t know what Hannibal’s darkest fantasy could be, in relation to this place. 

“It’s cold,” Will mutters, feeling the bite of Virginian air even through his dove colored morning coat. He blows warm air cupped palms, but it barely helps. 

Hannibal steps forward and covers his hands with his own, rubbing devoutly, until Will’s hands start to tingle with pinpricks of warmth. Hannibal continues and it is somehow a soft and gentle motion rather just uncomfortable friction. Will leans into it, taking a step closer as well. 

“Do you know what day it is?” Hannibal inquires. 

Will shakes his head. 

“This is the day I planted the evidence that would incriminate you for Abigail Hobbs’ murder,” he explains, a fraction solemn and a fraction anticipatory. He wants to see if Will can understand what he is thinking. 

“The ear,” Will whispers, shocked. It doesn’t click for him yet. 

It is then he notices two cars in his driveway rather than just the one. Hannibal is here, the other Hannibal, in his house. Planting the evidence as they speak. 

Will freezes, watching from the safety of the woods as the door creaks open not a moment later. Hannibal tugs Will closer to him and they watch from behind a wide bush. 

The other Hannibal walks out with a black duffel bag, heading to his car with an expression of the cat that killed the canary. Unbearably accomplished in his efforts. He gets into his car, turns on the engine, and backs out, swiveling down toward the road with as much grace as he has in his own physical movements. No one had suspected he’d visited in the night. Will can only surmise it is somewhere around three or four in the morning. 

Will turns to his Hannibal to see an expression not so different on his face from his counterpart. 

He is shocked at his own indifference, and unwillingness to even scold him for it. 

“What’s the plan here?” he asks, and Hannibal takes his hand in his own, and starts leading him towards his old house. Will feels like he’s walking towards a cage of rabid animals, and if they open the latch, they might not be anything more than strips of flesh in the morning. 

“I want to show you something first,” Hannibal tells him, as if sensing his hesitance. 

“Alright.” 

Will and Hannibal walk up to the door, and Hannibal has to pick the lock again, just minutes after his past self had locked it to cover his tracks. It is easy for him. Will has seen him do it countless times back home, to sneak up on potential victims in the night.

They enter the house, and Will is hit with the scent of dogs and dirty laundry. Pants soaked from lake water and shoes tracked with mud. As clean and as organized as he keeps this place, it still reeks of bachelor. Not as bad as it could be, and yet he still winces on behalf of Hannibal’s nose.

Will hadn’t been able to smell the nature rooting itself inside his house, not when he’d been living here. It is a crude representation of how far he has come. 

Luckily, Hannibal appears unphased as he had been years ago. 

The dogs rouse from their slumber, almost appearing peeved. As if their naps keep getting interrupted, and it is grating on their nerves.

Winston specifically looks confused, always the most intelligent of the bunch. He whines, cocking his head at Will, and then glancing back at his current owner, the other Will.

This Will is tucked into bed, crackling with restless energy. He shifts in his own sweat, accumulating more and more in the process, and Will can vaguely see how pale he used to look in the moonlight illuminating him from the window. 

Will snaps his fingers at the dogs, gesturing towards the front door, and is heart-warmed when they follow his silent order without question. He grimaces when Buster barks on the way out the door, leading the pack into the cold to play. How easily sleep is forgotten. 

“There is no worry of rousing you. I have you drugged.”

“Right,” Will says simply. “With what?” 

“It is my own concoction. A mixture of Benzodiazepines and a mild sedative. Nothing that would bring you lasting harm.” 

Will almost laughs at the consideration. 

“Anxiolytic drugs reduce one’s apprehension and comprehension without fully eliminating awareness. The addition of the sedative was to make certain you would remain partially asleep. However, I did want you to be able to remember this night, and you did. I was delighted when you did,” Hannibal explains to him, reverential. 

“So, you could have done anything with me is what you’re saying. Anything at all, and I wouldn’t have been able to stop you, I might not have even known that what was happening wasn’t a dream. Hell, in that prison cell, I was almost certain it was a dream.” 

He hasn’t taken his eyes off his past body, so weak and riddled with sickness. He is starting to understand where this is going, what Hannibal’s darkest fantasy might be. One he could never indulge in out of propriety and because not even Dr. Lecter crosses the lines of sexual incursion. Certainly not with Will. 

It doesn’t mean the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, and wryly Will wonders what sort of images crossed Hannibal’s mind when he’d been busy shoving a large cylindrical tube down his throat. 

“Oh,” Will says, voice slick with interest. 

“You told me not to hold back, and I don’t want to if you are willing to see the desires my mind conjured up even against my will, but you are still under no obligation to agree to seeing this, or partaking.” 

Will can’t have Hannibal thinking he disapproves, so he grabs him by the lapels of his black morning coat and drags him in for a searing kiss. 

“It’s not obligation that is going to keep me here. You underestimate just how darkly my mind works, like a reflection of your own. We’re conjoined, remember?” 

Hannibal’s breath staggers over his lips and he grips Will’s jaw in one hand, licking into his mouth to emphasize how grateful he is for Will’s acceptance. 

“Even after all these years, predicting you is still a challenge. I could never be sure how you would feel about me taking advantage of you in this moment in time,” he admits, voice low. 

There it is, verbally laid out on the table. A sharp jolt of arousal chases down his spine, and his groin feels tight below where his waistband digs into his skin. 

Will holds back from fucking Hannibal right here and now, too eager to see the culmination of Hannibal’s desire. The process of it, the result. 

Will takes Hannibal’s hand and brings it down between them so he can feel his erection. Sucks in a breath when Hannibal squeezes and bites at his throat. The biting is always a sign he is more than pleased. 

“Don’t hold back so when I show you my darkest fantasy, I won’t have to hold back.”

Hannibal leans back on his heels, shock painting his face in stark colors. His teeth glint in the moonlight where they spread wide, and Will can tell he’s desperate to see Will’s version of this. To understand him right now, on the same level that Will is beginning to understand Hannibal. 

“Show me,” Will demands, nudging him with a foot. 

Hannibal removes his coat, inspiring Will to do the same, and they lay them on Will’s old desk, by the unfinished fishing lures, and Hannibal begins to move towards the bed. 

With one last glance out the door, admiring the dogs playing in the front yard and roughhousing each other, Will shuts the front door so they cannot return to observe any sinful acts. He’d been self conscious about having average sex with Margot in front of them, so he doesn’t want them to see this, even a separate timeline version of them.

Hannibal is sitting on the edge of the bed when Will sidles up. 

He is stroking a hand over this other Will’s calf, covered by a flimsy bedsheet. 

There are extremely soft whimpers coming from the sleeping man’s mouth, and he is writhing like he’s on a burner, set to simmer. It should be disturbing, but Will only stares at the display in wonder. 

“The drugs should be wearing off soon,” Hannibal observes. “The sedative is already showing signs of depletion. The effects of paralysis are not as strong as they had been an hour ago.” 

An hour ago for the other Hannibal. 

This Hannibal, instead of cold and collected, indifferent even to Will’s plight, is staring at him fondly, reminiscing of the time when Will’s brain had been on fire. 

“You liked me like this,” Will addresses.

“I like you most now,” Hannibal corrects. “Yet, I do concede to a weakness for the time when you trusted me, entirely as if you’d known me for years. But, the forts you put up prevented me from knowing you fully. Even when you trusted me most, you would keep those forts in place.”

“ No forts in the bone arena of my skull for things I love.”

Hannibal’s eyes flash to his, and Will smirks. 

“Come on, before the drugs wear off,” he encourages. 

Will watches Hannibal remove the rest of his clothes, until he is wearing only pants. A pile of fabric gathers on the floor, and his heart quickens when Hannibal moves up the bed to the encephalitis-poisoned Will. He lifts the sheet away and as if handling a bird with a broken wing, he shifts this Will until he is sitting in Hannibal’s lap, neck arched unnaturally as his head falls back against Hannibal’s shoulder. 

Hannibal lifts the other Will’s shirt over his head, and Will watches from the foot of the bed, with a rapt gaze, as Hannibal strokes a hand down his younger chest, not yet tarnished by the blade in Hannibal’s kitchen. 

The sleeping man whimpers again, as if sensing the same person who had just violated his body in ways other than sexual. Hannibal cooes to him, stroking down his sternum, overindulging in having him in this way, with his own Will’s unabashed permission. 

Will moves closer, sits on the bed and strokes the skin on his lower abdomen where a scar should be. 

It all feels very voyeuristic. 

He grabs his own jaw, vice-like, and moves the head from side to side, watching his eyes move rapidly behind his eyelids. Dreaming of stags and death. Only to wake up to a more brutal reality.

“So docile,” Will mutters, bitterly. “I see why you’d think about playing with me then.” 

Hannibal hums, continues stroking up and down the sternum of the twitching man. 

Will suddenly bends to remove the other Will’s boxers, tossing them at the opposite end of the room. Hannibal’s eyes brighten up and Will bites his lip, watching his hand travel down to wrap around the flaccid cock between them. 

The sleeping Will makes a choking sound as Hannibal starts to stroke him. The loud noise dies back down to the mewls they’d been hearing before, but he starts to harden even in his sleep, even with the drugs. Will is watching Hannibal’s hand move over his cock, with an intensity that rivals that of Hannibal’s. 

“Do you think he senses me?” Hannibal asks of Will, and Will raises a dispassionate brow at the use of ‘he’ instead of addressing this man as Will. “Perhaps he desires this by my hand and does not yet understand such a desire.” 

“I doubt it,” Will answers bluntly, knowing full well that in the past he had not considered Hannibal in a sexual manner until the night they ate the Ortolan birds together. 

As if to dispute this, the sleeping Will arches and moans, murmuring “ Hannibal ” out loud for all ears to hear. Hannibal tightens his grip around his cock and looks up at Will with a delighted (albeit smug) look plastered on his face. 

“It’s not–” Will huffs in frustration. “It doesn’t mean I’m into you. You drugged me, remember?” 

Hannibal says nothing, instead chooses to bury his smile in the other Will’s neck as he strokes him to full hardness. He kisses and sucks, purposefully leaving marks instead of worrying about leaving evidence. It doesn’t matter; they won’t be here for the fallout, but Will wonders what in the world will happen to this timeline after they leave. 

“Are you going to fuck him– me? ” Will questions, watching his past self squirm when Hannibal tweaks the head of his cock with a thumb. It’s arousing Will to an extent he should be shocked by. 

Hannibal tosses back, “Would you like me to?” 

“No, no, you’re not doing that. Making it about me. This is your fantasy, not mine,” he reminds.

With a mere hum, Hannibal leans back, exposing more of this Will’s belly and thighs. With his legs falling open, the sleeping Will looks like a whore, a slave to pleasure, too lazy to be awake for the experience.  

Will rolls his eyes and stands to retreat to the small kitchen area in his house. He digs around in the cabinets until he finds a half empty bottle of olive oil, coming back to hand it to Hannibal. 

Hannibal is about to uncap it when Will snatches it back.

Before Hannibal can ask, Will is removing his own shirt and discarding it on the pile on the floor. He uncaps the olive oil himself, and slathers his fingers with it. Hannibal’s eyes widen, and Will shakes his head as he reaches between the other Will’s legs. 

“Don’t even ask. I don’t know why I want to do this.” 

Will does want to, badly. 

When he slips a finger into the other Will’s welcoming hole, completely relaxed from sleep and sedatives, he has to stop himself from moaning. It is all too fucking weird and perfect and hot, Will feels like he’s going to faint.

Hannibal is watching him aptly, still with the other Will propped up against his chest. Instead of continuing on the man’s cock, he chooses instead to use both hands to pinch and tug at his nipples. With a hard dual pinch, the sleeping Will groans, a noise that sounds forced behind a veil of drugs. 

Will is up to two fingers, scissoring them only with the intent to stretch his past self’s body. It is tight, not yet used by any man in his life. In this timeline, Will is taking his own virginity (only the virginity in this part of his body). How’s that for a complex?

“I had not entertained the possibility of you…doing this much,” Hannibal mumbles in a near purr, straining his head up high to look over the other Will’s shoulder, but he can’t see the complete picture of what’s happening between his legs. 

“Would it shock you if I wanted to try sucking my own cock?” 

Hannibal grins like the Cheshire cat.  

“I think that is a desire most men hold. I would be delighted to watch.” 

“Of course you would,” Will mutters, but licks his lips and bites at them for show before leaning down and wrapping his lips around the other Will’s erection. It had flagged a bit after Hannibal stopped touching him, but Will manages to suck it back to full hardness. 

It pleases Will no end to struggle sucking his own cock, the length certainly not insignificant by any means. Not that he’s ever doubted himself, but it’s fascinating to be able to feel it. 

He pays no mind in giving himself pleasure, he is too busy experimenting with how his own cock feels in his mouth, so he disregards the high-pitched sounds that fall from his past self’s lips. 

Somehow, this Will tastes foreign. Thick and woodsy. Will has begrudgingly tasted his own semen before, only after he started having sex with Hannibal, and that had never tasted similar to whatever the hell this tastes like. It’s not awful, but he almost feels like he’s sucking another man’s cock other than his own, and in some respect, he is. 

This isn’t him anymore; he’s changed beyond recognition. 

The Will still sleeping moans, “Fuck,” in a soft breath. His eyes are still closed, but he might be rousing in and out. Will remembers the tube in his throat only because he had become aware for a few moments during the process. Agonizing pain and burn had wracked his brain until the blackness absorbed his consciousness once more. He wonders what this Will’s memories will look like when they’re finished taking shape.

“We are giving him a night to remember,” Hannibal states, giddy. 

Will lets loose a dry laugh, “Yeah, not for the reasons you want, I think.” 

He’s up to three fingers now, and sinks back down over his cock, sucking hard just how he knows he likes it. The other man’s hips pump up against his face, sleepily and uncontrollably. Just a bit longer, and Hannibal will be fucking him as hard or as gentle as he pleases, and Will will watch. Devoted and so entirely involved he might come without even touching himself. 

“Hannibal–?” Will’s voice comes again, and it can’t be the one who’s currently got a dick all the way down his throat, and Hannibal turns to see the sleeping Will is no longer completely unconscious. His eyes have fluttered open slightly, gaze entirely fixed on Hannibal’s face which is tucked over his shoulder. “Oh, oh god what–”

Hannibal makes eye contact with his Will, still going down on his past self and there is a glint of humor in their exchange before Will pulls back, getting himself out of the other Will’s line of sight for now. It is easy to tuck himself into the crook of the bed, between corners of the wall, watching them from behind and just a bit from the side. 

The other Will isn’t actually angry, or accusatory, just vaguely aware of his surroundings, of what he’s feeling in his groin no doubt. Hannibal doesn’t waste anytime, unzipping his trousers and entering him in one go.

Will, full of drugs and drenched in exhaustion, shouts. He doesn’t have time to register what’s happening before Hannibal is fucking up into him, quickly and expertly. 

Will watches from the corner of the bed as the other Will’s eyes slip closed while Hannibal grunts and fills him. He can imagine he’s attempting to retreat further into his dreams, or try to imagine this is a dream, and not the reality he knows deep down it is. He still thinks Hannibal is his psychiatrist, his friend. 

“Did you feel it going down your throat, Will?” Hannibal asks, voice quiet. “What will you think when it comes out of you in the morning?” 

The other Will groans in response, some place between unconsciously turned on and consciously confused. He writhes more now, limbs loose and unable to move even as the muscles and tendons beneath his skin shift desperately. He’s either trying to get away or get closer. 

Maybe both. 

Hannibal is completely focused on this other Will now, lost in his own fantasy. Taking advantage of a much more naïve Will’s body. It is hellishly endearing to watch.

Will, from where he leans against the back of one of the window sills by his pillow, palms himself as he watches Hannibal’s cock slide wetly in and out of the other one’s tight hole. He would bet it feels fantastic; he remembers his first time getting fucked by a man. Hannibal had been so careful with him, so loving, yearning to bring him to new heights of pleasure. And he had. 

This is not careful, this is animal. 

The other Will’s eyes flutter open again, and his head rolls on Hannibal’s shoulder, instinctively trying to take in his surroundings even in his conscious absence. 

“N–No,” this Will mumbles incoherently. “D–don’t…”  

“You deny yourself pleasure,” Hannibal accuses, continuing his rough pace. “Is that not true, Will?” 

The Will getting fucked moans, “Nnn…” but is cut off by a sharp noise as Hannibal changes the rhythm, long warm glides becoming short and erratic staccato motions. 

In the corner still, Will is nearing the edge. The sight of himself just taking it, without more than a feeble protest, it’s a pleasure he’d never thought he’d indulge in. How could he have? It’s driving him crazy, stirring his insides, making blood rush south so fast he feels light-headed. 

The room stinks of sweat and sex, and it’s intoxicating and too humid all at once. 

Will comes, coating his own hand with his release, and then continues watching the two men undulating in front of him. He watches, completely disconnected now. 

He watches only to see the rest of Hannibal’s vision unfold. 

Hannibal’s face has shifted only slightly, now a somewhat solemn look makes up his being, his entire body. It is almost sad, apologetic. 

He buries his face in the other man’s neck, breathes in deeply and Will knows that he’s savoring the scent of his encephalitis, the sickness that had been a stepping stone to the culmination of their relationship. A part of their shared history, as bleak as it was. At the same time, Hannibal reaches a hand around and starts jerking the other Will off, hard and fast.

“Just how I like it,” the Will from the corner remarks, snidely. 

He receives no response, as Hannibal is close to completion himself. 

The other Will has returned to a somewhat entirely sedated state, back in his dreamscape as a defense mechanism. He still writhes, and his breaths are shortening, chest heaving. Hannibal goes faster, and all at once, they come together. 

Will is almost envious. 

The other Will comes in heavy spurts against his own stomach, with a gentle moan. He sinks back against Hannibal, the rest of the tension in his body leaving him. Hannibal places a kiss to his neck and finally moves out from under him, laying him back down on his pillow. 

“Hannibal, Hannibal…” he mumbles, eyelashes fluttering open, searching for only a second before closing again. The way he says his name isn’t hostile, but almost hopeful. For what, Will doesn’t know. 

“Are you done?” Will asks bluntly, a bit agitated that Hannibal is still entirely focused on the other version of Will. In a bout of short-lived rage, he adds, “Does he have something I don’t?”  

It is then Hannibal turns to him with an indulgent smile. 

“Are you jealous of yourself, Will?” 

Will tuts. “That’s–how could I…?” he bristles. “You know what? Nevermind. I’m gonna go wait outside, do whatever you wanna do.” 

When he gets outside, his dogs greet him at the door, ready to file back into the fractional warmth of the house. He immediately softens and picks up Zoe to hold tight to his chest. Her underbite scratches his chin as she attempts to lick his face. 

He sets her down after a hello and the dogs all vanish inside, except Winston.

Will kneels down, realizes he’s forgotten how much he misses him. He scratches through his golden brunette coat, and Winston cocks his head and looks at him wonderingly, as if he knows this isn’t his Will. 

“You taking care of me here?” Will asks of him, “Making sure I don’t get myself killed?” 

A noise rumbles in Winston’s throat, and Will leans forward to kiss him firmly on his soft forehead. His fur is so fair, and smooth. He misses him more than he can even put into words. 

“I love you,” Will tells him, and Winston ruffs in understanding, trotting inside the house after the other dogs after another forehead kiss. 

Hannibal finds him on the porch in the next ten minutes, with their coats dangling over his arm. Will takes his, delicately slipping it back on. It feels warm again. 

“Didn’t mean to get snippy in there,” Will admits with a gawky smile. “Maybe I was a bit jealous.” 

“I’m sure I would feel very much the same if it were my counterpart,” Hannibal responds, cheeks still pink. 

Will huffs, but intertwines their fingers.

“Cover your tracks?”

Hannibal shakes his head. “Only courteously put his clothes back on and cleaned what external residue had remained. I’m sure he will still feel it when he wakes, and he’ll certainly see the bruises and the bites.”

“Good.” 

“Feeling catty, Will?” 

“Feeling spiteful,” Will admits. “Not the biggest fan of this version of me.” 

“Oh, but he made such lovely sounds for me, begging me to stop with his body language. Sweating out his pores with how needy I made him.” 

Will turns red, jealousy and embarrassment melding together in his stomach, boiling all throughout his body, in his blood. 

“Speaking of jealousy,” Will bites out, glaring until he has Hannibal’s full attention. “I believe it is my turn to choose where we go next.”

Hannibal doesn’t even look surprised. 

He leads them down the porch and wraps the watch around Will’s wrist, along his own. He awaits instructions without any preamble, but Will shakes his head.

“I want to go home first, sleep. Get my body revved back up.” 

“Eat,” Hannibal adds.

“Yeah, eat.” Will’s stomach hadn’t been giving him any signs of hunger until Hannibal says this, and it rumbles between them. “Yeah, actually I’m starving. Something with meat.” 

“Of course.”

“But, after. Afterwards, I want you to take me to the last moment in time you had sex before me. I w–want to–” he swallows, but it isn’t nerves, it’s exhilaration. “I want to stop it from happening.” 

Bedelia, he assumed it would be. He is certain of it, actually. There is no other answer that makes sense in their timeline. Hannibal had been incarcerated immediately after Florence and the Verger farm.

He’d like to be there, to sweep Hannibal off his feet, watch the surprise leak into his face when Will kills Bedelia right in front of him, to reclaim him as it were. 

Hannibal’s eyes glimmer with something volatile, and he rewinds the clock to its previous setting, clicking the red button to bring them home. 

“As you wish,” he answers and Wolf Trap begins to dissipate. 

Chapter Text

Will wakes up the next morning with his cheek squished up against Hannibal’s stomach. He must have slid down in the night, tucked himself away atop the warmest spot he could find. Hannibal’s hand is in his hair, petting him as if he were fragile.

“Sleep well?” Hannibal asks, knowingly. 

Yes. After some particularly new or mind-blowing sex, Will sleeps like a baby. He had only jerked himself off to the sight of Hannibal taking advantage of his former self, but it had still been one of the most erotic moments in his entire life. 

“I’d say like a baby, but I’ve never understood that saying,” Will mumbles, twisting his limbs to bring life back into his sleepy muscles. “Slept like a puppy, more like.”

Babies cry their eyes out past midnight and puppies couldn’t be roused even if a gunshot went off by their ear, that’s how knocked out Will had been last night. 

Hannibal just hums, tugs him closer. 

He’s really only ever clingy after sex or this early in the morning. Double whammy. 

“Don’t you have to go to work on Monday?” Will asks, toying with the hair on his chest.

“It is only Saturday.”

“I don’t want you to be all tuckered out by the time the weekdays roll around, that’s all.” Will kisses his neck, delighting in the salty heat that still lingers. He must not have woken up long ago. 

“What we’re doing isn’t the most physically taxing activity I’ve ever done,” Hannibal replies, voice even and content.

“Emotionally speaking, maybe?”

“The most emotional devastation I’ve ever experienced has been given partially by your hand.” Hannibal smirks down at him. “Trust me when I say, there is nothing burdensome in the act of time travel. Unless there is for you?” 

Will shakes his head. “I actually feel revitalized, like I drank a cup full of five hour energy.” 

Hannibal wrinkles his nose. “Perhaps the right term might be a strong coffee.” 

“You’ve never had any of those crappy drug store gimmicks?” 

Hannibal shakes his head.

“Red Bull? Monster?”

“Don’t insult me, Will.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve been to 7/11.” 

“I’m not taking you,” Hannibal mutters, looking seconds away from calling Will a heathen . Will straddles him and tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth.

“Even if I asked nicely?”

The truth is, Will doesn’t even know if there are 7/11s in Argentina. He’s not sure if he’d even want to go to one if there is. 

But, he can’t resist teasing Hannibal. 

“Especially then.” Hannibal’s protest is weak, and Will can already tell he’s interested because his hands are traveling up his strong thighs and his thumbs are dipping into the curves above his pelvis.

“I thought you wouldn’t deny me anything,” Will whispers. He licks one broad stripe from the base of Hannibal’s neck to the dip beneath his ear. 

Hannibal doesn’t respond, only tightens a hand in Will’s hair and uses the other to grip at his hipbone as he rolls up. They both let out soft breaths, and Will shimmies closer to him, rocking back and forth and enjoying the delicious sliding grind before he moves to descend lower.

“I’m gonna blow you because I don’t want you getting involved in my fantasy, later. You can figure out a way to watch, but I don’t want you getting off from it. This’ll be your reward in advance.” 

Will grins at Hannibal’s irritated expression, before biting at the soft rise of his stomach and focusing his efforts on his Hannibal, his perfect counterpart, his soulmate and every other cliche in the book. No fantasy could ever be better than this, than them, in the now. But, what is coming later will have to be a complete solo operation. 

He tugs Hannibal’s briefs away and starts suckling at his balls first, satisfying his need to watch Hannibal’s cock twitch, begging to be touched. 

When he finally takes Hannibal into his mouth completely, the noises he makes are precious. Soft, tiny things. For some reason, he prefers holding back in the morning, or perhaps his first instinct is to be quiet and to not allow himself to break free. Will’s never figured it out, he just knows Hannibal’s cock is thick and hard on his tongue, and he tastes like almond butter. It’s good, and it always makes him hard, but he isn’t looking to get off this time.

Will adds hard suction when he drags his lips up the shaft, then allows the cock to fall out of his mouth with a pop. He grips it in one hand and strokes quickly, wanting Hannibal to drown in sensation rather than be able to process it. 

He can see his thighs clench, his stomach quiver. 

Hannibal makes an intense sound when he wraps his lips around the head, pressing kisses, licking, sucking, in intervals. 

“You’re so sensitive,” Will notes with a chuckle, pulling the foreskin back so he can lick firmly around the head with a pointed tongue. “Before we started fucking, I thought you’d be all stoic, even here.” 

“You wouldn’t be wrong,” Hannibal responds quietly. “I was until I met you.” 

“Pfft.” Will lowers his mouth around him as much as he can, and is rewarded with a thrust of hips, nearly gagging him. He loves when he can make Hannibal do that.

“Will, I’m…” 

“I know.” 

He does know. Hannibal’s cock is a deeper shade of red, and his balls are tight when he rolls them between his fingers.

“Let me taste you,” he encourages, sucking hard at the shaft before bobbing down a few times more. Hannibal’s fingers find his shoulders, gripping tight with his nails so they don’t slip off from the sweat. “Come on, use me.” 

Will takes one of Hannibal’s hands and places it in his hair as he loosely slides his mouth over his cock. He stays there until Hannibal gets the hint and starts thrusting up in swift movements. Will moans when his cockhead nudges the back of his throat. If this were three years ago, he’d be gagging, but he’s learned how to relax his throat muscles.

He lets Hannibal fuck his mouth and focuses on gripping his fingers into Hannibal’s thighs, digging nails in, bruising him. It spurs Hannibal on.

“ Will, ” he exclaims, voice strained and high before he buries himself in Will’s mouth and comes in his mouth in hot pulses. 

Will groans around his length, and swallows down every drop. 

Hannibal’s hips are stuttering up, and he’s letting out the little breathy noises he makes when he gets extra worked up. Will loves them, and he laves across cock for good measure before he crawls back up his body, kissing and sucking marks into his skin. 

When he’s close enough, Hannibal wraps his arms under Will’s shoulders and hauls him up for a biting kiss, tonguing at the open space between his lips.

Will tries to shimmy away, but Hannibal is often a boa constrictor if he hasn’t come yet, sniffing out his erection like an animal in heat, but Will can’t let him.

“I’m saving this for you,” Will tells him, “the other you.” 

Hannibal’s lip curls up ferociously, but he loosens his grip on Will so he can extricate himself from the bed. It is a wonderful reminder that Will isn’t the only one jealous of a past version of himself. 

Hannibal is flagrantly staring at his ass while he gets dressed. Will makes a show of bending down to put his socks on, on the verge of laughter as he stands back up.

“Come on, you can repay me with breakfast.” 

Noon rolls around with rainy skies, though not absent of sunlight.

“Will, there is something I must tell you before we depart.” 

Will is shrugging on a suit jacket, not bothering with a morning coat. It won’t be cold, and he wants to look his best for Florence, despite it not mattering in the slightest. His suit is dark navy, almost black. Hannibal will appreciate it, the old Hannibal, as well as the new one he assumes, but his Hannibal seems distracted with some level of concern.

“What’s up?”

Hannibal hesitates, with genuine reluctance, before he speaks. Not a good sign.

“You requested that we travel to the moment in time I last had sex. You are assuming my last time before you was with Bedelia.”

Will’s blood runs cold before muttering, “You’re telling me it wasn’t?” 

Hannibal shakes his head.

“No.” 

There is a heavy silence between them, and Will can’t remember the last time he’s felt discomfited about their relationship. He isn’t exactly at the point of spiraling yet, but the fact there is a part of Hannibal’s life that is being revealed to him only now, after three years on the run, it’s maddening. 

“Who?” he grits out. “Florence?”

“Yes, it was in Florence. I had not expected to ever think on the encounter again, but I know you want the truth when it comes to this trip. I am not going to mislead you and tell you Bedelia was the last person I bedded.”

Will clenches his jaw, crosses his arms. 

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

Hannibal sighs, “Anthony Dimmond. The man I folded up, turned inside out. The man I turned into a valentine, for you, in our chapel.” 

Will stills, his heartbeat skipping for a moment. 

“You slept with him? Before you killed him?”

“I did.”

“Why?” Will exclaims loudly, and perhaps he’d be embarrassed at his own abrasiveness, but as per usual, the fury he feels clouds his judgement. 

Standing in front of him, Hannibal remains calm, knowing better than to reach out and touch Will. Soothing the barking beast never works unless it is done in a calculated manner. There are not a lot of windows of opportunity for Hannibal to insinuate himself, to try to tame him. 

“I am not without loneliness, Will. It was a weak time for me.”

“Oh please,” Will scoffs. “Don’t pretend to be like other people.”

Hannibal tilts his head, eyes narrowing to slits as he considers Will. “There is no other response I can give to you. I wanted to, it doesn’t mean anything more than that.”

Will grinds his teeth together, curls his hands into fists.

“Did you kill him right after?” 

“No,” Hannibal responds deftly. “We were to conduct some business to do with my stolen identity after we were intimate.” At the words, Will grimaces. “So, I invited him over my apartment, and murdered him in front of Bedelia.”

“Not one of your smartest choices,” Will snaps in a low voice. His arms are still crossed, defenses up and unwilling to fold. 

“I told you it was a weak time for me. The heat and comfort of another body brought me no solace. I knew it would not, just as Bedelia had not satisfied me, and yet I acted upon my urge anyway. What would you have me say, Will?” 

“I don’t know,” Will declares, finally softening. “I’m not mad, sorry, I’m just…okay, maybe I’m a bit mad that you can say things and still manage to shock me.” 

Hannibal stretches out a hand to stroke the skin above his collar, and Will is still ripe with tension and frustration so he handles it with a flinch and a flashing glance of beady pupils. 

“Would you rather we not take this trip? We can stop at any time.” 

“No, I want to,” Will affirms.

“Then would you rather we travel to the last moment in time Bedelia and I – ”

“ No. ” 

“Tell me what you want, Will,” Hannibal implores, daring to place his hand on Will’s cheek, and Will finally sinks into the feeling, turning his bristly jaw against the skin of Hannibal’s palm. 

“I want to kill him before you do, before he lets you fuck him.” 

“Saving an innocent man from a monster?” Hannibal’s voice is coated thickly of manipulation, one that Will knows too well and has long since been bothered by. 

“A better man than me would use this power for good,” Will fondles the watch around Hannibal’s wrist. “I am not that man.”

“Tell me, Will. When your concept of this trip manifested, did you picture yourself as a saviour or did you see yourself as a green eyed beast, risen from ash to devour? Do you still believe there is good and evil?” 

“No, but there is mercy and there is murder. This will be merciful.” 

Hannibal’s eyes gleam with interest. 

“For whom? Myself from the past or for you in the present?”

Will doesn’t respond, not to this question. He looks down at their feet and swallows around the words desperate to rise from his throat. Patiently, Hannibal waits for them to claw their way out.

“I saw the beast,” he says in a hushed whisper. 

Hannibal tips his chin up with a finger, leaning in to kiss him chastely. 

“That’s my boy.” 

Will blushes and his eyes flicker around. He’s anxious to leave, and not spend another moment under his magnifying glass. He surmises Hannibal will use this for his benefit another time, when he’s fucking him, when they’re sleeping pressed together, Hannibal will remind him of just how jealous he can be. How feral it makes him. 

“Take me to Florence,” Will commands, fully prepared. 

Hannibal lifts the watch up and around Will’s wrist, trapping their hands together once more, and he grins as he starts to turn the knobs. 

“All the times I’ve dreamt you’d say those words, I could never have guessed it would be in this context,” Hannibal explains his continued amusement. 

Will rolls his eyes, “Well, you weren’t expecting to pull a Donnie Darko I guess.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Just hurry up.” 

“Ready?”

Will opens his mouth and asks, “Wait where?”

Hannibal grows a smile that has teeth, one approaching that of a hedonist rather than a gentleman. Will is glaring by the time he finally responds.

“The Atrocious Torture Instruments exhibit at the Palazzo Capponi.” 

“Of course that was the last place – you know what, just click it.”

Hannibal does, and draws Will in for an embrace. He can’t do much in the way of escaping it as their surroundings change rapidly, so he buries his face in the crook of his neck for the trip. Hannibal smells like cinnamon and pepper. It shouldn’t be so good. 

“Open your eyes, darling.” 

Will’s eyes flutter open, and he nearly loses his footing on the slippery tile floor. The air is different again, but this time it smells dusty and old. It’s no wonder, since they are surrounded by rusted contraptions, artifacts lost in a time when men preferred pain over pleasure. 

Some men still do. 

Will and Hannibal have materialized just outside the main hall. A lecture is being given on Dante, and Will recognizes the voice of Hannibal instantly. 

Will turns to find his own Hannibal has already put on a hat, large and black. It obscures some of his face, but he knows he’ll have to be blocking the view of the men and women attending the class, so they don’t see Dr. Roman Fell’s identical twin that doesn’t exist. 

“It’s after this?” 

“This should end in under a minute.”

Will nods, suddenly feeling out of place. 

“This place is huge,” he murmurs. “Why did you think you’d be safe hiding behind extravagance?” 

“I felt I would be safe hiding in plain sight,” Hannibal responds plainly. 

Hannibal tugs his hat down and abruptly pulls Will in front of him. Will gives him a look, but then turns just enough to see a man walking into the main hall, late to the lecture. Will doesn’t need his empathy to know this is the man. He doesn’t even need any basic detective skills; the man is almost a spitting image of Will himself. 

The man is taller, with brunette hair that curls around his head like a halo. He walks with a sarcastic strut, like he has better places to be and everyone else should feel honored he is deciding to spend his time amongst their company instead. Will tries not to be insulted.

“I never saw a picture of him before you turned him inside out,” Will clarifies, only half aware that Hannibal’s fingers are curled around his wrists. Everything is starting to make a little more sense. “Of course, I shouldn’t have expected this to be anything other than what it is.” 

“I missed you, Will,” is all Hannibal says. He doesn’t wish to defend himself, or to explain away his actions. He’s sure that Will knows, and Will does. 

Will knows because of every grocery trip he took in those three years during Hannibal’s incarceration, when he’d see a man with high cheekbones and silver hair out of the corner of his eye. He’d turn, almost always expecting what he saw couldn’t be real, and instead he’d see faceless men who don’t share an ounce of soul with Hannibal, and yet it would still make him yearn. 

“I know you did.” Will responds fondly so he understands he isn’t upset. 

At least not with Hannibal. The thought of this smarmy looking swindler touching any part of Hannibal is doing a lot to rile Will up. Bile forms deep in his throat. 

Hannibal is right. It doesn’t take long at all for the crowds to disperse after the lecture is over, and sooner rather than later the exhibit is as emptier than Will’s property at Wolf Trap.

Hannibal glares at a short, bearded Italian man, who doesn’t notice the two of them on his way out. He seems the last individual aside from Hannibal and Anthony to leave the premises. Will’s heart is starting to thump distractingly. He can feel it hammering against his ribcage like a bird trapped inside his body. It won’t be long until the bird starts pecking.

“Where will you be?” Will asks, realization dawning that it won’t be long until Anthony and Hannibal’s muffled conversation turns into something else. 

Hannibal glances around with a knowing look. 

“I will be close by, but I will not interfere.” 

“Where should I meet you?” Will presses.

“I will be close by,” Hannibal repeats in a neutral tone, and without any further preamble, begins to stroll down towards a separate hall close by. He vanishes down it, suddenly leaving Will trepidatiously alone. In the past. Without the watch. 

Trying not to think of all the things that could go wrong, he leans back up against the wall, finding it grounding in a way. Sturdy cement and plaster, cool against the shirt of his back. 

For a fleeting moment, the only place he wants to be is home.

Then, he imagines what it will feel like to drench his hands in Dimmond’s blood, and it calms his nerves a morbid amount. 

Will hasn’t been listening too closely to the conversation, but he recognizes the tease in Hannibal’s voice when he says to Anthony, “You might have to strap me to the breaking wheel to loosen my tongue.” 

Will grits his teeth. He can practically hear the indulgent smirk spreading across Anthony’s face when he replies, “You overestimate my affection for the genuine Dr. Fell.” 

Curious, Will pokes his head in just a bit too look at this breaking wheel they’re speaking of. Of course it looks like some sort of nightmarish BDSM contraption Hannibal would be all too pleased to play with, especially in good company. If Hannibal killed this man almost directly after this, obviously he must not have been good company at all. 

That though makes Will smile a bit, and he retreats back into the hall so he isn’t seen. It’s not his time yet. 

“Clearly you found him as distasteful as I did,” Anthony continues.

“On the contrary,” Hannibal responds.

Will rolls his eyes when there is a steamy beat of silence. Of course Anthony is going to take that as a come-on, an opportunity to incite Hannibal further, rather than see it as the blatant horrific pun that it is. 

“We can twist ourselves into all manner of uncomfortable positions just to maintain appearances,” Anthony says, teasing lilt in his voice when he adds, “with or without a breaking wheel.” 

“Are you here to twist me into an uncomfortable position?”

Hannibal’s voice is teasing, but Will knows him well enough to understand this is a cautionary question, to make sure Anthony isn’t planning on blackmailing him. He guesses Hannibal is seconds away from lunging, if the moment calls for it.

Will almost wants to interrupt now, before anything kicks into motion.

It would be satisfying, but he wants to see the look on Hannibal’s face when Will catches him doing other things. Oh, how delightful that will be. 

“I’m here to help you untwist, to our mutual benefit.” 

Hannibal is silent after Anthony’s reply, for quite a while, so Will peeks back in to see Anthony’s lips inches from Hannibal’s, and he’s whispering something under his breath into Hannibal’s ear. 

Hannibal looks absent, his entire expression just screaming that he’s taking it only because it is being offered. Will realizes now that this is one of Hannibal’s weakest moments, and why he had been so reluctant to explain the reasoning behind it properly. He didn’t want to appear average.

Will reaches down to grab a knife from his sock. He’d chosen a dagger specifically for this trip, with an opal handle. Hannibal had gifted it to him last Christmas, and why not finally use it for such a special occasion. 

“Are you sure they won’t hear us in here?” Anthony asks playfully.

“Quite positive,” Hannibal deadpans. 

Will knows he says that because he’d be able to smell any company approaching. It had been a concern of Will’s before doing this, but his own Hannibal had assured him he’d smell so much like him that the Hannibal of this timeline would not be able to distinguish the scents, at least not until he gets close. Will doesn’t know what that says about himself. 

There is a sound of a zipper, and a clunk of knees on tile floor. 

Will peers back out one last time, sees Hannibal on his knees in front of this man, and can’t wait any longer. Fire burns bright in his gut, flaring up behind his eyelids. 

It is a perfect moment to intrude; Anthony’s back is to Will and he is lined up straight against the breaking wheel. One shove and he’ll collapse atop of it, then they can see where that takes them. 

Will leaves his shoes in the hall, learning from Hannibal that socks are the master’s strategy when attempting to sneak up on another person. It’s not rocket science, but Hannibal likes to think he invented the idea. 

His fingers are curled around the handle of his knife, and it takes little to no time to cross the room, and be in arm’s reach of Anthony. 

Anthony lets out a light sigh, and his hips jut forward a bit. 

Will can’t see what’s going on from this angle, but he can very well hear it.

Without another moment, Will reaches a hand through one of the arches in the breaking wheel, and grabs a fistful of Anthony’s hair. There is a shout of surprise, and Will forcefully tugs his head down against the table piece. He meets his eyes with fury, completely disregarding Hannibal who is now finding his footing unsteadily, wiping a hand over his mouth. 

Anthony attempts to reach up and grab some part of Will, for the advantage, but Will slams down his knife, clean and hard in the middle of his throat, pinning him to the flat surface under his neck. He gargles, hands flapping around, getting covered in stark red blood as his fingers dance around the opal handle of the dagger. His head is at the perfect angle, so in a detached process, Will opens his fist and grabs the breaking wheel with both hands before rolling it hard.

It is heavy, and rusted, but it comes down and there is a sickening crunch when it squeezes and then snaps what is remaining of Dimmond’s neck. 

Satisfaction fills Will like a warm drink, and it takes him a moment to stop seeing the color red. It is everywhere, covering him, his hands, even Hannibal. 

Hannibal.

“Will…” he whispers. “How is it you found me?” 

Will can’t laugh. Even with Anthony’s erection hanging out of his pants, covered in blood. If anyone walked in on them now, they might think it a dirty reenactment. 

“That’s your first question, not hey how are you, how’s your abdomen?” 

Hannibal doesn’t respond, almost unbelieving that this is real.

Will had almost forgotten how fractured this moment in time had been for the both of them. How raw their broken hearts were, how delicate still. 

“You’ve killed Mr. Dimmond,” Hannibal observes, looking over the dead body fondly. It twitches still, blood pooling more and more under the vintage torture device.  

“Yeah well, I didn’t think he deserved any rare gifts of yours,” Will explains, hoping Hannibal will understand the reference. 

He does, lips parting, eyes wide.

It seems to register for Hanibal in this moment that Will had just murdered Anthony Dimmond, without remorse, without any type of hesitance. No reason other than because he didn’t want him touching Hannibal. 

Will could kiss him now, and Hannibal would take that as an invitation to run away from this place, but Will isn’t here to relive his regrets in that way. He wants to show Hannibal who he belongs to. 

Will grabs him by the hem of his pants, and spins him around so the back of Hannibal is pressed up between Anthony Dimmond’s legs. Hannibal’s breath hitches, and Will wonders if Anthony’s erection is still prominent, digging into Hannibal’s back in his lifelessness. 

Will drops to his knees, adrenaline still rushing, and desperation nearing an all time high. 

“You’re going to let me do this,” Will tells him, knowing full well how long Hannibal had waited in their actual timeline to bed him. He had been worried about Will’s experience, about if he was in the right headspace for this type of intimacy. He doesn’t want Hannibal thinking much of anything right now. Just to bask in pleasure and the knowledge that Will owns him, will always own him, and nobody else can fill that position. “You’re going to let me do this until you come so hard you forget Anthony Dimmond’s name. If anyone walks in, I’ll kill them. Got it?” 

Hannibal’s shock is monumental, but he nods, stringing a hand through Will’s hair as he gets to work on his fly with an out-of-character eagerness. Or at least this Hannibal might think his behavior as such.  

Hannibal thighs are trembling by the time he tugs down his pants enough to get Hannibal’s cock out in the open. Will wraps his mouth around the tip and sinks down, almost completely and Hannibal gasps, hand tightening in his hair. 

This is so good. Hannibal is so needy, so confused. If Will could do this everyday, he would. 

There is a thick sound of liquid dripping onto the tile. Will’s eyes flutter open as he bobs down again, and he sees blood from the desk falling around them. It’s probably getting on Hannibal’s skin. Somehow that turns Will on more and he moans around him. 

Hannibal uses his other hand to stroke at Will’s jaw. 

“What – ah –happened to your face, Will?” Hannibal asks softly, lovingly. For a moment, Will doesn't remember the scar on his cheek. It almost comes across as worried, but Will knows it’s more of a muted possessiveness. 

“Jealous?” Will nudges, coming up for air. He licks over the head and Hannibal sighs and closes his eyes. He bobs back down, hoping that he’s impressing Hannibal with his deep throating skills. 

His own Hannibal had to teach him, he’d been shit to begin with. 

Hannibal’s hips start to move back and forth with Will’s movements, and his breaths become short. His fist tightens and untightens in intervals in Will’s hair and eventually he murmurs with cracks in his voice, “Will, you musn’t – ”

Will is so hard he can’t think.

“You’re not supposed to be talking,” Will tells him with a humorous gleam in his eyes. “Fuck my face.”

“Pardon?”

“Do it, Hannibal.” Will grabs both of Hannibal’s hands and shoves them hard against his scalp. He is hit with deja vu from this morning. Except this time, Hannibal is reluctant, bordering on suspicious. But, he responds by gently entangling them in his curls. “Do it or I’ll stop.” 

Will mouths over the head of his cock, making direct eye contact with Hannibal as he does it, he only envelops him a couple inches before pulling back up to tongue on the slit. This always gets him going, and today is no exception. 

Hannibal is shaking, but he thrusts his hips forward and Will feels the telltale burn in his throat that always comes from doing this. It’s perfect.

He closes his eyes and moans deep in the back of his throat and Hannibal is thrusting forward again, hard, both hands tight in his hair now. 

Will knows he must be shouting a string of Lithuanian and Italian slurs in his head right now. That’s the only consolation Will ever gets due to the fact the man he loves is one of the most quiet people he’s fucked, when it comes to cursing.

Hannibal’s hips start to stutter almost instantly, and Will grapples his hips, pressing fingers into the rise of flesh just below his waistline and Hannibal lets out a strangled noise, coming past Will’s tongue with a sharp intake of breath. Will pulls back, just to taste the last of it before he swallows, and then gently tucks Hannibal back into his trousers.

Hannibal looks completely open and vulnerable in this instance, the complete opposite version of the man he had seen when he’d peered at his interaction with Anthony Dimmond. If only Will had known all these years ago that a blowjob would get the job done, he might have avoided Chiyoh’s gunshot to the shoulder all together. 

“Hi,” Will says, now eye-level with Hannibal.

Hannibal stares back at him in wonder, that post-orgasmic haze that makes him ultra affectionate and before Will can breathe, he’s being kissed. 

This is this timeline version of Hannibal’s first kiss, and it is filled with passion, love, and a heavy tidal wave of sorrow that Will’s empathy (and mutual understanding of their past together) can’t help but latch onto. 

“I forgive you,” Will whispers in his ear, holding him close. 

Hannibal doesn’t let go for a while, and when he does, he examines the scar on Will’s cheek again. His brows furrow and he cocks his head. 

“This looks as if it is years old.” 

Will takes Hannibal’s hand away from his cheek, trying to distract him from the hints that he’s not exactly his Will. “I think we should get out of here.” 

“You would be right of course.”

Hannibal glares dispassionately down at the corpse of Anthony Dimmond, whose open eyes are glazed over with fear and death. Will matches his glare. 

Hannibal hasn’t stopped touching him, and his head inclines forward to inhale. A smirk spreads across his cheeks and Will blushes. 

“You don’t want to wait a moment longer?” Hannibal asks, voice sultry with his implication. He brushes a hand over Will’s hip, a thumb brushing close to his erection. This has been such an exhilarating trip that it almost feels like the first time Hannibal ever fucked him. His erection is certainly responding like it’s the first time, but he doesn’t want to allow anything more to happen. It would feel cruel. Disjointed. He feels satisfied, and more than anything, he wants the Hannibal who slayed the Dragon with him. 

“Do you have a place close by?” 

Hannibal’s eyes glimmer with optimism and he nods. 

“I’ll meet you there,” Will tells him. 

Hannibal seems bereaved at the thought of separating from Will again, but Will kisses his cheek and this halts any protests from falling out of his lips.

“I’ll explain when I see you again, in a more secure setting. Jack is here, around Florence, and if he sees me walking with you, well…I’ll explain later.”

He has to hold back a wince at the frail excuse, but Hannibal seems to buy it, nodding. 

He tells him a place they can meet, and Will recognizes it is not his apartment, but some place else. He doesn’t think Hannibal is planning to kill him in this instance, but rather, he doesn’t want him coming to the apartment where Bedelia is stashed. It dawns on Will there is a possibility he could take Hannibal’s address and easily hand it over to Jack. He supposes this precaution is understandable, and not worth being peeved about, though Will still purses his lips and huffs to himself when Hannibal starts gathering his things, and recollecting himself.  

“You dropped your forgiveness, Will.” 

Will startles, but then sees the place Hannibal is eyeing. During the time he’d broken Anthony’s neck with the breaking wheel, the dagger had slid from his neck and fallen to the floor. 

The words bring back disdainful memories, and Will swallows.

“Always the keen eye, Dr. Lecter.” 

Hannibal smiles knowingly, and leaves the makeshift lecture hall without another word. He assumes they will have time for discussion later, after this volatile display of lust and love. 

Will feels guilty. He hadn’t felt guilty with Abigail, leaving her to suffer the same fate she did in his own timeline. Yet, he feels guilty for leading Hannibal on here, knowing that this Hannibal will go to that location he’d shared and wait hours for nobody to turn up. 

The Will of this time won’t be as forgiving. 

He’s straightening his hair when he hears footsteps. He grabs his knife and turns, but Hannibal, in different clothing and still wearing a black cap, walks toward him from the other end of the hall. 

“Finished?” he asks. 

Will sighs, wiping the knife on Anthony’s pants before sliding it back into his sock. 

“You could still be in the building you know. If he comes back for any reason, I don’t know how we’re gonna get out of here without explaining to him everything that just happened in the last ten minutes was a lie.” 

“Not a complete lie,” Hannibal admits, getting close enough to touch. “Just a small vision of what might be one day.”

“Still feel shitty about it,” Will grumbles, shifting weight from one foot to another. “I didn’t feel like I thought I would.”

“Creating new regrets are we?”

Hannibal pulls Will in close and Will melts against him. He hadn’t realized he’d been tense with the Hannibal five minutes prior. But, here, with him, he can let his defenses drop entirely. Hannibal rubs a thumb over his bruised lips and he shudders.

“Nothing that can’t be forgotten,” Will mutters, snuggling close so Hannibal can feel his hard-on. 

Hannibal huffs with amusement, and keeps one arm wrapped around him while he expertly dials and turns the knobs on the watch. They put it on together, and Hannibal kisses him when he clicks the button for home . 

Chapter Text

The break in between trips is the longest yet. 

Will manages to convince Hannibal to wait until the weekend, when their partially overlapping workdays come to a close. He attempts to argue that he is not exhausted and that he can travel perfectly well any day of the week, but Will knows that isn’t the case. 

Hannibal is the type of person to burn the candle at both ends, and not tell anybody when he’s become a puddle of wax. 

Will lies to him and convinces him that he’s the one that needs a break, and luckily Hannibal doesn’t read further into his request, or perhaps he’s succumbed to allowing Will the opportunity to dote on him. Either way, it isn’t until Friday that they decide to travel again. 

It is Hannibal’s turn, and Will hasn’t asked him what his plan is. 

Friday night, as most Friday nights go, drive both of them to distraction.

In the study, Will is riding Hannibal fast and hard in his reading chair. He’d looked so handsome in his red sweater with that tousled hair of his, that Will couldn’t resist climbing into his lap and kissing him senseless. The result of his spur of the moment decision is just what he needs. 

“Fuck, I hope you didn’t have plans that involve sex, cause I’m not gonna stop.” The words spill from Will’s mouth as he puts more pressure on his thighs. He bounces up and down and earns a grunt from Hannibal when he swivels his hips. “Where are you – oh – taking me?” 

“Not now, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, sucking along the column of his throat as he strokes roughly up his back. Will had forgotten to take his shirt off in the rush. It doesn’t matter; he can feel the heat of his hands against his skin regardless of fabric. 

Apparently it matters to Hannibal, because he is tearing the shirt off in the next moment. It rips and tears. They’ll need to go shopping again. 

“That bad?” Will teases, and yelps as Hannibal grabs him by his hips and lifts him up off his cock. He spins him around so that his back is to Hannibal’s chest, and impales him again expertly. It crosses Will’s mind that move shouldn’t have been humanly possible. 

He almost topples forward, losing all of his previous leverage, but Hannibal wraps both hands around his chest, under his arms. One holds tightly to his abdomen, fingers curling around his scar, and the other holds his throat. He doesn’t add pressure, just keeps his hand pressed against his neck, and Will moans, arousal surging at the feeling of being entirely held.  

Hannibal starts fucking him harder, with faster strokes.

He groans, eyes rolling back, and all he can do is press back against him, use him as a grounding point, as a way not to slip and fall flat on his face. Hannibal wouldn’t let him even if he let his muscles go loose, he’d catch him, hold him tight. 

“Oh my god,” Will moans, twitching and writhing as the pressure builds low in his gut. “Good fucking god, how are you this good?” 

A deep, pleased, sound rumbles in Hannibal’s throat and his teeth latch onto Will’s skin just as his hand closes in on his cock. The other hand tightens around Will’s neck. 

Will squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his orgasm spiral towards the surface much faster than he’d like. He’d planned to ride him all night, get him so tired he wouldn’t be able to walk. He’s starting to think Hannibal has purposely turned his plan against him. 

Another couple rough thrusts against his prostate, and he arches, drawn tight as a bowstring as he comes all over his chest and Hannibal’s hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he rasps in a mantra. The sound of skin slapping against skin intensifies as his awareness fades to white noise and warm endorphins. 

Hannibal kisses up his jaw, breathing erratic against his skin, and Will lazily turns his head to capture his lips in his mouth. He moans into his mouth when Hannibal continues slamming into him, chasing his own pleasure. 

“Fill me up,” Will whispers against his lips, feeling wily.  

Hannibal’s brows furrow, and his eyes close as his orgasm is forced from him over the words. Will continues kissing him even as Hannibal’s kisses turn into pants, and his hipped stutter up off-rhythm. There is a warm wetness blooming inside of him, and he feels more content than he can actually put into words.

They breath in sync, long drawn out heaving breaths. 

After a few moments, Will shifts uncomfortably in his lap. Hannibal’s cock is softening inside of him, and the skin of his back is sticking to Hannibal’s chest hair. 

Hannibal lifts him off his thighs, only to turn him horizontal. Will shouts when he’s lifted up off the chair bridal-style. 

“No, no, no, you’re putting me down, ” Will barks out at him, but Hannibal pretends not to hear him, crossing the study and carrying him out into the hall.

He flings his limbs around, to no avail. 

“Hannibal, stop! Put me down! I can walk, you dumbass.” 

Hannibal barely suppresses a smirk as he kicks the bathroom door open, and lays Will down in the marble tub. Will glares at him as he starts the water, but he doesn’t move to leave.

“I hate you.” 

“And I hate messes on my furniture,” Hannibal replies simply. 

“Maybe I’ll stop ambushing you around the house then. We’ll only fuck in the bathtub where everything can be washed down the drain,” Will bites out. 

Hannibal inclines his head, chastising him silently. 

“The man who hates mess comes pretty damn hard when I tell him to fill me up,” Will points out with a smirk crawling up his face. 

Hannibal continues to glare, eyes darkening even under the bathroom’s fluorescents. Will pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, cocking a brow until Hannibal softens. 

“Get in here with me.” 

Hannibal sighs, giving him another look, but Will tugs on his arm gently.

“Please?” 

Hannibal stands up and crosses the room to the cupboard above the sink. He gets a small glass jar with a corked lid out, and pops it open. The crystals inside are purple and white and are being dumped into the bath just over Will’s legs. The scent of lavender instantly wafts into the air. Hannibal puts the jar, still half full, back in the cupboard, and climbs in, parallel to Will. 

“Uh, Hannibal,” Will starts, not knowing how to bring this up without startling him.

Hannibal leans forward and kisses him softly, humming in question. 

Somehow, a rag has made it into his hands, and he’s rubbing softly at his sweat sheen skin with it, rubbing the lavender soap further against him. Shit. 

“Hannibal, I’m, uh, allergic to lavender.” 

Hannibal pulls back, dropping the rag into the water. They stare at each other for a solid few seconds, before Hannibal is reaching back with a trembling hand to stop the flow of water. 

“Can you stand?” he asks, in his Doctor-voice. 

“Yeah, Hannibal, it’s fine. It shouldn’t be – ” 

“Get up and into the shower. I’ll be right back.” 

Hannibal vanishes into the hall, naked. Will listens to his footsteps padding off toward the kitchen, slowly growing quieter. He holds back a chuckle and steps out of the water. His skin is tingling a bit, and his throat is itchy. He knows it will stop once he gets this stuff off of his skin, but he thought it would be a good precaution to tell Hannibal just for any future bath salt purchases.

He hops into the big rainfall shower, and sets the water to mildly warm. It immediately washes away the scent of lavender from his skin. His eyes had started to water beforehand, but he doesn’t feel it now with the pressure against his face.

When his face is turned up at the showerhead, relaxing with closed eyes, there is a sharp pain in his upper thigh. His eyes shoot open to see Hannibal in the shower with him, bending over to press a needle into his thigh.

It is an injection of some sort. 

Will backs off, slamming up against the glass wall.

“What the hell was that?!” he cries out, feeling for his pulse to feel if it slows. As a matter of fact, it quickens. He had already started feeling better from the shower, but all of a sudden his airway seems a little more clear. “Was that an – ”

“Epinephrine,” Hannibal explains, short of breath. “An EpiPen.” 

Will blinks, huffs out a laugh after a moment. 

“Shit, I don’t think I’ve ever used one of those.” 

Hannibal looks down at the EpiPen in his hand, as if reconsidering his decision. 

“My allergies are mostly mild, Hannibal,” Will tells him in between chuckles. “I appreciate your knight in shining armor act, though.” He pauses, “Wait is that safe? If it was just a mild reaction?”

Hannibal nods slowly. “The dosage was not high.” 

“I feel fine,” Will assures. “Sorry, you freaked me out for a second.”

It is unfortunate that it is understandable, given their history.

It takes Will a moment to figure out that Hannibal’s silence is pure embarrassment. He tries not to grin too much when he steps closer and sets aside the EpiPen on the shelf in the shower. 

“Wanna wash this shit off my body for me?” he asks, handing Hannibal a loofa. 

Hannibal sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and nods, turning Will around so he can start with his back. He is completely thorough, not missing any crevice. Even with his cock he is thorough, which makes Will wince and rock backwards with oversensitivity. Hannibal kisses his lips in apology when he’s finished and Will chuckles again.

“Hannibal, for once it’s not your fault. Stop beating yourself up.”

Hannibal turns the shower off and brings the two of them towels. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. 

Will stalls. 

“I guess, it just never came up? I don’t know, you use soaps with heavy spices and coconut oils and stuff like that. Lavender isn’t often on a guy’s personal hygiene checklist.” 

Hannibal nods. “What else?”

“Am I allergic to?”

“Yes.” 

Will dries his hair with the towel once his legs and arms are relatively dry. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Nothing else, well, cats, but that’s it.” 

“Cats?” Hannibal asks, looking particularly shifty.

Will narrows his eyes. “Yeah, but don’t go killing every cat out there just on my behalf.” He nudges Hannibal with an elbow. “It’s fine, I’m not gonna have a breathing attack or anything. I just get a bit itchy and uncomfortable.”

“It is better to know, anyhow,” Hannibal says. 

Will follows Hannibal to their bedroom after they’ve tied their towels around their waists. He watches him closely, finding Hannibal a bit too distant for his liking. 

“You’re allergic to something aren’t you?” 

“Why do you say that?” Hannibal deflects.

“You didn’t think I was allergic to anything, yet you had EpiPens lying around somewhere in this house. You have to be allergic to something,” Will determines, keeping his hand on the top drawer of the bureau so Hannibal can’t retrieve his clothes without responding first. 

“Perhaps I’m prepared for any inevitability.”

“Why aren’t you telling me? Is it something weird?” Will asks with a smile. “Human beings have whacky immune systems Hannibal, it doesn’t mean anything.” 

Hannibal lets out an agitated sigh, and for a moment Will thought he was holding back because he considered allergies to be a weakness of sorts, but now he sees something else under the surface. Something he can’t decipher. 

“Blattella Germanica,” he states. 

“What?”

“The non-scientific terminology is German Cockroaches,” Hannibal tells him, voice wavering. “It is the only thing I am allergic to.” 

Will hums. “Didn’t know people could get allergic to cockroaches.”

Hannibal nods, nudging Will’s hands away from the drawers. “There was a nest of cockroaches which formed in my bedroom as a child. My parents discovered it too late and I had to be driven to the emergency room. That’s how I found out.”

“You keep your EpiPen stash pretty hidden,” Will mutters, watching Hannibal slip into his underwear. He pulls out a pair of his own boxers from the same drawer. 

“I have not kept a ‘stash’ in almost forty years.” 

“Then why – ?”

“It has something to do with where we’re going.” 

Will nods, trying not to let his head spin too much. Hannibal will explain. Will gestures to the bureau, “Can we get dressed first?

Hannibal nods.

“And how should we dress?” he elaborates. 

Hannibal puts up a finger and waltzes over to their walk-in closet. He comes out not a moment later with specifically tailored suits for the two of them.

“I am glad you reminded me. I’d almost forgotten.” 

“You want me to wear…that?” 

The outfits are both the same, long white jackets with black buttons, pressed and pristine. They are accompanied with a dark blue shirt and light blue tie, the other having the inverse of those colors. There are front pocket holes with pens stashed in them. They look like cult uniforms. 

“Male nurse-wear, as vintage as I could make them.” 

“Hannibal, where are we going?” Will asks with a laugh. “Someplace we can play ‘doctor?’” 

Hannibal raises a brow, but shakes his head. 

“I wanted to take you to my home. To Lithuania. When I was a child,” he starts softly, but his eyes glaze over in a dark remembrance. “When I had that severe allergic reaction, my parents hired a stay at home nurse to stay with me and administer Naloxone for a month or so after, until they had the roach problem taken care of.” 

“Naloxone?” Will takes the slightly smaller nurse uniform being handed to him, and begins to put it on. 

“EpiPens didn’t exist in the seventies. Well, they did, but they weren’t approved by the FDA until the eighties. I still purchased a set of EpiPens because I won’t be in any mood to suffer through any attacks with primitive medicine,” he spits out the last few words. 

Will is shimmying into his pants, processing everything. 

“Your home then, little you, your parents. Mischa?” 

“Of course.” 

“And you haven’t been on your own without me yet?” 

Hannibal shucks on his white coat, shaking his head solemnly. He helps with the buttons on Will’s coat when he finishes dressing first, and Will watches him with a comforting gaze. 

“I wanted to see it with you. I thought you might enjoy my raw reaction.” 

“You know I will,” Will says with a smile. “You make remarks about my forts, but you’ve got the Great Wall of China up here.” He rubs a thumb over Hannibal’s forehead, and his palm is kissed. 

“I’m not going to have to EpiPen you am I? I wouldn’t know the first thing on how to do that. What if you have a severe attack and pass out? I don’t even know how to use the watch.” 

“Shh,” Hannibal hushes him gently. “I’ve told you, you worry too much. You’ve slain a Dragon, there is nothing you cannot handle. You will find a way if things do not go according to plan, but I will tell you that all you need to do is inject me in the upper thigh.” 

“Here?” Will asks, not thinking as he presses a flat palm up against Hannibal’s thigh.

“Yes,” he breathes out, eyes warm and lips parting.

Will smirks, moving his hand over the flaccid outline of Hannibal’s cock, stroking lightly. 

“Not here, then?” 

“Insatiable,” Hannibal scolds. He takes Will’s hands away from his pants and brings them up to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “We have places to be.” 

“Technically we have all the time in the world,” Will responds after plucking the watch from the top of the dresser. He waves it around before handing it to Hannibal.

“I’ll be right back.” Hannibal kisses his cheek and retreats into the kitchen to bring back a black duffel bag. It is filled with EpiPens, Naloxone, amongst basic medical supplies and… 

“Are these actual walkie talkies?” Will grumbles, fondling them in his hand. 

“Yes. Just in case. I assume we won’t need them.”

Hannibal takes the one Will is holding and places it back in the bag before zipping it up. He gets to work on the watch, taking much longer than average. His hands are trembling by the time he’s finished, and Will places his hands over his and waits until they make eye contact.

“I love you,” Will says easily. “I want to see your home, your family.”

He’s not sure if Hannibal needs to hear it, but his reaction is precious. 

Hannibal swallows, lips pursing in that way he does when he’s trying not to frown. He looks down at the watch to avert his gaze, but Will tips his chin up and kisses him gently. 

“Take me to your childhood.”

The calm before the storm. 

They materialized on the road just beyond the gate to the Lecter Estate. 

Hannibal explained to Will that a truck belonging to the stay at home nurse hired by his family would be pulling up soon, and that they would kill the driver. 

The idea is not repulsive to Will even as he’s given quite a bit of time to ponder it, waiting in the bushes just beyond the dirt track. They have no reason to kill the nurse and the driver other than the need to steal their identity, and make sure they aren’t interrupted in their goal. Killing random civilians for no reason doesn’t irk Will as much when their own timeline won’t be affected, not that it irked him much to begin with. He’s killed for far less than identity theft, and he knows Hannibal has as well. 

“This place looks much more lively than when I visited,” Will observes, the green of the trees and the bushes almost blinding in its vibrancy. 

“This is more than a couple decades in the past, Will. When this castle was lived in, and there were groundskeepers on the property,” Hannibal replies with a bright expression; he is obviously pleased to see his home again, where he had only seen it in memories for much of his past. 

Will watches him for a moment, and realizes he appears years younger. 

“Can you really not go back, when we return to our time?” he asks.

Something washes over Hannibal’s expression, but he manages to maintain the bright expression, free of turmoil and the expected melancholy. His diction is however, somber. 

“It brings me great pleasure to know that going back home is impossible for me now, considering our status as criminals. It gives me a fair excuse,” Hannibal adds with a sly glance shot at Will, “But, even without that excuse, I could not step foot in that place again.” 

He doesn’t elaborate. He never has. 

“Not even with me? One day, when we’re old.”

Will knows it’s an abortive effort, to try and get Hannibal to agree to something he has already made his mind up about, but Will would be lying if he said he doesn’t want Hannibal to see what became of the tenant, of the mayfly man. Strung up in knots and devoured by snails. 

Hannibal grins, peering up behind the bush to watch the road. 

“I do so admire your optimism that we will both reach our old age.”

“Just because you’re eager to climb into bed with the Grim Reaper doesn’t mean I have to be as well,” Will reminds. Perhaps he’d driven them over a cliff, but he doesn’t have that bewitched attitude about death that Hannibal does. He doesn’t think he ever will. 

There is a sound of tires against earth, and a rumbling of an engine. 

“I’m going to run in front of the car, and they’ll screech to a halt. Don’t forget what to do,” Hannibal tells him with a sudden ferocity and professionalism that stuns Will into silence. 

Will gives a jerky nod and just as the car is rearing past the bushes they are hidden behind, Hannibal darts out in the middle of the road, waving his hands. Just as planned, the truck driver slams the breaks, and still hits Hannibal, but the amount Hannibal had calculated. 

Will runs over when he falls to the ground, doing his best to act the concerned friend and colleague as Hannibal plays dead. The driver and the nurse who’d been sitting shotgun, a female, hop out of the car and hover around the scene with confused expressions. Before they can process why this man had randomly run out in front of a moving vehicle in the middle of nowhere, Will is striking at the same time Hannibal is. 

Will wishes the female had been on his side, because Hannibal would be better able to fight this broad truck driver than Will is. Luck is on his side when it comes to the intellect of the man, however. Will’s hands snake around his neck, pressing his fingers hard into his jugular to cut off airflow. For a long time, the man only tries to pry Will’s hands away, rather than use his legs as leverage. Will hears a male grunt, and looks to his left to see Hannibal finish snapping the nurse’s neck. She falls to the ground in a bundle of loose jangled limbs. 

He’d looked away for too long because finally, one of the truck driver’s legs kick out and knock one of Will’s knees out from under him.

He loses his grip momentarily, but suddenly Hannibal is by his side, snaking his limbs through the back of the man, and keeping every single one of them restrained somehow as Will continues pressing into his airway hard. Harder, until the man’s eyes roll up and his face goes blue. 

Will is staring straight forward, not acknowledging the scratch marks on his knuckles and the bruise forming on his knee. He watches until the life leaves the man’s eyes, and even then, he has trouble looking away from the body slumping further and further into the ground, languid like a lazy river. Gravity takes complete hold after Hannibal extricates himself. 

The noise of birds in the trees and the wind whooshing obliviously through the air around them suddenly comes back like a snap of the fingers. Will turns to Hannibal who is watching him darkly. 

Will drags him in by his white coat lapels, kissing him filthy and hard in the middle of the road.

“That never gets old with you,” he murmurs, almost tasting blood in Hannibal’s mouth despite that being impossible. Hannibal kisses back, but is keeping his arousal at bay intentionally. 

“We must hide the bodies, quickly. We don’t need to make a fuss, but it must be efficient enough not to be found for a few days,” Hannibal tells him and Will takes a few steps back, taking quick stock of the bodies they’re gonna have to carry. 

“Okay, uh, no graves then.”

“I know a well, just by the stream, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

Hannibal gesticulates in the direction of the truck driver, and Will nods, grabbing the legs while Hannibal grabs the head. Most of the weight is distributed to Hannibal who is the stronger of the two, but together they are easily able to carry several yards into the woods. It is not far, and the well seems old, something the groundskeepers wouldn’t even bother checking. 

“I detest wasting meat,” Hannibal declares, watching the heavy body of the trucker be pushed head first into the well. He lands in a loud squishy thump, with a few accompanying cracks. 

Will doesn’t respond, muttering, “Tough luck,” to the man at the bottom of the well instead. After, they head back to the road and repeat the process with the woman. 

It shouldn’t be so easy to dispose of bodies.

When they get into the truck, and start driving towards the gate that opens to the Lecter Estate, that’s when Will starts to get nervous. 

“What troubles you, Will?” Hannibal asks, driving the road like it’s familiar. 

“Just never thought I’d have to meet your parents. This isn’t even a conventional meeting, this is fucking nuts,” Will rambles, running a sweaty palm through his hair. “Hell.” 

“I do not believe it will be the mind blowing experience you’re expecting, Will.” 

“Aren’t you feeling something? Dread? Excitement?” 

Hannibal rolls to a stop at the gate, handing a forged ID he’d made at home to the gatekeeper. The man nods and hands it back, marching up to the gate to unlock it. 

He turns to Will with a contemplative sigh.

“Should it be concerning I find myself indifferent thus far?” 

“I think maybe,” Will chuckles nervously, placing a hand overtop of Hannibal's. “But, that might just be a good old fashioned defense mechanism. Your head might not know how to wrap itself around this situation.” 

“Perhaps,” Hannibal agrees, driving onto the estate once the gate is open. “I do hope my parents do not recognize me.” 

“I think even if they do, they’ll be too confused to even admit to themselves you being their son is a possibility. I know my dad would chalk it up to one too many beers.” 

There is a silence as they drive towards the arched garages. There are two cars beside the extra two empty spaces, and the cement arches are high enough for the truck to drive in and park. From what Will had glanced at from the outside as they’d driven up, the castle is no longer covered in moss, and it looks fresh. Like it had been built of bricks and limestone only yesterday. 

“Will you recognize your parents?” Will asks, abruptly curious. 

Hannibal cocks his head, also at a loss. 

“I believe so.” 

Something about the response makes Will’s heart ache, but he promises himself not to touch Hannibal until they are alone again. The urge will be strong, as they are in unfamiliar territory, but he needs to manage his act, his new identity for the time being. 

They roundabout back towards the front door of the castle. 

Will is hit with an overwhelming sense of deja vu. These trips are doing that quite a lot. He turns to whisper close to Hannibal’s ear.

“How old are you again? Here?” 

“I am eight years old. Mischa should be three.” 

Will smiles warmly. He’s never seen a photo of Hannibal younger than a young adult. He’s more than curious about his family, his childhood. He doesn’t want to come across as exhilarated though, so he focuses on toning down his energy. 

Will digs his nails into his palms. 

My name is not Will Graham. I am whoever Hannibal introduces me as. I am a nurse and chauffeur. It is the evening. I am in Lithuania at the Lecter Estate. It is the late 1970s.  

Telling himself this calms his nerves, and when Hannibal raps on the front door three times, they are greeted by a butler or servant of sorts. A professional door-open-upper, Will wouldn’t put it past the Lecters to hire a man to stand by the door all day long to wait and open it for guests who do not come. Will’s never been rich so he doesn’t really understand any of it. 

Hannibal speaks to the stiff looking man in perfectly fluent Lithuanian. 

“Not getting rusty?” Will asks after the man bows and departs from the foyer. 

Hannibal smirks. “It is my first language, Will.” 

There is a large stairwell that looks like it should be covered in cobwebs spread out in front of them, and in no time, a man and woman emerge from the highest corridor, and begin descending down the steps. The woman is beautiful, face round and cheekbones high. He can see Hannibal in her, more than the father. The father is scrawnier, a bit shorter than Will had imagined, but his eyes are Hannibal’s eyes. Dark and possessive. It’s what first kept Will from looking away from Hannibal all those years ago in Jack’s office. 

Will shifts uneasily, glancing once at Hannibal to see him staring at them blankly. Not a single emotion playing on his face, a complete blank slate. Will wants to scream, just to startle him. 

“ Labas vakaras!” Hannibal’s mother calls out, just as her heels begin to click against the floor. Her husband takes her hand and they waltz over as if they were floating on a cloud. They’re both in black as if going to a funeral. It’s some Addams Family shit, but Will won’t bring that up. 

“Labas vakaras,” Hannibal greets, shaking the hand of his father, and nodding once to his mother. Will also shakes the hand of Hannibal’s father who has an impeccably strong grip. His mother keeps her hands clasped behind her back, but her gaze is warm and inviting. 

Hannibal begins speaking quickly in his native tongue, and within a moment, he gestures to Will and Will hears the word “Amerikos” slip through the cracks. He guesses that means ‘American’ because his parents both nod and smile at him as if he has the understanding of a child. 

Hannibal glances at him once and then smiles, deviously. 

“Freddie Lounds,” he says, pointing to Will’s fake ID. Will hadn’t checked the names. Fuck. Hannibal is going to get a smack to the face that’s for certain. 

Will fumes, as discreetly as he can, and Hannibal introduces himself as “Jack Crawford” which makes him feel like smoke is starting to come out of his ears.

And, just like that, Will is left out of the conversation. 

Will can tell Hannibal is attempting to rush the conversation for his sake, but Will wants to tell him he can calm down and take as much time as he needs. It doesn’t matter that he can’t understand. He has enough empathy to register the basics of the conversation.

Towards the end, a timid expression crosses Mrs. Lecter’s face. Fear, a mother’s worry, and caution. After all, she had probably hired a female nurse. No matter what excuse Hannibal made up for them being replacements, the worry is still present. 

Mr. Lecter’s face remains impassive the entire time. Like father like son, but Will keeps catching the eye of him, and he looks at Will with something nearing disdain. Perhaps he can sniff out the ‘commoner’ gene in him. 

After another few minutes, Mrs. Lecter raises one hand and snaps her fingers. The same butler from the front door sidles up beside them, and takes Hannibal’s black satchel. Hannibal shakes the man’s hand and suddenly they’re being ushered towards the stairs. 

Mrs. Lecter calls out, “Thank you for coming, Freddie Lounds and Jack Crawford!” in a thickly-accented English. For Will’s benefit, no doubt. 

“Oh, I’m gonna kill you,” Will mutters when they’re halfway up the stairs. “Where the hell are we going, Jack? ” 

Hannibal’s smile widens. 

“This gentleman is taking us to Hannibal Lecter’s current room. He is staying in a guest room due to the roach problem in his bedroom.” 

“Is that so,” Will answers snidely. “How unfortunate for him.” 

The butler leaves them at the front door of the guest room, and points to the room adjacent and says a few words. Hannibal whispers the translation, “Our quarters.” 

Hannibal knocks on the bedroom door of the younger Hannibal before letting himself in. 

Inside, a much smaller, docile looking Hannibal is sitting and folding paper into tiny origami figures. There is already a swan, heart, and frog beside a stack of paper. The child looks up, wide innocent brown eyes staring back. 

“Hello, Hannibal,” Hannibal says plainly, kneeling down beside the low table. “Mother tells me you have been experiencing some severe allergies.” 

Hannibal reaches for the black duffel bag the butler had left with them and Will hands it to him, stunned into silence, unable to move from where his feet feel planted to the ground. 

“Jack do you–does he understand English?” 

The smaller Hannibal nods, “Yes, “ he says in a precious, small voice. Will’s soul aches for the innocence in this younger boy. The child is acting astute, proper. But, Will can feel the childlike playfulness emitting off of him in waves. Knowing this is a version of Hannibal, that could feel this human rocks him to his core. 

“A studious boy,” Hannibal mentions, looking to Will almost as a reminder. 

He digs into the bag to retrieve a dosage of Naloxone. 

Will eventually finds the strength to sit down beside Hannibal and look over the origami pieces the child has crafted. They are wonderful, far too perfect for an eight year old’s craftsmanship. He looks up to find the child staring at him curiously. 

“Did you teach yourself origami?” Will asks, and the older Hannibal turns to him as if he had been asked the question, but he blinks and continues figuring out the right dosage of Naloxone. 

“Yes,” the younger Hannibal tells him. “My sister wanted a pet bird, and mom and dad didn’t allow it. So, I told her I’d make one.” 

“That’s sweet,” Will whispers, feeling oddly emotional. 

“Would you sit still for me?” Hannibal asks himself. 

The child stares at him blankly. “May I inject myself?” 

Hannibal smiles with teeth. “No, you may not. When you have a medical license, perhaps.” 

Will swallows, ready to fall apart at the seems. 

As Hannibal’s injecting the Naloxone into his younger self, Will escapes into his own mind. He needs to think, to process. Everything is happening so fast. He hadn’t expected to be so affected by the sight of a youthful Hannibal, before Mischa’s death. The thought of what will happen in only a couple years, what will happen to his younger sister. The origami is such a gentle practice, will he grow to despise it only because of its connotations? 

Hannibal seems to sense Will’s growing discomfort, because he moves to stand, pulling Will along with him. The child stands as well, straightening his posture to appear as tall as he can. 

“I would like to take these to my sister,” he declares. “She is outside.” 

“Ah, then we must accompany you,” Hannibal replies with an indulgent smile. “Lead the way.” 

The younger Hannibal does, pushing past them with a snobbish veneer. It is only charming, and hard to despise. Will loses his balance, and Hannibal grips his arm.

“Will, you look like you are about to faint.”

This damn empathy disorder. 

“You want to do this?” Will asks instead, incredulous. “You’re so calm, I don’t know how you’re so…You’re going to see your sister. Did you think at all what that would be like?”

Will is well aware he sounds crazed, whispering so that the child doesn’t overhear them as he leads them outside. He is well aware he is taking this much harder than Hannibal is. He’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so distraught. 

Hannibal looks like he wants to kiss him, but he keeps his distance. 

“It will be alright, Will. Trust me.” 

The younger Hannibal leads them around the back of the castle, towards the woods. Will recognizes this part of the estate, despite the nature not being so overgrown. The atmosphere is filled with life and fresh scents. They cross past a gate and it leads them to a waterfall where an adult, a female maid, is watching Mischa play with the water. 

Will is starting to wonder if Hannibal’s parents had any involvement in their childhoods whatsoever. It seems all the servants are doing the parenting, and there’s too many of them for a solid role model. Perhaps that’s why Hannibal deemed himself the protector of Mischa. 

Mischa. 

She is lovely, like a little doll. Her hair is as blonde as a swede, and her dress is red and white, a small one-piece outfit that is buttoned down the entire way. It is accompanied with a large, matching floral headband, and bright red shoes. She is the exact type of little thing that screams for protection. 

Will could hold her with one hand, she’s that small.  

Will turns to Hannibal, dreading his expression, but Hannibal is merely staring at her with wonder in his eyes. Like he’s looking through a frosted window, and in some ways, he is. This is a memory more than anything else. A more vivid and visceral version of his mind palace. 

The younger Hannibal speaks in Lithuanian to his sister, handing her all three of the origami pieces he created. She squeaks, and they hug. He squeezes her tight, and the maid watches on fondly. 

Mischa throws the origami frog in the waterfall, and he floats on the surface of the water, almost as animated as a real frog. Will is charmed by her innocence, her energy. She is somehow nothing of Hannibal, yet all of him. All of his goodness, in one being. All of his potential to be a good man, all of his love. 

She tumbles around on her small legs with the swan in her hands, and Hannibal chases her, tackling her into the leaves. They giggle and fight over the swan and the maid snaps at them. They scramble up, but then run off towards the woods hand in hand. The maid rolls her eyes, darting after them.

She drags them back by their scruffs as if they were kittens. 

Will stiffens with sorrow. He can’t think about the fate of these children. He’s thought of Hannibal’s past countless times, he’s imagined it as vividly as he could. But, never has he truly understood the brutality of the acts, not until this. 

“Hannibal, I want to go home,” Will murmurs. 

Hannibal looks to him, confusion etched into his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “Shit, I’m sorry, I’m ruining your trip. I can’t do this, I can’t, I’m going to–” Will cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath, finding it hard to take in oxygen all of a sudden. 

If Hannibal is vexed, he doesn’t show it. Only concern for Will. 

Will doesn’t know how he’s keeping it together. He wouldn’t be, not if he was facing his own childhood, and the horrors of his past pale in comparison to what Hannibal has suffered. 

Hannibal squeezes his shoulder, and speaks in Lithuanian to the maid. She nods, waves her hand in dismissal, and mutters something back. 

“I asked her if she could take care of the children. That if there are any complications she can find us in our quarters. It is alright, Will. We can go home.” 

Will nods shakily, but before he can do so much as turn, the younger Hannibal’s voice is approaching them. 

“Wait!”

Will faces the child to find a little, outstretched arm, holding the origami heart. 

“Mischa doesn’t like it. You can have it,” he says gleefully. “It matches your eyes.” 

The paper is a gentle blue color, and Will takes the small heart into his hand, finding himself on the verge of collapsing as he does. He is handing it specifically to him. 

“T–Thank you, Hannibal. It’s really good,” Will tells him, trying to keep his voice steady. The other Hannibal’s got a hand on his arm, ready to lead him back to the grounds, but Will reaches out and hugs the boy close. He feels fragile in his arms, so very delicate. 

Hannibal tugs on his arm, and when he pulls back the child is watching him curiously. The maid as well is shooting them a curious expression over her shoulder. Will tucks the origami heart into his pocket. “Sorry,” he murmurs, finally allowing Hannibal to turn him and lead him in the other direction. 

He can feel the young eyes of Hannibal on his back. 

To know what will happen to him in two years time, it feels like something he should stop, but he knows it is impossible to change the past. It wouldn’t help Hannibal, and the Hannibal of now would most likely disapprove of changing his past, even if it were to save Mischa. He approves too much of continuity, even with his penchant for manipulation. 

When they get to their quarters, there are two twin beds. 

No, Will won’t sleep apart from Hannibal tonight. He can’t do it. He’d planned beforehand to stay a few days, explore the estate more whilst it is strife with activity, but he can’t. Not anymore. 

Hannibal gathers him in his arms when the door is shut, and Will can’t gather his faculties enough to hold him back. He stares at the limestone wall behind him, and breathes in the foreign scent of Lithuania. His eyes water, and Hannibal pulls back to kiss him, both hands on his jaw. 

“I am sorry, my love,” Hannibal says in a low voice. 

“D–Don’t,” Will stammers. “Don’t apologize. I can’t handle it, it’s me.” 

“I should have known.”

Hannibal strokes the skin under his eyes with his thumbs and kisses him again. Will finally raises his hands up to grapple his forearms, squeezing to feel grounded. 

“Your sister is lovely,” Will whispers, feeling his eyes well once more. 

“I know,” Hannibal responds, curling a strand of hair behind Will’s ear. 

Will presses his forehead against his. 

“You’re so put together sometimes, it scares me,” he says. 

Hannibal huffs, humored, “I didn’t know what to expect. My brain seemed to compartmentalize what I was seeing in the same folder as my memories. It was like staring at a painting, a portrait of an old friend. My emotions felt miles away, deeply tucked away in some unknown seabed.”

“That sounds like total bullshit but that also makes sense.”

Hannibal laughs, and it sounds abnormally hoarse. Will’s gaze flickers down to see his Adam’s apple bobbing rapidly. 

“Actually,” he rasps. “I am having quite an allergic reaction right now. So, perhaps departure is the best idea.” 

Fucking cockroaches. 

“Shit,” Will mumbles, swerving around. The black duffel bag is gone. 

Hannibal is taking in deep shaky breaths, eyes watering. 

“Fuck, I’ll be right back. Stay here. Focus on breathing,” Will directs, running out into the hall and becoming overwhelmed with the amount of doors. 

He grabs the door adjacent, and is right. They’d left the bag in Hannibal’s room. He grabs it and glances quickly around the room out of instinct, before pausing. There is a tiny framed picture of Mischa on the bedside table. Will knows he shouldn’t be wasting time, but he sidles up to it and frantically rips open the back cover, slipping the small photo into his coat pocket along with the origami heart. Hannibal might disapprove, but he might as well try to give it to him. 

He runs back to the room to find Hannibal on the floor, gripping one of the bed posts with a white-knuckled fist. Will drops to his knees, brain functions other than motor turning off as he works like a machine, preparing an EpiPen, and then jabbing it into his thigh. 

Hannibal sighs, normal breathing pattern returning almost instantaneously. Will slumps down, tension leaving his body and he drops the EpiPen to the floor. 

“Finally got to stab you,” Will notes, grinning. 

They laugh and Will slips his arm through the wristband of the watch. Hannibal looks down and then back up at Will who smiles shakily, gently running a fingertip over the knobs. 

“Take us home. Our home.”

Chapter Text

“I have something to tell you,” Will murmurs in Hannibal’s ear. 

It is the night after their trip to Lithuania. 

Will is curled up against Hannibal’s arm as they indulge in cups of herbal tea. It is a quiet night, despite the anticipation slowly building in both of their bellies. The living room seems too loud, despite the silence. Will has already decided on where he wants to go, but he hasn’t told Hannibal yet. However, that’s not what he is bringing up. 

This is about something else entirely. 

Hannibal turns to him expectantly, lowering his mug to his lap.

“You are no longer going to keep me in suspense?” he inquires. 

Will lips curl up. “I think I’ll make you suffer a little bit longer on that front. That’s not what I need to tell you.” 

Hannibal takes the mugs from their hands and places them on the coffee table. He replaces the mug that had been in his grip with Will’s hand, stroking over his knuckles. 

“You have put on quite the superb mask,” Hannibal says with a mild expression. “You fear my response to whatever it is you have to tell me.” He leans forward and kisses Will’s frown with a gentle swipe of the tongue. “I can taste it on your lips.”

Will lets out a breath he’d been holding, feeling strangely relieved. 

“This might upset you. We didn’t exactly discuss doing this,” Will rambles, rubbing the nape of his neck with shaking fingers. “Hell, I should have asked before I–”

“Tell me, Will. You know I would forgive you for almost any transgression.” 

“Almost,” Will mutters, biting his lip. “Stay here.” 

Will scurries off to their bedroom, abandoning Hannibal on the couch. He contemplates making up a lie so he doesn’t actually have to tell him what he did. No, he can’t. Hannibal would know, and this is something he must tell the truth about. This is vital. 

He passes the bureau where he’s been keeping the small origami heart Hannibal had made for him. His target is the bag hanging on the handle of their closet door. He digs into it and squeezes his fingers between the folds of his wallet, bringing out the picture of Mischa he had snagged. 

He tucks it into his shirt pocket, noticing the rapid fluttering of his own heartbeat as he does. 

Hannibal is either going to be extremely pissed or indifferent, that’s his guess. This is Mischa they’re talking about. The fact that Will had stolen her picture, not even knowing if Hannibal would care to have a picture of her, not knowing if he’d care that he’d taken the picture away from a younger version of himself –

Will is abruptly aware that he is overthinking things.

He winds his way through the halls of their house and returns to the living room to find Hannibal lithely chugging down the rest of his tea. He greets Will with a gentle, welcoming smile, and it suddenly seems alright. Easy.

“Okay,” Will sighs, plopping down in front of him. He watches Hannibal for a few moments, seeing no sign of agitation or doubt, and takes out the small picture of Mischa from his pocket. He hands it to him. “I took it for you, but if you want me to get rid of it and pretend it never happened, I can take care of that too.” 

Yell at me, hit me, if it helps. Will doesn’t say that much, knowing he’d sound foolish and Hannibal would call him such in response. 

The silence stretches on far too long, with Hannibal staring blankly at the photo. His lips are parted and he breathes steadily as Will watches him, waits. 

Will is forced to assume minutes have passed, just staring, with no response. He almost wants to begin rambling incoherently, just to see if Hannibal can be knocked out of the trance he’s in. 

All of a sudden, Hannibal’s breath hitches and Will can see the reflection of light in his glistening eyes. 

“Will – ”

“It’s okay,” Will says in a rush, reaching for the photo. “You don’t have to.” 

Hannibal’s fingers squeeze the photo tighter, and he looks up at Will with the most grateful expression he’s ever seen. Absent of pride and that cavalier nature of his. He swallows, and Will can see him physically restrain the tears from falling from his eyes. 

This is the reaction Will had expected when they’d traveled to Lithuania, and he thinks he understands why it’s happening now. 

While their trip had just been a stroll down memory lane, memories Hannibal knows well, he had never expected to have a picture of her in his own timeline. Proof that she did exist in her brilliance and childlike brightness. It is a relief, knowing how much Hannibal values this gift. 

“Guess I didn’t do something wrong then,” Will mutters with a bashful laugh. 

Hannibal shakes his head. “I do not know how you thought this would enrage me.” 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Your sister is a sensitive part of your past. You might have thought it was tarnishing the fine china, what I did. I’m glad I was wrong.”

“As always, you surprise me.” Hannibal’s voice is filled with oceans of love, and the kiss he draws Will in for is nothing short of pure infatuation. Will is more than happy to receive every ounce of devotion.

“I wasn’t even sure it was gonna work. I thought maybe I’d reach into my pocket when we got back and it’d be gone,” Will says. “A bit unnerving we can just pluck things from the past.” 

Hannibal hums in agreement.

“Perhaps, by taking, we are taunting fate. I’d suggest avoiding doing as such again in the future, though I am more than pleased to have this in my possession until the end of my days,” Hannibal says, leaning in to give Will a sloppy kiss. “How ever will I repay you?”

Will snickers when Hannibal’s mouth finds his neck, and he shirks back.

“You can do what I tell you for our trip tonight.” 

Hannibal watches him closely, slipping back against the couch cushions to listen.

“I have a somewhat unconventional fantasy. Something I’ve wondered about before,” Will explains. “If you’re game, of course.”

“Unconventional seems conventional when it comes to us.”

“That’s a fact,” Will admits, laughing sharply. “There is a possibility of failure in what I want you to do.” 

“Then I will strive against such possibility,” Hannibal asserts and Will shakes his head.

“There isn’t a fifty-fifty chance you’ll succeed. Barely even a ten percent chance if I’m being honest, but if you manage to succeed, I’ll be more than impressed.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Hannibal responds mildly, though there is an underlying tone of caution, one that is almost always present in any interactions where he is not in the know. 

“I want you to seduce me,” Will starts, gauging Hannibal’s reaction. “Seduce me when I was fixing boat motors in Louisiana.” 

There is a beat of silence before Hannibal’s face lights up. 

“Oh, Will. You know just how to challenge me.” 

“I’d bet my boat that you won’t be able to do it,” Will tells him, completely confident. There is a nagging in the back of his head that tells him the confidence reflected in Hannibal’s face isn’t something to take for granted.

“I won’t take your boat from you if I succeed, however shall there be a punishment of sorts? One of my choosing, naturally.”

“Yes, fine. Whatever you want,” Will huffs in frustration, picking at his nails. “And if you lose, we skip your turn on the next trip, how’s that?”

Hannibal’s smile doesn’t waver. “Not a bother, at all.” 

“Because you think you can do it, don’t you?” Will shakes his head in disbelief. “And I actually thought you might be a bit dicey about this, but you seem pretty sure of yourself.” 

“I’ve already chosen your punishment,” Hannibal murmurs with conviction, lips tickling the skin of Will’s knuckles before he kisses them. 

Will clutches onto his own confidence, fearful that if he lets go the game will already be over. Hannibal can’t possibly win. The younger version of himself would never fuck a man, let alone a snobbish rich guy who thinks he has some insight into Will’s existence. It should be over quick. 

“I assume the goal is to bed you,” Hannibal assesses. “Is that all?” 

“That should be sufficient,” Will replies with a smirk. 

“I am not sure you understand what you’ve signed up for. I can be very persuasive when I have my mind set on getting what I want.” 

“I have to go willingly,” Will points out, amused. “Just for the record.” 

“Of course,” Hannibal’s voice is smooth and undeterred. “And you will.” 

“You thought I was frigid when you met me? I had nothing going for me in Louisiana. By all accounts, I was depressed and only interested in drowning my sorrows in Heineken.” 

The gears in Hannibal’s brain are spinning rapidly, Will can see them moving behind his eyes. Ideas are pouring into that brilliant skull of his; if Will’s not careful, he might lose this.

He has to attack Hannibal’s ego, knock him down a few pegs. 

“Even if I were into men back then, you certainly wouldn’t have been my type.” 

Perhaps it cuts cold, but Hannibal can’t counter that it is anything other than God’s honest truth. Will didn’t think twice about Hannibal when he’d first met him in Jack’s office. Of course over time, his face and body started imprinting itself into his mind, unable to leave him be in the darkest of nights where he’d attempt to outrun his desires. But back in the early days? He was just a man in a suit, one which Will could never afford. 

It works, and Will feels a bit guilty.

Hannibal’s pout doesn’t last long, as he seems to get an idea. 

“Where are you going?” Will blurts out when Hannibal is suddenly halfway across the living room, taking long strides into the hall. He scrambles off the couch to follow him into the bedroom. 

Hannibal’s fingers are curled around the handle for Will’s shirt drawer. 

“And if I dressed like a fisherman?” 

A laugh startles out of Will, and he takes Hannibal’s hand away from the bureau. 

“Hey no, you gotta be yourself for this. Otherwise, there’s no point. That’s the game. You are Mr. Suit and Tie, and I am – was – Mr. Bucket Hat and Cargo pants.” 

“Damn.”

Will’s smile spreads wider. “I’m not sure if I’d even be more or less amenable to you in fishing wear, but I admire the innovation.” 

“You must give me at least thirty minutes to prepare,” Hannibal implores, jittery with anticipation. Will is not sure if it is because he thinks he can beat his game, or because he is excited to see Will at a much earlier point in his life. Either way, it’s somewhat endearing. 

“Yeah, go wild.” 

“I might have bought a disguise for myself. So, I can stick close by without me seeing. You need to promise not to laugh.” 

“Of course I won’t, Will.”

Will eyes Hannibal up and down, silently commending his choice of a black three piece suit, lined all over with white pinstripes. His tie is red, and he stands out like a fox in a pack of wolves. Without further preamble, he zips open the bag he’s been keeping hidden for days, and brings out a long haired, blond wig, and a blonde beard.

Hannibal’s nostrils flare and Will watches him purposefully purse his lips to avoid smiling too wide. 

“Oh fuck you.” 

“There is no problem with this disguise,” Hannibal says, unable to keep the amusement from his tone. “I promise you, it is a necessary precaution.” 

Will rolls his eyes. “I have pretty pronounced features, Hannibal. I don’t know how else to hide them. I used to have a very astute eye, I’d notice me walking into a bar in a minute.”

“We are going to a bar?” Hannibal asks, masking his repulsion with a blank expression. He rightfully insinuates it isn’t going to be one of the high end bars found in Operahouses, but a dingy pub only lonely-hearted people attract to. 

“You can’t tell me I’m overdressed,” Will mutters, gesturing to his disguise. 

Hannibal shrugs off the information easily, loosening the band of the watch around his wrist. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says primly. 

Will sighs and starts to shed his current clothes, preparing to sink into his new persona with relative ease. Wearing a wig and fake beard will be difficult, but the only consolation is that Hannibal won’t be looking at him for too long. He’ll be too focused on seducing the other version of him. 

Hannibal suppresses his grin when Will approaches him, adorned in his new outfit.

“Don’t forget I once promised you a reckoning,” Will murmurs darkly, slipping his arm into the watch. Hannibal doesn’t respond, just turns the knobs and gives him a knowing smile with a side of flashing sharp teeth. 

The bar is exactly what Hannibal expects. 

The two of them enter at different times to appear as if they are separate parties. When Hannibal enters, he is greeted with the overwhelming scent of gin, so strong he can taste it. 

The younger Will is glorious, basking in his youth at the bar with his head down and shoulders slumped. He is wearing an outfit from his work at the boatyard, obviously not dressing to please by any means. 

The other Will is off to the side, and he doesn’t waste a moment glancing at him. He will watch, and Hannibal will spend his focus on his goal.

White Christmas by Bing Crosby is echoing through the pub.

Hannibal sits down beside the younger Will. They are close enough that their shoulders are nearly touching. The rest of the seats at the bar are empty except for a middle aged blonde woman at the far end, nose barely an inch from the countertop.

She gets up to leave in thirty seconds, and they are left at the bar alone. The rest of the patrons are at booths, eating or lounging absently. 

Will glances at him once, just barely out of his peripheral. He does not give a greeting, or acknowledge him in any way other than this.

“Black Russian for me and this young man,” Hannibal tells the barkeep who doesn’t even check in with Will to see if he’s okay with that, he just nods and gets to work.

“Do I know you?” Will mutters, not looking up from his beer.

“Unfortunately not,” Hannibal replies smoothly. 

Will finally looks at him then, giving him a tired run over. He just barely suppresses an eye roll and grips his drink tighter. 

“What makes you think I need you to order me a drink?”

“You look like you need something stronger,” Hannibal admits, a shrug in his voice. “Though you do not look incapable of ordering for yourself, I assure you.” 

Will doesn’t respond, but a look of mediation crosses his blank forward stare. 

He doesn’t look incapable, no, but he looks young and naive, in a way that only Will could look. Hannibal knows it is due to the way Will has always looked a decade younger than he naturally is. Here especially, in his mid twenties, he reeks of grease lazily scrubbed off in the shower and his beard is just barely stubble, only somewhat hardening the soft features and glossy tone of his skin.

Hannibal can’t imagine Will never got propositioned by another man. He’s gorgeous, almost feminine in his bearings.

He narrowly avoids the urge to ask if Will comes here often and instead opts to come at this from a different angle. He has the fortunate upper hand in knowing Will quite well. 

“If I may be so bold, you don’t look like a man who should be living in Louisiana,” Hannibal tells him, with a wide knowing smile. Will’s shackles raise, instinctively offended even with his wordless agreement. He takes bait well, even now, it seems.

“Where do you think I belong, oh kind stranger?” Will asks with sarcasm, finally turning his body to face Hannibal, just enough to open himself for further conversation. 

“Across seas, on some secret mission for the government, using your guile against your targets. The enchantment of a courtesan wielded for fatal justice.”

Will’s eyes widen just a bit, taken aback. He probably expected some average joe pickup line, but Hannibal always aims for shock value, at least when it comes to grabbing Will’s attention.

“I can’t believe you just made calling me a prostitute into something resembling a compliment,” Will admits, warily amused. 

Hannibal’s cheeks rise. 

“I did not call you a prostitute, just that you have the potential for a chameleon-esque charm. I don’t see much of a future here for such aptitude. I can sense it from you, even forgiving your forts and defenses.” 

Will is trying to remain offended, but Hannibal has slipped in enough to intrigue him. He knows for a fact Will isn’t intrigued often, and he can’t help but prod for more.

Their server brings their drinks, and Will curls a hand around the dark liquid, not yet lifting it to his lips to take a sip. The silence stretches between them comfortably for a time.

“And what about you? Three piece suit, fancy cologne, I can practically sniff out the Harvard’s masters degree. What’s your excuse for being here. The bar and Louisiana?” 

“John Hopkins Medical School,” Hannibal corrects and Will purses his lips, feigning being impressed. “But, I work as a psychiatrist now. Left my surgical days behind me.” 

Will looks him up and down again, with a more analytical eye. 

“Psychiatrist. Explains the psychoanalyzing. Never been a fan of that.”

“As for my excuse, a business trip brings me to California. I try my best to drive whenever possible as I like to explore small businesses all around the states, mostly restaurants.”

“And bars,” Will supplies with humor.

“Yes, though,” Hannibal leans close to whisper, “I personally wouldn’t even qualify this as a saloon.” 

“Suppose not,” Will chuckles, turning back towards his drink with a frown. He is uncomfortable with the fact he is comfortable, Hannibal knows this expression quite well. “How long are you in town?” 

“Just tonight. I’m leaving in the morning.”

He’s giving Will the ‘no strings attached’ assurity. If Will decides to experiment with his sexuality tonight, there will be no repercussions whatsoever. It makes it easier to flirt, to get under his skin with whispered, scandalizing opportunities. 

“I do live here, despite your analyses. I fix, uh, boat motors down by the docks. Not as exciting as medical school, but I enjoy it.” 

“I used to collect boats,” Hannibal replies, pleased by the smile that graces Will’s face.

“No shit, how do you collect boats?”

“By buying them, of course.”

“No, that’s not – ” Will scoffs and ducks his head. “Hell, sorry, I haven’t caught your name.”

“Hannibal.”

“I’m Will. Hannibal, is that European or…” 

“Lithuanian,” Hannibal sips his own drink, swallowing hard. It isn’t his favorite, but he’d wanted something heavier for this conversation. He will make do.

“Damn, your life certainly seems to have perks,” Will mutters softly.

“I find my life most satisfying when I’m experiencing the little moments,” Hannibal responds, and it isn’t exactly wrong. He likes to live in the moment, that’s always been true. 

“Maybe I should be more impulsive.”

“You’re being impulsive now,” Hannibal observes. “Talking to me, being receptive. I can tell you don’t allow yourself moments like this often. How often do people approach you in bars?”

“I tend to ward off people the second I open my mouth,” Will murmurs. “You don’t seem to mind my being brash.” 

“Perhaps it is merely my destination, or perhaps I just like you.” 

“Why’d you start a conversation in the first place, though?” Will asks with a hint of skepticism in his voice. Surely, he understands the implications of approaching someone in a bar. 

“Why does anyone start conversations?” Hannibal shoots back gently. 

“Damn psychiatrists,” Will says under his breath, and it is as if he realizes he’s been allowing far too much eye contact, because his head jerks forward, and he tightens his grip on his drink.

“And if I told you your appearance caught my eye?” 

Might as well go for it, if he wants to win his Will’s little challenge. 

“Then I’d tell you you’re not the first and I doubt you’ll be the last.”

Not a complete rejection, but not an opening either. 

“You haven’t told me to take a hike, which I am choosing to run with,” Hannibal tells him casually. If he tries to speak entirely in nuance from the get go, Will might grow confused and his forts might become solidified. 

Will lets out a gruff noise. 

“Should I?” he turns to look at Hannibal again, a threatening glint in his eyes. 

“I would go if you asked, but I am enjoying your company.” 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Will mutters, the tension loosening from his body. He slumps, stirs the ice in his drink with a finger. Most bars don’t have table manners, Hannibal supposes, but if this were his own Will, he would chastise him. 

“Why do you come here then?” Hannibal prods. “If not to be approached?” 

Will falters at this. Hannibal refuses to believe he’s never been asked this question. 

“The vibe, the booze. Not every outing means I want a social call.”

“But, booze and music and atmosphere can be created in one’s own home, can it not? There must be other reasons you go into public, especially to this place.”

The bartender is glaring at Hannibal, and at first Hannibal thinks it is due to his continued verbal disapproval of his establishment, but at depth, he intuits there may be more to it than that.

“Maybe I do want company sometimes. I don’t know, I’m a man. Women come here sometimes, sometimes they talk to me,” Will explains with a shrug, but Hannibal can read his dissatisfaction as if it were written on his skin. 

“Though women don’t come here often it seems,” Hannibal surmises, glancing over the patrons scattered across the room. He sees an old man, perhaps homeless in the corner booth. He makes eye contact with his Will in his blond disguise. He does not look pleased, perhaps he’s sensing Hannibal gaining the upper hand. He doesn’t linger on him, glances at an obese women at a table across from Will, hair pulled up tight in a bun. She looks over sixty, at least. “I can’t imagine being satiated here often, myself.”

“This is the only place in town. I don’t wanna go far from home.”

Fear of sleepwalking? 

“Still,” Hannibal presses, and silently reigns in his victory when he sees Will flushed, neck pinker than before. He can smell the blood rising close to the surface of his skin, growing hot. 

“Did you expect to be satiated coming in here?” Will tosses back, abruptly bitter. “You probably came here for a quick drink, and saw a vulnerable opportunity, did you not?”

“And if I did?” 

“I’m not into men.”

“Neither am I,” which is mostly a lie, since Hannibal is the only one between them that has had a variety of homosexual experience. However, Will had not specified outright lies as against the rules of their game, so he doesn’t see why he can’t use his social skills to make this Will far more amenable. 

Will blinks at this, watching him carefully. Hannibal can tell he’s stretching out his empathy like long and intrusive arms, seeking the truth. Hannibal has always been formidable in this sense, Will unable to entirely understand him unless he spells out the truth for him in large bold print. 

He eventually sighs, “Huh.” 

Will looks as if he’s about to burst with confusion, running through possibilities in his head, not sure of what this man twice his age genuinely wants from him, so Hannibal tries to ease the way. 

“I told you, I enjoy road trips. I enjoy the distinct cultures in the places I stop in, the people. I’ve always tried different things whilst in new places. As they say, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” 

Will laughs, half baffled and half genuine amusement. 

“Is this what happens when you have too much money?” 

“I don’t know, what happens when you don’t have too much money? No opportunities to see if you’d be willing to challenge yourself?” Hannibal smirks flirtatiously. “Would you be the same man here as you would be in Vegas?”

Will huffs, cracking his back. 

“Louisiana is much different than Vegas.” 

“How do you know if you’ve never been?”

“How do you know I’ve never been?” Will asks, brows furrowing. 

Hannibal eyes his lips, drags his gaze down to his thighs, allows himself to really look. The only way this is going to work is if Hannibal eggs him on, challenges him. Tries to prove to Will he thinks of him as too chicken to bother with a one night stand with a man, too prudish. 

“I know,” he says, returning to Will’s eyes to see only irritation. 

They stare at each other until it starts to turn into a heated competition. Will keeps his eyes on him when he downs the rest of his drink. Alcohol has always made him pliable. 

“Hey,” a rough voice interrupts them, and Hannibal turns to see the bartender staring at him. His eyes are not kind, cruel even. “I don’t want your kind in my bar.”

At first, Hannibal doesn’t understand.

Will blinks, half turning to the man. He sighs and rubs his temples, as if physically lugging himself back to reality before he says in a quiet voice, “Jim, he’s fine. He’s with me.” 

The bartender glares back and forth between them, settles on Will.

“Kid, he’s a pervert. Tell him to get lost or I will.”

Will’s eyes darken, and Hannibal delights in seeing a glimpse of his darkness in its youthful stages. He inclines his head forward, closer to Jim.

“We were having a conversation. It isn’t your business.”

“You want to talk to this fag?” the bartender scoffs, drying a shot glass. 

Will stands, furious.

“That’s enough,” he says in a warning tone. “This is the last time I’m dealing with your horseshit, Jim. Get yourself a reality check.”

He slams a wad of money down atop the countertop and storms towards the front door. Jim huffs haughtily, picking up another glass to dry. 

Hannibal looks between the two of them, shocked at what had just transpired. It’s been a long time since a slur had been thrown at him. The last time he’d heard one had been spoken in French. 

“Hannibal,” Will calls, and for a moment Hannibal believes it is the Will of his present day, but he is still sitting quietly in the corner masked in his disguise, shooting him with an incredulous look. Hannibal would like to return it, but he doesn’t want this Will to notice another version of himself. 

He follows the younger outside, delighting at the fact he holds the door open for him.

Will runs his hands through his hair, staring up at the sunset. 

“Sorry, you wouldn’t have wanted to stay in there. I felt responsible for that. I let it get out of hand,” he mutters, uneasy with apologies as he’s always been.

“Things like this do not affect me,” Hannibal states the truth plainly. He glances back at the closed doors of the establishment, wondering if the other Will is going to wander out at one point. Follow them. 

“On some level they always do,” Will tells him and Hannibal can’t argue despite his overwhelming urge to do as such. The opinions of others rarely matter, after all.

They stand in silence for a few moments before Will clears his throat. 

“You can come have a drink at my place. My stock’s better than Jim’s anyhow.”

Will is averting his gaze, crossing his arms to appear indifferent. Hannibal isn’t sure if this is even a proposition, but it’s an opening, and he can work with that. 

“It seems only fair. He rudely interrupted our conversation.”

“That’s what we’re having right? Just conversations?” Will asks, perhaps convincing himself. 

Hannibal smirks deviously.

“Just conversations.” 

Will deems it safe to leave the bar fifteen minutes after Hannibal. 

Outside, he rips off his disguise and throws it in the trash bin. If only he had a match to set it aflame. He itches his beard frantically, pissed at himself for even bringing the damn thing in the first place. 

Hannibal isn’t outside. Neither is he, the other him. 

“Bastard invited himself over,” he surmises out loud and checks the sky.

There should be a bus coming to the station three blocks down the road, not long from now. He could take it to his apartment complex. He knows where he stashes a spare key. He could even break inside his own place, just to hear what it is they’re talking about. 

He hadn’t come here to lounge around Louisiana alone. 

Will had never planned for Hannibal to succeed in getting even one foot out the door with him. Something full of misplaced jealousy and agitation fills his gut, and he wants to punch a wall.

Instead, he makes quick work getting to the bus stop. 

On the ride over, he wonders why he’d never stopped going to the bar all those years ago. He knew Jim was an overly conservative jerk who sold cheap beer and smelled like nicotine. Would it really have taken a moment like the one that had just occurred to drive him out? 

He is mildly peeved Hannibal can insinuate himself into his life at any moment in time and still manage to maintain influence over him.

Despite the irritation clawing at him from the inside out, Will does enjoy the walk down memory lane. The closer he gets to his apartment complex, the more memories rise to the surface. His dad taking him fishing, his time in the boatyard earning low wage paychecks. All the women he never managed to score a night with at Jim’s bar. Not good times, but more relaxed times. 

No, relaxed isn’t the right word.

Safe, comfortable in its detachment, predictable. 

What he has with Hannibal now is relaxed. It’s easier than anything he’s ever experienced, despite ‘safe’ not being applicable in any sense. He prefers not to be able to predict Hannibal, just as he’s sure Hannibal prefers the same of him. 

When he reaches his apartment complex, he climbs the three flights and finds his key under the placemat below the door. The building still smells musty, like cat piss. He’d always hated that the most, even more than paying the rent. 

He lets himself in, and fumes when he hears what is happening.

Moans echo through the small apartment, and his old mattress creaks. 

How the hell did Hannibal manage it?

“Oh fuck, ” a younger version of his voice sounds, high-pitched and strained. The slapping noises increase. “You f-feel so good, how – ”

Hannibal cuts him off with a kiss, if the lip smacking noises are anything to go by. Will stands just before the front door with crossed arms and a growing temporary hatred of Hannibal. 

When the moans start to heighten, become louder, Will lets himself out.

He steps into the hall, shuts the door, and waits.

Even now, he can hear the faint thumping noises of the bed, of the fucking.  

What Will is feeling right now is almost entirely impossible to decipher, even to himself. There is a mixture of jealousy, that he can’t be the one experiencing sex with Hannibal for the first time again, that he can’t be the one having sex at all right now, that Hannibal is fucking someone else. But, even then he isn’t fucking someone else, and Will had incited this, which leads to his self-loathing. He shouldn’t have challenged Hannibal; Hannibal will always achieve his goals if he sets his mind to it, Will should have kept that in mind. He hates him for it, hates that this hasn’t worked in his favor. 

There is also a sliver of fear, with a tinge of excitement. 

Hannibal had promised punishment hadn’t he? 

He tries to imagine how Hannibal achieved this. Will was so firm in his sexuality, it had been a joke to him when men approached him for sex. He was sure it wouldn’t have been different for even an attractive rich man. He hadn’t heard most of the conversation in the bar because the music had been too damn loud, but he can imagine Hannibal relying mostly on the use of alcohol.

As he knows, Will is usually pliant with any type of booze in his system. 

Only if there’s enough of it. 

It doesn’t take long for the noises to cease. Ten minutes following this, Hannibal enters the hall, amused to see Will standing and waiting with an aggressively tapping foot.

“Here for the show?” he asks, shucking on his suit jacket. 

Will snarls. The man’s hair is groomed again, his cheeks barely tinged red. 

“This isn’t fair. I’m going to get you back.”

“For merely winning a game? I believe it is you who is owed punishment, my dear,” Hannibal murmurs, dragging him in for a heated kiss. It is so goddamn sick he can taste himself in Hannibal’s mouth. He shoves him away.

“How did you do it?” 

“What do you mean?” he asks innocently.

“How’d you invite yourself over and manage to fuck me consensually?” 

“You act as if it was a hardship,” Hannibal responds, voice even. He smooths his hair back, straightens his suit, and places a hand on Will’s lower back to lead him down the hall.

It wouldn’t do good for Will to find Hannibal talking to himself outside. 

Will rolls his eyes, grinds his teeth, tries not to focus too hard on the color red which is rapidly beginning to inflame behind closed eyes. He lets out a sigh, releasing most of his tension into the air as they descend the steps.

“ You invited me over,” Hannibal then clarifies, a smug look painted on his face. 

Will halts on the second floor, glaring at him.

“You’re lying,” he accuses, knowing he’s not. He can always tell now when Hannibal is lying. It is a technique he’d been forced to pick up since living with him. 

Hannibal stops a few steps down, turns toward him to gloat, even in his verbal placation 

“If it makes you feel better, I believe a lot of my luck tonight was due to circumstance, as much as your empathy.”

“And alcohol?” 

“Not enough to take advantage of you,” Hannibal assures, though he is mulishly sly. Will wants to punch him and kiss him in the same instance. 

After a moment, Will shakes his head in defeat, letting out an amused scoff. 

“Listen, you’re brilliant. I couldn’t manage that.” 

“To convince yourself to go to bed with you?” Hannibal jokes.

Will grows closer, loosening his grip on his ferocity. 

“No, I mean, manage to seduce some younger version of you. I don’t think I’d manage it quite as effortlessly, and you actually liked me from the get go.” 

“It was going to be my request to turn the tables for our next trip,” Hannibal admits doubtfully. “To see you manage to seduce me, back when it would have been unexpected.” 

“Hannibal, I don’t know if I can,” Will laughs, unsteady and finding it difficult to imagine himself in that position. “To approach you in some bar? You don’t even go to those places.”

“No, Will. I want the terms to be similar, not the same. To rile me during one of our therapy sessions, perhaps. When I least suspect it, when I am grasping onto some form of professional etiquette,” he suggests.

Will leads them outside while he considers. The night air is cool on his skin, and he can imagine it’s even cooler on Hannibal’s after what just transpired. 

“Is that even manageable?” he asks at last.

Hannibal nods. “I am certain it is, though I won’t pretend as if there won’t be challenge involved. I also will not pretend that you are incapable of seduction. I remember your sultry duplicity quite well.” 

Will blushes. “Yeah, I guess you do.”

“Isn’t it only fair, you do this for me after urging me to play this game?”

He strokes Will’s cheek, tipping his chin up so he is forced to make eye contact. 

“Yeah, yes, I’ll play…it’s your turn after all,” Will shivers, half from the cold, half for other reasons. “Is this my punishment?”

“Oh, darling, your punishment is something else entirely.” 

Will swallows, allows Hannibal to manhandle him close.

“Take me home, he whispers, hand snaking into the wristband of the watch. He doesn’t want to spend another minute in Louisiana, not another moment surrounded by the stench of stray cats and motor oil. This is his home no longer. 

Chapter Text

Hannibal fastens the leather cuffs to the headboard, tightens them so Will is incapable of slipping free. Will tugs on them, swallowing hard when he realizes he’s incapable of moving extensively. 

His ankles are tied to the bed posts at the foot of the bed, and he tugs on those too. His thighs tense from the strain and he settles with a deep sigh. There is no escape, Hannibal made sure of that. 

Hannibal is fully clothed, still in his suit from Louisiana. Will is completely naked and feels a flush of embarrassment from the contrast in outerwear. He wriggles under Hannibal’s complacent stare. With a huff of breath, he spits out his impatience. 

“Hey, I let you do this because you had free reign choosing the punishment, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you keep me here all day.”

Hannibal smirks, meeting his fiery glare.

“And if that were my punishment? To leave you here all day?”

“You’re not that boring,” Will conjectures, wrapping his fingers around the leather strap holding his wrists to the headboard. He pulls, and is rewarded only with the sound of wood creaking.

“I suppose I’m not,” Hannibal tells him, strolling casually to his wardrobe. He opens the bottom drawer, reaches far inside to bring out a slim black rod. A riding crop, Will acknowledges when he approaches him with it. 

“When did you have time to buy that?” Will asks in a small voice, tensing harshly when Hannibal ghosts the crop over his sternum, not quite touching him yet. 

The flat side is faced towards Will, prepared to strike at any moment. 

“I’ve been keeping this for a while, in wait for the right moment,” Hannibal says, hovering the crop over his knees, his flexing toes. “Though, it was not punishment I had in mind when I purchased the whip.” 

“But, today?” 

“Today, I’m afraid you must endure as much as I am willing to give you. If you’re obedient, perhaps this punishment doesn’t have to end with defunct gratification.” 

Will flinches when he presses the flat end of the riding crop on his stomach, drags the soft leather down his body, over the curve of his ass and his thigh, pointedly avoiding the half hard cock begging for attention in the center of his pelvis. He squirms as Hannibal slows the movements, dragging it up his leg, stopping just short of the sensitive space between his thighs and balls. 

“Christ, I’m never giving you this much leeway ever again,” Will breathes unsteadily, hips lifting up towards the touch of the crop without his permission, and Hannibal pulls it away, folding it behind his back as he circles the bed to the other side. Will strains his neck to keep him in view. 

“You may change your mind yet,” Hannibal says in a low voice, and abruptly there is a loud slapping smack, and his stomach burns. He jerks belatedly, not even realizing Hannibal had whipped him. He’d done it so quickly. 

This is going to be a nightmare.

It stings pleasantly, and Will assumes this feeling only applies to the first one. 

He huffs out a breath when Hannibal gives lighter taps to his pectorals. The crop is designed to bring a sharp sting, even with the most gentle of blows. He twitches as he brushes the flat end of it lightly over his nipples, smacks them hard just when he thinks he wouldn’t dare.  

“God, this sucks,” Will grumbles, eyes screwed shut. 

The anticipation is a killer. The burn that comes with the strikes spreads throughout his whole body, his nerve endings. His cock is more than receptive, but he wishes it wasn’t. He doesn’t want Hannibal to hold this over him. 

“I disagree,” Hannibal replies, turning the crop in a new angle, smacking one of his ass cheeks with it. He jolts up, hips lifting completely off the bed with a small whimper. 

Hannibal does it again, and he can’t stop jerking, pulling at the leather binding him. He feels like a moth laid out by a scientist, being prodded and poked at. Played with, with no regard for his dignity. 

His breaths are coming in quicker, faster when Hannibal draws the crop closer to his cock, stopping short of his balls and giving light taps to the inside of his thighs. 

He’s trembling now, from head to toe. 

“You’re being quite good, Will,” Hannibal tells him, a dark glint in his eyes. “Will you stay this way?” 

Will scowls at him, hands clenching into fists. 

Hannibal brushes the flat end of the crop over the shaft of his cock and Will’s eyes flutter shut, hips rocking up into the touch before he remembers the kind of pain this whip can inflict. 

His eyes shoot open with fear, not so gallant anymore. 

He nods, silently agreeing to remain obedient.

Hannibal’s smile stretches across his entire face, close-mouthed, entirely devilish. A part of Will wants to claw his way out of his binds and bite him until he bleeds, but a stronger part of Will is focused on the way the crop descends down his cock, caresses his balls with a light touch. He is so tense, he fears he’ll snap in half. 

Hannibal lifts the crop away, placing it on his inner thigh, dragging up.

Without warning, he lightly slaps his balls with the flat end.

“ Fuck, ” Will shouts, jerking so hard he hits his head on the headboard. He whimpers, residual pain rupturing through his body. He squeezes his thighs together as much as he can, but he’s so stretched, he can’t manage hiding any part of his body from Hannibal who taps against his balls again, lighter, but still with enough force to make Will groan. 

His cock is leaking onto his stomach, the traitor. 

Hannibal gives him a moment to heave in air, relax before he continues. He strokes the crop up and down his chest, over his quivering, sticky, stomach, then rubs it across the damp head of his cock. 

Will moans, lifting up into it, writhing against his restraints. 

“Are you through with your defiance?” Hannibal asks, continuing to rub. 

Will moans, lost in pleasure and nods, so starved for touch he can’t think straight. His balls still burn, but it is warmer now, no longer painful. It sends electric shocks up his cock every time he shifts, every time he clenches around nothing. 

“Good boy,” he whispers, and Will could come from his voice alone, given enough time, he knows he could. He wants to both kill Hannibal and be fucked by him right now. 

He circles to the foot of the bed, presses a hand flat between Will’s thighs so he can lean closer. He tips Will’s chin up with the crop, forcing eye contact. 

“I’m going to put my mouth on you, and if you make a noise, I’m going to whip you until your skin is red and then leave you here for an hour. If you don’t make a sound, you can come, and be released in time for dinner. Understand?”

Will isn’t going to survive. He can barely suppress the whine crawling up his throat. 

“ Understand? ” Hannibal demands, voice hard and loud. 

Will shivers and gives a jerky nod. Hannibal never raises his voice. 

Hannibal smiles crookedly, watching him with a shadowed gaze. He places the crop down horizontally between Will’s feet and begins undoing his tie, just enough not to choke as he bends down and laps at Will’s sore balls.

Will nearly blows it then, desperate he is to scream and howl at the burning drag of his tongue against them. He sucks in a breath and seals his lips shut, biting at the inside of both cheeks as Hannibal continues his torment.

Hannibal takes both of his balls into his mouth, rolls them around with a twirling tongue before he lets them fall from his lips. They are spit slick, the air of the room tortuously cool on the sensitive skin. Will writhes, bites his cheeks harder until he tastes blood, and continues biting down. 

He finally swipes his tongue up the shaft of his cock and sucks the head into his mouth. Will nearly moans, opting instead to focus all of his energy on thrusting his hips up, frantic. 

Hannibal holds him down with firm, long-fingered hands and he almost comes right then. It would be preferable, to come now instead of waiting to see if he goes against Hannibal’s rules. But, he can’t get there. Hannibal is purposefully going slow, languidly sucking and dragging his lips up and down his shaft, effortlessly deepthroating him. 

Will has to breathe, his nose isn’t taking in enough air, and he’s on the verge of hyperventilating. He parts his lips to let in a shaky breath. When he does, Hannibal sucks harder, focusing on flicking the tip of his tongue back and forth on the slit of his cock. His breath catches noisily in the back of his throat, and they meet each other’s gaze.

For a moment, Will thinks Hannibal is going to get up and leave and he watches him, waiting. Hannibal’s expression is blank, his eyes glazed over, and in another thirty seconds, he resumes his work, harder and faster.

Will fastens his mouth shut again, relief flooding him. 

It doesn’t take more than fifteen seconds after this. His neck is tensing with the strain of staying silent as his hips lift up off the bed. Hannibal’s nose buries into the hair at the base of his dick as he takes Will’s spend in, all of it, before swallowing.

He stands, on steady feet, and wipes his lips with the back of a hand.

Will blinks his eyes open, taking in deep breaths. He slumps against the sheets with a relieved smile. “Hell, that was something else.” 

“I think you’ve sufficiently received your punishment,” Hannibal tells him in a chipper voice, completely sated from the blowjob. He’s always happy when Will comes in his mouth. 

“We’re definitely keeping that,” Will mutters, exhaustedly gesturing to the crop when his right arm is free from the leather cuffs. 

Hannibal merely smiles, and continues untying him.

A week later finds Hannibal and Will at the dining table, sitting adjacent to each other, close enough to touch their toes together. They are eating cod, or the extravagant dish made from the cod Will had caught just yesterday.

They don’t speak of the next trip, knowing where Hannibal wants to go already.

The picture of Mischa is framed, placed atop of the rosewood wardrobe in their bedroom. Rather than place it on one of the dressers, it stands untouchable, but always present. It faces towards the window, staring out into the tropical fields and scope of Argentinian wildlife. 

A feeling of serenity fills Will whenever his eyes fall upon it. 

It feels like Hannibal crossing a new bridge, and it feels like family to Will, when he’s never felt anything similar to the concept before. 

After lunch is finished, Hannibal stands, clears the table, and returns to hold out a hand. Will takes it and allows himself to be helped to his feet, drawn into the living room towards the fire. These routines foment deja vu. 

“Shall we discuss logistics?” Hannibal asks, drawing him closer to the couch. They sit down together and he brushes a stray curl behind Will’s ear.

“Are we leaving now?” Will asks with a frown.

Hannibal shakes his head. “No, we’re in no rush. You may take a shower, or prepare however you like for however long you like. I would just like to understand the specifics.”

“Well, the decisions are technically left in your hands.”

“It may be my turn, but I always crave your input.”

Will circles his finger around Hannibal’s kneecap, more mesmerized with the feel of his silky trousers than anything else. Hannibal places a palm on his hand to halt his movements. 

Will sighs, “Well, I don’t think I’d have much of a chance in seducing you if we chose a normal therapy session. You’d know something was amiss, I was always at least somewhat predictable during those appointments.”

“Unless we’re speaking of the sessions after your incarceration.”

“Yeah, that’d be too easy. We should stick to brain-on-fire me, I can’t put my finger on when. Any time seems too difficult.” 

“Seducing you in Louisiana was difficult objectively,” Hannibal tells him, with the ghost of a smug grin crossing his features. “Don’t you prefer it to be, even steven, as you say?”

Will laughs, sinking back into the soft cushions. Hannibal follows suit, maintaining eye contact with him. Will brushes his knuckles up against the back of Hannibal’s hand, in thought. 

“I’m not you,” Will concedes. “I know you think of me as some succubus wrought from the darkest pits of hell, but I’m not. Especially back then, and if I act that way in front of the younger, more professional, version of you, you’re going to retreat into your person suit shell.”

Hannibal huffs in amusement, but doesn’t dispute the accusations.

“There was one night, where I was…tempted to assume that you had come to me for impure reasons, for reasons other than the ones you were claiming. Before your imprisonment, of course.”

Will blinks, stretches back in his memories and clings to nothing.

“What?”

Hannibal smiles, turns his body to face Will.

“Do you remember when you kissed Alana Bloom? You drove an hour in the snow to tell me about it. For what? Was it just for advice?”

Will blushes, blinks faster, picks at his nails mindlessly. They’ve never spoken of this. Will’s intentions had been pure. He hadn’t even thought about the implications of it until now, not even back when Hannibal had asked him of the motive for his actions. 

“I, it wasn’t, I didn’t – ” Will rubs a hand over his face. “Hannibal, you were the only one I trusted to talk to at the time. I just wanted to figure out what I was doing, I didn’t even know myself what I was doing back then.”

Hannibal smirks cruelly.

“A phone call could have worked.” 

“Listen, I’m not going to defend my questionable actions to the man who was trying to frame me for his colossal amount of crimes. I wasn’t there for any reasons other than…” Will can’t even grasp onto a cohesive explanation now, “ confusion. ”  

Hannibal dips his head closer to Will, who recoils. 

“I really have to go back to that moment?” he asks. 

Hannibal nods.

“I believe it would work most efficiently.” 

Will sighs, scratches his neck. “You know what, fine, if it’ll be easier on me that way. I have to dress like I used to dress, though.” 

“May I? I remember what you were wearing that night.” 

“Do you now,” Will comments skeptically. “Alright, fine. I’m going to go take a shower. I’ll see you after.” 

Hannibal is sitting on the bed beside a collection of clothes when Will steps in from the shower. He walks closer, with only a towel wrapped around his waist and hair still dripping.

“Holy shit, that actually looks like an outfit I used to own,” Will mutters, scrutinizing the details of the long sleeved shirt and black vest. It is almost too accurate, and he shoots an accusing glance in Hannibal’s direction.

“I may have taken a small trip to the past to hijack your closet. We don’t have anything here even closely resembling this woodlawn blue, or the dog-hair ridden vest.”

Will scoffs, keeping his eyes on Hannibal as he strokes a hand over the clothes.

“And what about tempting fate?”

“They are merely clothes,” Hannibal argues brightly. “Aren’t you going to put them on?”

“I don’t suppose you stole any of my underwear did you? Not even the boxers with the holes in them?” Will chuckles, crossing the room to his dresser. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

He waits for Will to slide on his simple black trousers, a bit tighter on his body now than they used to be, and then the thin cardigan that wants to be more green than blue, Will determines. Hannibal approaches him with the vest and helps him into it, unnecessarily. He runs his hands through Will’s hair, curling strands with his fingers. 

“You’re like my pimp,” Will mocks. “But, you’re pimping me out to yourself.”

Hannibal chuckles deep in his throat and clasps his hand around Will’s neck. He leans in to place a chaste kiss on his lips, and then his forehead.

“I am merely nostalgic for the time you held the appearance of an unkempt, shaky, fisherman who felt unstable in his own skin.”

“Unkempt,” Will grumbles, shrugging away.

“If only you’d used a hairbrush once,” Hannibal feigns disappointment, “I’d have thought it appropriate to invite you to the opera.”

“No you wouldn't,” Will tells him roughly. “You knew you’d have to drag me by my ears.”

“You would have said yes, wouldn’t you have?”

“I’d try to make up an excuse, but I’m sure you would have gotten what you wanted.” 

“Are you going to be able to get what you want?” Hannibal asks, running hands over the front of his vest and tugs on the material, roughing it up just enough. 

Will blows out air, “I think I can sink back into the doe-eyed role of my former self quite well. You won’t know what hit you.” 

Hannibal smirks, and Will frowns.

“Wait, where will you be?”

Hannibal’s eyes dart to the left as he processes this. He sucks in air from his nose, whole chest heaving with it when he manages to figure out a plan.

“I must distract the other Will from entering my home, unless you wanted to be interrupted by…yourself.”

“Oh, right,” Will murmurs, scratching his beard. “Didn’t think of that.”

“After I send him on his way, I know methods of stalking around my house. Corridors used by me and me alone. I will want to witness fragments of your design, at the very least.”

“Yeah, don’t take too long. I work fast.”

“I doubt it will take you long at all to seduce me,” Hannibal agrees. “Are you ready?”

“I’m nervous,” Will admits, but raises his arm up so Hannibal can wrap the watch around their wrists. “I don’t know why I’m nervous. I haven’t been this nervous before…any of them.”

Abigail’s doesn’t count.

“This is the first trip you are returning to a role. The trusting, trembling man on the verge of a seizure at any given moment in time. The man who kisses colleagues as a clutch for balance.” 

“The man who’s about to convince my therapist to sleep with me as a clutch for balance?” Will amends and Hannibal smiles, keeping his eyes on the numbers and tics of the watchface. 

Just when Will thinks they’re about to be on the streets of Baltimore, Hannibal’s eyes shoot open wide. He sighs, “How could I be this foolish?” 

He removes his wrist from the watch and disappears out the door of their bedroom before Will can even question the deliberation. 

Will’s eyes flick around the room in mild distress as he waits for him to return, and when he does, his confusion warps into something close to reproach. 

“Is that for my face?” Will murmurs, pointing to the foundation and concealer in Hannibal’s fist. Hannibal nods and gestures for Will to turn his scarred cheek towards him. 

“For the record, I hate this,” he tells him as Hannibal works hastily. He does not receive a response, just the feel of cool fingers against his shower-warm skin. When he’s finished, Hannibal places the makeup on his dresser, and hands Will a tiny hand-held mirror. 

“That actually looks pretty damn good.” 

“There is a possibility I will be able to smell the makeup on you, but I doubt I would ever bring up something as sensitive as cosmetics to another man.” 

“You won’t know me well enough to assume I’m wearing the makeup just for you?” Will jokes dryly, scooting closer to Hannibal so he can loop his fingers through the wristband. 

“It would baffle me if you were to have ever claimed such a thing.” 

“I think I’m about to baffle you a lot more than that,” Will says, heart pounding at the thought of managing to seduce Hannibal, the younger version. The version that had made him dessert and helped him to understand the reasoning behind why he kissed Alana. The man he fully and entirely trusted, once upon a time. 

“Ready, darling?” Hannibal asks, thumb on the red button. 

Will closes his eyes, and imagines himself in Baltimore. 

He imagines that his skin tingles with apprehension, that the cogs in his brain grind and spark, adding fuel to that ever growing fire in his temples. He tries to remember what it felt like to look Hannibal in the eyes and see a man, not a monster. When he opens his eyes, he nods and curls his fingers around Hannibal’s wrist to brace himself. 

Will rings the doorbell, and it takes a minute or two for Hannibal to answer. 

He grinds his teeth impatiently. He always used to harbor the absurd notion Hannibal was a constant presence just beyond the door, always at the ready to open it and invite awaited guests inside. 

He knows why Hannibal is tardy in answering.

It had been years after this incident Hannibal finally told Will who he’d actually been sharing dinner with. Not just a colleague, but Tobias. The man with an affinity for cat gut string imported from Italy, or perhaps no such affinity at all. 

When Hannibal answers, it is in a bluster, as he had not been expecting company. 

“I kissed Alana Bloom,” Will tells him awkwardly, rushing by him with his hands buried in his pockets. He hadn’t made the conscious decision to enter the last time he had done this, he just had. 

And the Oscar goes to!

“Well,” Hannibal echoes the words of last time, “Come in.” 

Will sighs when he’s inside. Rubs his hands together to pretend as if he’d been out in the cold for much longer than he actually had. His Hannibal is outside right now, waiting for the other Will to arrive so he can prevent him from entering the house. 

They have this all delicately choreographed.

The younger Hannibal closes the door, and Will gauges no suspicion from him. A good start, despite Will’s sloppy opening line. He needs to act more jumpy, more standoffish. 

Will keeps a distance of three feet between them as they pass the dining room.

“You have a guest,” Will observes the dinner plates and the glass door, ajar and leading out onto the snowy terrace. Snow is falling on the carpet. Hannibal closes this door as well, as anxiously red-handed as he can ever act, which means with intense deflection. 

“A colleague. You just missed him.”

“Didn’t finish his dinner,” Will muses absently. He’s surprised how much of this conversation he remembers. In a way, it feels like riding a bike. It is no hardship at all to waltz after Hannibal into the kitchen and accept the offered dessert. He takes the food with trusting hands, and he watches Hannibal with an innocent expression, naive and expecting assistance. 

It scratches an itch he didn’t even know he had. 

To let Hannibal take care of him, with as much ignorance that comes with bliss. 

After discussing the dessert for a moment, Hannibal turns to him from across the kitchen counter. They are separated by it. 

“Tell me, what was Alana’s reaction?” 

“She said she wouldn’t be good for me, and I wouldn’t be good for her,” Will responds.

“I don’t disagree,” Hannibal says. 

Of course you don’t, Will holds back the snarky comment. 

“She would feel an obligation to her field of study to observe you, and you would resent her for it,” Hannibal adds, drizzling liquid chocolate along the dessert plates. 

Will remembers his response being a disheartened, “I know,” as he had known. Alana was a beautiful woman who he’d been attracted to, but god knows what he would have done to her had they become a couple. Try to kill her the tenth time she decided to psychoanalyze him? He has a short temper, and an even shorter tolerance for those poking around in his head. She wouldn’t have survived him. 

He knows he should switch up their conversation now, it would be the smartest choice. 

“Would you?” 

Hannibal blinks, pauses in his garnishing for a moment before continuing undeterred, “However do you mean?” 

“If you were with someone like me, would you feel an obligation to your field of study to observe them? To observe me?” 

“Would you detest me for it?” Hannibal shoots back, and Will wants to scowl. 

Instead, he keeps his expression credulously open with thoughts and feelings ready to be plucked like molted feathers on a dying hen. 

“Wouldn’t you?” 

“I would say so,” Hannibal responds, pushing one of the plates closer to Will.

Will brushes his fingers along the rim of the plate, wondering what he could say to knock some of Hannibal’s defenses down. Just enough to slide in, shove his foot in the door and not let up until Hannibal finds himself amenable, to a sort of unorthodox balance clutching. 

“I’m wondering why you kissed her, and felt compelled to drive an hour in the snow to tell me about it,” Hannibal says then, and Will snaps his head up to make eye contact with him. 

Perhaps it is too intense a stare for the relationship they are supposed to be nursing, but Hannibal meets it with a mutual ferocity despite this. 

“She’s kissable, very kissable,” he tries not to wince at his own wording. It had been a poor excuse then, and a poor excuse now. “Wanted to kiss her since I met her.” 

“You waited a long time,” Hannibal provides. “Which suggests you were kissing her for a reason, in addition to wanting to.”

Will glances off toward the dining room, and wonders if the other Hannibal is finished placing enough obstacles in the other Will’s path, if he’s here in this house right now, overhearing everything. 

He swallows and says, “I drove an hour in the snow to tell you because you were the first thought that popped into my head after I’d done it.” 

It isn’t exactly true, but Hannibal had been the first thought in his mind after Alana had abandoned him in his living room. A second clutch for balance, a more platonically dependent one. He isn’t trying to signal Hannibal platonically in this instance. 

“Did you plan on telling me this as well, when you arrived?”

“I’m not sure. I wanted to see you,” Will offers quietly, pressing his lips together in a tight line and tucking his chin down toward his chest. 

Hannibal takes the bait beautifully. 

“Do you see me as a clutch for balance, Will? Just as you perhaps see Alana?”

Will eyes flicker up, the ghost of shock in his expression. He shifts on his two feet, pretending to feel confused and unsure of himself. 

“You give me clarity, when even she can’t. You deflected when I asked you if you would feel obligated to observe me for your field of study. But, I think you wouldn’t. You respect me too much.” 

Hannibal cocks his head, impressed. 

“I would feel obligated to observe you out of my own personal curiosity. Would that not be considered the same?” he asks, suddenly paused in his frenetic movements.

Will takes this moment to be the one to move, circling the counter like a predator. Hannibal sees him as a sheep right now, or a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He doesn’t understand yet that he is entirely wolf, through and through. Not a hair on his pelt is brighter than the darkest shade of blood. 

Hannibal watches him carefully, and Will acknowledges one of his hands is on a butcher’s knife. His palm is gently placed, inconspicuous to the untrained eye. Will knows the hairs on Hannibal’s neck are standing straight, that he is wracked with a professional’s caution. 

Will grows close enough that he could take a step and be chest to chest with him. 

“I feel unstable,” Will tells him quietly, bug-eyed with want and fear. Hannibal eats it up like an alcoholic who’s been deprived of drink. He watches him dazedly as Will continues. “I’ve been hearing things, I’m getting headaches. She was there, and she was the only thing I was sure was real.”

Hannibal’s hand moves away from the knife, fingers growing closer to Will’s on top of the counter, but he keeps his distance. Will knows all he needs is a nudge. 

“She was a clutch for balance, but it made me think about you. You’re more than that. I thought about how you’re the only person to me who is real. I’m not sure why, I’m not sure what it is about you, Hannibal. I feel flayed alive when I’m in your presence. It makes me want…”

Will reaches a hand between them, and Hannibal tenses. He places it in the center of Hannibal’s chest, feeling the light thump of his heart beat. 

“Will, I suggest you do not lean on your clutches when you feel unstable. In this vulnerable state, you may be unsure of what it is you need – ” 

“You’re not a clutch for balance,” Will grits out, hand tightening on the lapels of Hannibal’s suit jacket. “You’re the one who suggested that not me. You’re not a clutch, you’re my paddle. You’re what keeps me steady when the boat rocks. I want, I need, to feel steady.” 

Will drags his gaze up until he looks into Hannibal’s eyes and sees muted shock, buried in those normally confident irises. He has taken him by surprise, as he often does. He sees desire there as well, faint and in need of a growth spurt. The desire there is in its early stages. Hannibal does not yet understand the nature of his gravity to Will.

Knowing Hannibal won’t dare to presume anything, Will leans up on his toes, and kisses his jaw, dragging his lips across his jawline as he places another close to his ear. 

The tension in Hannibal’s body fades gradually as the gears in his head start to turn, open new doors, calculate which path to take with this new development, one that compliments his grand scheme. 

“Would it not be more unorthodox to kiss me, your therapist, than to kiss Alana, a psychiatric colleague?” 

Will fakes a frown, knowing this isn’t Hannibal attempting to deter him, but to draw him closer. His own subtle brand of reverse psychology. Will won’t bite the way he wants to be bitten. 

“It would be even more unorthodox of me to want to sleep with my therapist, wouldn’t it?” Will asks, blinking up at him, and traveling the hand on his chest down to his belt. “It’s a good thing we’re only having conversations.” 

“I believe this has surpassed conversation, Will,” Hannibal tells him with warning in his tone, giving him one last chance to step away untarnished. 

“Really? Because to me there seems to be nothing but chatter,” Will mutters, kissing down his neck, knowing he’s won when one of Hannibal’s hands grasps his hip. 

He tugs forward and covers Will’s lips with his own, smoothly pressing with his tongue, and kneading sensitive skin with his knuckles. Will melts, genuinely, into the touches. 

“Doctor Lecter,” Will breathes out, hamming up the desperation. 

Hannibal’s eyes darken, and he grips him by his elbows to push him back just enough to meet his eyes. He’s searching, and at first Will doesn’t know what for. 

Then he sees the hesitation, the near perfect mockery of concern etched into his features. He doesn’t want to take advantage of Will, he does, but he can’t allow it to appear that way. 

“Don’t be conventional,” Will bites out, pleading. 

Hannibal smirks then, grip on his arms tightening. 

“Tell me, Will, what is it you want?”

Will stares at him, swallows, and parts his lips slowly to reply, “I want you to take me upstairs. I want you to lay me down on your bed sheets and make me forget the noises, the scratching and howling from my chimney, this painful static buzzing around my temples…please take care of me.” 

Hannibal cocks his head, drawn in fundamentally to Will’s display of vulnerability. 

“To what extent?” 

“Don’t make me say – ” Will altercates, “Whatever you want, just don’t make me say it.” 

“You want to clutch me, not for balance no, but for direction. You want to stop thinking, and you want me to find your footing for you. I imagine it’s tiring, being you.”

Hannibal rubs a thumb over the beads of sweat on his forehead and he shudders, fluttering his eyes closed as he needily leans into the touch. Normally, he wouldn’t act so wanton and desperate, but at this point in his life, he would have been. Perhaps he hadn’t seen Hannibal in this way at the time, but hell knows what would have happened had Hannibal proposed a change in dynamic between them. With enough proof that Hannibal could be the solution to his night terrors and instability, it could have been enough to egg him onto such a path. 

“Direct me. Show me what you want, so I know what to want.” 

He’s begging Hannibal in all the ways this version of him used to desire. 

With innocence, with need for guidance, with his figurative virginity. 

Hannibal’s lashes droop as he takes him in. Nostrils flare as he takes in his scent as well. His fingers twitch on Will’s skin when he smells his arousal, and he surges into him with a harsh kiss. Expertly, he gropes under Will’s ass and hauls him up against his body so Will is forced to throw his legs and arms around him.

It shocks him, even though Hannibal has done this before. 

Not often, since the gunshot wound from Dolarhyde had permanently hindered his prior youthful agilities. Even then, he is still strong, but maybe not as strong as the man who is kissing him breathless, and effortlessly carrying him up the steps to his bedroom. 

He kicks the door open and drops him on the bed.

The bed looks exactly the same as it had years ago. Of course it does, it's the same room swarmed with dark colors, swallowing the dim light Hannibal flicks on. The curtains are closed, but Hannibal's skin seems to be glittering with moonbeams.

While he’s still bouncing, Will frantically tugs off his vest and reaches for the hem of his cardigan, but Hannibal removes it for him, falling to his knees to help Will with his belt and fly. He looks up at him before he tugs his pants down and takes in the sight of his bare legs. 

Will tries not to show his impatience, allowing Hannibal to take in the sight of him for the first time. Their actual first time had been similar, Hannibal mapping every part of his body before beginning any of the more sultry acts one comes to expect with sex.

Will makes an unsure noise, to help move things along. 

“Middle of the bed,” Hannibal orders. 

Will shimmies there, panting dramatically, acting more overwhelmed then he actually is. Right now, he’s more level-headed than he’s ever been. He wants to see what this would have been like, what it could have been like between them before…before everything. 

Hannibal undresses, just passing the edge of casual. 

He shucks off clothing down to his underwear, mirroring Will’s state of nudity, and then he climbs over him, kissing him down into the mattress. Hannibal is still Hannibal, so of course Will is turned on. He’s moaning, begging, tugging Hannibal closer. 

“It’s been so long,” Will murmurs, because at this point it had been. He hadn’t had sex since he’d gotten out of college. He’d certainly tried, but his personality usually rubbed women the wrong way. 

“Since you’ve felt stable or since you’ve had sex?” Hannibal asks, kissing down his neck, sucking at the salt in his clavicle dip. Will arches up, hugs his thighs around his hips. 

“Both,” he lies.

“I will remind you again, this isn’t an orthodox or healthy substitute for therapy,” Hannibal tells him, but Will can feel the cruel smirk against his skin.

“N – Not a substitute, an – ” Will’s breath catches in his throat when Hannibal scratches his teeth over a nipple, “an addition.” 

“An extension,” Hannibal allows, kissing down his belly. He nuzzles the soft hair there, scenting his way into the crook of his thigh, even through the barrier of his boxers.

“What are you going to do to me?” Will asks in a shaky voice.

Hannibal looks up from between his legs, crouching on his palms with his shoulders bared back. Like a wild animal, he thinks. The smile that accompanies the glance is certainly animal. 

“I thought you didn’t want it to be said,” he replies in an even tone.

“I didn’t want to say it, but, y – you can tell me.” 

Something dangerous glimmers in Hannibal's eyes and he slides Will’s boxers off without preamble, admiring his hard cock with a rapt gaze. Will shifts, maintaining the guise of softened self-consciousness and propriety.

“I want to make your thoughts stop, in a way Alana could never provide you.” 

“Okay,” Will whispers.

“Will you stay still for me?” Hannibal asks, moving to his bedside drawer. 

“Yes.”

Lube and condoms. Will barely suppresses the wince at the condom. The last time he’d worn one had been with Molly. It makes sense now; Hannibal and Will don’t know each other too well, and god knows where a grimy sleepwalking fisherman has been in his spare time. It still doesn’t appease him to see it tossed on the bed beside them. 

Hannibal grabs him by his thighs and tugs him roughly down the bed, closer to him, and that makes him promptly forget the condom. 

“You often have men in your bed?” Will asks as Hannibal diligently slicks up his fingers. Hannibal shoots him a curious look and shakes his head. 

“Women do often appreciate lubrication,” Hannibal tells him, humor in his eyes, and Will feels immensely foolish. 

“Right.”

“Don’t be mistaken,” Hannibal says in a low voice, looming closer. “I’ve done this many times before. I know what I’m doing. Do you?”

Will shouldn’t shiver with genuine arousal at such a comment. He’s had sex so often, with Hannibal himself, and yet a part of him feels as if he’s fallen out of that paradise dream and into the stark reality where Hannibal is still poking and prodding his brain, drawing his fears out of him in long deadly mechanical parts to create something corporeal. 

He wraps a slick hand around Will’s cock and he cries out.

Hannibal smiles, kisses his parted lips, and strokes him a few times just to hear him whimper and move his hips in little shocky motions. It isn’t fair he is unraveling him. Will had a handle on this not a moment before. But, he’s so hard. 

“I want you,” Will rambles, gripping at his shoulders, his forearms. “If you see the way you fill the spaces of a room, the way you talk, the way you look at me. Why do you look at me like you want to devour me?” 

He can make puns of his own it turns out, and Hannibal’s grin tells him he’s hit the mark perfectly. 

When he starts fingering him open, his eyes open wide, and he glances around the room to distract himself. The fire is building in his gut, and if he focuses on it, his skin will sear and his insides will burst. What he sees causes him to convulse. He makes eye contact with himself in the giant, three-paneled mirror that is angled towards the bed. 

He sees his lust coated gaze, his sweat sheen skin, and his tight grip around Hannibal. He looks like a man on fire, and clenches hard around Hannibal’s fingers in lieu of any other retaliation. 

“I think you are at your most beautiful, entirely bare. I’ve wondered about it before, you know. I’ve drawn iterations. The body of a sculpture, and the essence of an angel,” Hannibal whispers to him, pressing insistently against his prostate until he whines, squeezes his thighs around his hips. 

“What are you thinking?” he adds.

“I’m thinking too much still, I need, I need…” 

Will needs Hannibal to fuck him so he can stop making eye contact with the mirrored version of himself. So he can stop wondering when he stopped acting and started being. The picture in the mirror, it makes him want to scream and writhe and thrash. Instead, he merely grips Hannibal tighter. 

“I know what you need,” Hannibal mutters into his ear, dark and dominant. Will falls further into his submissive role, nodding and whining high as two fingers become three.

“You do, you always do.”

He’s breathing faster, closing his eyes to focus on the sensations. He pretends for a moment he’s at home in Argentina, with his Hannibal. With their history comfortably surrounding them like a heavy blanket. He opens his eyes to find a different Hannibal staring back, one that wants to bite and tear, with hands which yearn to mold clay and reshape him. 

He allows himself to be pressed against, held down, treated like someone not yet equal to Hannibal’s bright darkness. He isn’t, he’s clutching for balance, he’s clutching for his paddle. 

Little does he know, the paddle is riddled with splinters. 

“Oh god,” Will lets himself go entirely, allowing the persona to become him. “Please, please, christ Hannibal, make me forget.” 

Hannibal’s cockhead, slick and hard, is pressing against his hole, slipping in without resistance, and Will keens, barely even pretending it’s the first time he’s felt a cock in his ass. It feels new, fresh, and it revitalizes him. He tears at Hannibal’s skin with his nails, and stares at his reflection in the mirror. He sees someone new, and wonders if he’s letting the game go too far.

He’s already won. Why is allowing himself to get lost? 

“Your body is more welcoming than I ever could have imagined,” Hannibal says wistfully, pressing deeper, cradling him like a fragile object. 

Will knows he’s looser than what Hannibal expected due to the fact he has sex in this way very often. He probably expected him to be consummately tight, sucking him in with winces and pained whimpers. 

“Don’t be gentle,” he begs. “Doctor Lecter, please, don’t.” 

Hannibal nods, hair falling in front of his eyes as he thrusts in slow, but purposeful. When he deems Will ready, he starts slapping their hips together and Will lets himself be pounded up the bed, scratching and peeling at his skin, begging for more. 

“Oh!” he cries out, arching and his breaths shorten. “ There. ” 

“So responsive,” Hannibal mumbles, intoxicated by his wiles. “What are you thinking about now?”

Will can’t respond right away, as Hannibal’s cock is driving into him at a brutal pace. He’d be spitting out names of deities or curses, no in between. So he waits until Hannibal slows his pace. 

“Nothing, ah, nothing at all.” 

Hannibal slams into him harder, each time drawing out a shouting moan from Will’s lips. When Will makes eye contact with the writhing man in the mirror, he welcomes it. The man’s eyes are not dark, they are blue with fear and rapture. A budding rendition of himself.

He briefly wonders if he’s sweating off the makeup concealing his scar.

He gasps when Hannibal brushes up directly on the bulge of his prostate, and Hannibal takes advantage of his slack mouth to kiss him, pant against his mouth as he speaks.

The vibrations of the words on his lips make Will tremble.

“Did you really think Alana could give you this? That she wouldn’t watch your every movement and log it in a journal? Did you think anyone else could? That from the first day you met me, anyone else could be as interesting as I am to you?” 

Of course Hannibal would wait until Will is on the verge of orgasm before acting like a complete narcissist. Of course Will can’t argue, too desperate to come, and too willing to give Hannibal exactly what he wants.

“No one else can see, they do – don’t understand,” Will says, voice crackling into a breathy whine. “Oh fuck, you feel so good.” That’s the only truth he is completely sure of. 

He knows Hannibal wants to tell him that he’s the only one that can make Will feel implausibly good, but Hannibal also knows it is too early in their relationship, in their understanding of one another. 

Hannibal encircles his waist with his arms, draws his body closer so Will’s cock is rubbing against his stomach as he fucks him. Will’s hands find his ass, pushing him deeper, clawing at him for more. 

When he’s seconds from coming, he opens his eyes and finds a looming shadow that hadn’t been in the room before. He forces himself to look in the open closet, and finds another Hannibal there. For one shining moment, he fears his encephalitis has returned. That he’s seeing double, then he remembers himself. Remembers why he’s here. 

Hannibal, his version, is watching him darkly from his hiding place. 

He grins with teeth, and Will cries out, the pounding of the cock inside him too much to fight back against. He clamps down and comes all over his chest, and the other Hannibal’s chest. 

Hannibal merely gasps at the convulsions, thrusts a few more times before spending inside the condom. Will is heaving, sharp noises from the aftershocks dying down as Hannibal moves to dispose of the condom and find something to clean them up. 

Will looks back to the closet to find Hannibal gone. 

He doesn’t have the presence of mind to wonder about where he went. 

“I fear I may have taken advantage of your trust in me, and Jack’s trust in me that I keep you from wandering down the wrong path,” Hannibal explains to him, wiping his skin with a wet cloth. Will narrows his eyes at the cloth and at him. 

“I make my own choices.”

“You’re your own man, of course,” Hannibal agrees. “As am I, and under normal circumstances I would not have taken these proceedings so far.”

Will frowns, sits up, back and ass sore. 

“Regretting?” 

“No,” Hannibal says with soft assurance, a real smile appearing before he stands to retrieve his suit from the floor. “You are not a normal circumstance. I find I have trouble resisting you, and for that I do not regret our evening together. If you would like to remain the night, I would be more than agreeable.” 

“That’s alright, I need to get back to my dogs.”

Hannibal watches him, uncertain. 

“Will, I hesitate telling you this, as it borders on a violation of doctor-patient confidentiality,” he begins and Will remembers exactly where this is going. “A patient told me today he suspects a friend of his may be involved with the murder at the symphony.”

Gut string and bones jutting out of skin in the mimicry of an instrument seems so long ago, and yet so present all at once. The macabre music echoes shrill in his mind.

“Right, um,” Will looks around, feeling more naked than he’s ever felt. “Clothes?” 

Hannibal passes him his pants, underwear. Will struggles into them, sighing when he finds Hannibal’s gaze unrelenting. 

“I’m not regretting it either, if you’re wondering.” 

“I could smell the excitement on your skin,” Hannibal responds with amusement in his eyes. “I hadn’t been wondering, but I appreciate the confirmation.”

Will flushes. “Of course you did. I’ll, um, I’ll interview that guy.”

“I’ll have to tell you who he is first,” Hannibal replies with a tinge of suspicion.

“Right, who is he?”

“He owns a music store in Baltimore. Tobias Budge.” 

“Thanks,” Will grumbles, forcing his legs which feel like jelly to move to the rug. He reaches for his shirt and vest, and shrugs them back on. They smell like the dogs still. 

Hannibal is fully dressed now as well, not in his entire three piece suit, but with pants and a long-sleeved button-up. They look at each other for a moment and Hannibal registers there is something off. Something perhaps he should have noticed before they slept together. 

“Will, are you wearing makeup?”

Fuck. 

“I – ” Will’s eyes dart around the room. “A little, I was breaking out this week.” 

Hannibal steps closer and he considers running. He stays still, just as a deer stands in the middle of the road as the trucks rush forward, an oncoming peril. Hannibal sits, and cinches his jaw with two fingers. 

He turns cold when Hannibal rubs a thumb over his cheek. Foundation comes off, along with a shimmery film of sweat. Will swallows, clenches his jaw, and prepares for absolutely anything as Hannibal takes in the scar with beady pupils and a red glare.  

“I believe it is time we take our leave,” Hannibal says, and Will blinks. Hannibal hadn’t moved his mouth. Hannibal turns and Will follows his gaze to see his Hannibal back in the doorway of the closet. 

“What are you doing?” Will hisses, before he can think better of it. 

The other Hannibal looks between them, lips parted and eyes round with confusion. 

“Will come here,” the Hannibal standing beckons with an open hand. Will obeys, without a second thought. The Hannibal sitting watches, trying to fit this situation into a logical answer. “Don’t busy yourself with tiresome speculations,” Hannibal tells himself. 

“You’re not my Will,” the Hannibal far from him concludes darkly, but his eyes are somber, a deep reflection of betrayal. The worst part is Will actually feels guilty. 

“No,” he replies. “I’m not.” 

Hannibal wastes no time in placing the watch around their wrists, and Will wants to tell him to stop, to explain to the other one what had just happened. He feels terrible, hollowed out. He wants some clarity to be dawned upon the other man. He doesn’t know why, but he feels he deserves as much. 

The other Hannibal finally stands, and Will’s Hannibal makes eye contact with him, glaring in warning. 

“I suggest you don’t take another step.”

Will stares at the floor, trying to disappear into his mind. It doesn’t work as well as it used to. The stream isn’t as readily available as it once was when his brain had been on fire. 

Hannibal thumbs the red button and Will grabs his wrist.

“Wait a moment.”

“Will – ”

“Just one thing, okay?”

Hannibal keeps his thumb on the button, but bows his head in acquiescence. Will turns to the Hannibal who had just been thrusting inside of him only ten minutes ago and smiles weakly at the defeated look in his eyes. It is rare to see, even now. 

“I’m going to find out about you, and I think you know that. I think you can also tell, it doesn’t seem to bother me. Your chosen behaviors and way of thinking. Keep that in mind, when you try to change me.”

The younger Hannibal responds with a cock of the head, and furrowed brows. He’s imploring Will for more information, without rudely demanding it. 

A part of Will would love to sit down and talk to him, tell him all about their history. It would surely be interesting, but the room is already fading.

Their living room is shifting back into his vision. Like waking up, and opening your sticky fogged up eyes to the morning. They are abruptly back in Argentina, and Will is staring at empty bodiless space, nausea settling deeply inside his stomach as he readjusts. 

Chapter Text

Will moves to sit down, the armchair the closest thing his shaking hands can clasp. The nausea rolls through him in waves, and it is not merely from the abrupt change in scenery, but the whiplash that came with tearing himself out of that role.

“You interrupted, we never agreed on that,” Will parleys softly, with no accusation in his tone. “Why did you do that, Hannibal? It’s not jealousy. You have restraint for such indispositions.”

Hannibal doesn’t take the time to sit. He paces gradually back and forth, not moving far from the spot they had returned. His thumbs are hidden in his pockets.

“It couldn’t have been about self-preservation, it couldn’t. You knew I could have talked myself out of that situation. You knew even when you interrupted, so where does that leave us?” 

Hannibal pauses in his movements, feet now planted to the floor, perfectly paralleled to one another as he watches on, seeing if Will can manage to crack the code.

“You could feel it, you could feel the way I was adapting to that version of you. You knew I felt weak, afraid. You didn’t want to erase my fear, no you’ve never encouraged anything less than a flat-out embrace of my fear, but you were afraid weren’t you, Hannibal?”

Confidence roots itself in Will’s voice, and he looks up at him in triumph, eyes blazing. 

Hannibal stares back, peeved. His jaw twitches once. 

There is no reason to rattle the bars and demand Will reword his justification. Hannibal no longer skirts truths and dismantles the honesty drudged up in their relationship. Will is far too clever for that, and Hannibal’s dignity too important to moor. 

Will is usually right about these things. 

“You’re too talented for your own good, Will,” Hannibal forfeits, and Will knows he isn’t just referring to his deduction, but the way in which he’d so easily slipped into the shows of another persona. So easily that he’d lost himself in it.

“You didn’t think I’d change, did you?” 

Hannibal shakes his head. “I didn’t think that.”

“Perhaps you thought that given enough time in that role, some of the habits would stick.” 

“Perhaps,” Hannibal whispers distantly, but there’s something more.

“A sticky situation indeed,” Will pokes wryly, and Hannibal glares.

“Will, enough.” Will snaps his mouth shut indignantly. He waits until Hannibal uncrosses  his arms and settles down in front of the armchair, his knees settling against the soft rug. “I detested the way I felt, seeing you in that role.”

Will frowns, trying to catch his gaze in his own, but Hannibal expertly averts his eyes. 

“Seeing you like that, made me feel like the man who was taking you.” 

“You,” Will clarifies dumbly. Hannibal nods.

“I felt little disregard for your discomfort. I felt that urge to hurt you, not with my hands or a riding crop,” Hannibal lips upturn only fractionally at the latter before continuing, “but I felt the need to rip apart your mind, create caverns and fill them to the brim with blood.” 

Will should be fearful, should be angry even, but instead he breathes in, deeply. He breathes out after, allows his body to release tension he had been harnessing like a pistol before they’d returned home. 

“I think too many years inside my head has given you a bit of a knack for my empathy,” Will tells him. 

Hannibal inclines his head, curious. 

Will elaborates. “Do you feel that way now? The way you just described?”

Hannibal shakes his head.

“You were channeling that version of yourself, the way I was channeling that version of me through the memories I’d been resurfacing steadily in my mind. You had the advantage of being able to watch yourself, watch yourself in new ways, watch outcomes you would have never thought to have for yourself at the time. You wanted to experience them physically, wanted to know what it was like, because it shocks you that another person, even yourself, could have an experience taking me apart that you’ve never been privy to.” 

Hannibal sighs, huffs out a silent laugh and presses his forehead against the arm of the chair. It makes sense, and it even calms Will nerves when he restates it quietly again in his own head. 

“You don’t want to change me anymore, Hannibal. There’s nothing left to change.” 

Will tangles his left hand in Hannibal’s hair, and draws him up so he can look him in the eyes. There is stark relief, clarity at the answers Will had spoken into existence.

“Therapy suits you,” Hannibal teases, “Doctor Graham.” 

Will grimaces dramatically, dropping his hand from Hannibal’s hair. 

They gaze at each other for a moment longer, and Will smiles soberly. 

“I was fearful too, in the act. I felt like I’d lost myself for a moment there. When I saw you standing in the closet, I thought you were a hallucination. I thought my brain was on fire.” 

Hannibal frowns, eyes glazing over. 

“There may be mental repercussions to taking continuous trips to the past, especially in roleplaying our memories out in diverging fashions. The long-term effect on our episodic memories may be fracturing, the more we indulge in these recreations. While we are not affecting the future, we may very well be creating hiccups, if you will, in our recollections.”

“Hiccups in the hippocampus,” Will jokes, trying to lighten the mood. 

Hannibal’s cheeks rise, but Will can tell he wants a serious response.

“You and me have had our fun. Do you want to stop?”

Will doesn’t want to stop, but it won’t be the worst thing in the world if Hannibal wants to. It feels akin to an addiction, but it’s not as if he’ll go through withdrawals without access to the past. It is fun, the most fun he’s ever had in his life, and he’d hoped Hannibal felt the same. 

“I don’t,” Hannibal responds, and Will gives him a shaky, alleviating smile. 

“I do think we should, at some point, however,” he adds.

“You’re the doctor, not me. You can call time, whenever you see fit.” 

Hannibal lifts Will’s knuckles to his lips and kisses them chastely. 

“I have a couple more moments in time I would care to experience with you,” Hannibal explains in a low voice. “Though I suspect, after our ideas run thin, it may be an ideal time to stop.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Will murmurs, focused on the pressure of Hannibal holding his hand, the sensation of his thumb rubbing up against his fingers. 

They bask in the quiet for a while, then Will kisses his forehead and gestures for him to move out of the way. “Sit on the couch,” he urges by his ear as he stands and moves toward the kitchen, “I’ll be right back.” 

Will returns to the living room with two wine glasses, drink as red as blood in each of them. He hands the glass with lesser alcohol to Hannibal and takes a sip of his own before placing it down on the coffee table. 

Hannibal elatedly sniffs the wine and grins.

“Barbera d’Alba. I believe you were the one who convinced me to import this from the U.S, rather than Italy.” 

“Who else?” Will asks, still standing over him. “You remember how Alana found you last time.” 

“I do, and I’m sure any wine poured by your hand is more satisfactory than any desired imports could provide me without the gesture .”

“You’ll make anything into a compliment. Don’t spill any,” Will warns, and Hannibal quirks a brow up at him, puzzled. 

That is, until Will drops to his knees, and slides his fingers up Hannibal’s pant legs. Hannibal’s grip tightens dangerously on his glass and he harnesses Will by the hair, hard enough to force a stop to his advances. 

“Will, what are you doing?” he asks with a playful sparkle in his eyes.

“You needn’t pay me any mind,” Will tosses back, moving his hands closer to his fly despite the not so playful tightening of Hannibal’s fingers in his hair. “Enjoy your wine.” 

“Will,” he warns, but makes no move to stand or put his drink down.

Will leans forward and with his teeth, he drags the zipper of Hannibal’s trousers down. From here, he can smell the heady arousal forming languidly. 

“You didn’t get to have any fun in Baltimore,” Will explains, nuzzles against his clothed erection, before using his fingers to draw his half-hard cock out of his briefs. He bites his lip, before pressing his tongue flat to the base, drawing a fist up the shaft as he moves to the tip with his tongue, taut and pointed. 

Hannibal has given in completely, keeping a firm hold on his glass of wine as Will bobs his head. He lets go of his cock with hands to slide nearly the whole thing in his mouth. Hannibal breathes fast, hand in his hair going soft. 

This goes on for a few moments until Will draws his lips up to surround only the head, wrapping a fist around the base. He looks up when he sucks, wagging his brows at Hannibal’s wine, still untouched. 

Hannibal watches him with dark understanding, then approximates the glass to his lips, and takes a long and calculated sip. He continues watching Will through the gesture, mesmerized. 

Will’s eyes flutter closed, and he groans around his length. 

He picks up the pace, bobbing faster, sucking harder. The taste of Hannibal is driving him crazy, and feeling him harden inside his mouth is something he wants to drag out.

“Will,” his name comes again, but the warning comes far more strained than before. It’s encouragement to Will’s ears, and he works harder, moaning and gripping Hannibal’s thighs with his nails. He wants him to come in his mouth. 

A shattering sound pierces his ears, and he stumbles back, Hannibal’s cock slipping free from his lips. It plops red and heavy on Hannibal’s stomach. 

Will looks to see wine drenching the couch, glass scattered like sparkling snow across Hannibal’s lap. 

At first he doesn’t see the blood, nearly the same color as the wine. It drips from a wound in Hannibal’s hand, and his eyes travel up to see a large glass shard jutting from the center of his palm. 

“Oh,” Will mutters helplessly, “Oh, shit what did I do?” 

Hannibal is tucking himself back into his trousers, still achingly hard, but too dignified to allow his cock to remain out in a non-sexual predicament. 

“I believe this is my fault,” he protests calmly, extending his arm away from his body. The muscles in his wrist twitch with the effort to keep the puncturing offense up in the air. He doesn’t want to jostle it.

Will leans forward, fingers skidding over the wine stains in the beige couch. They’ll most likely need a new one, and he assumes Hannibal is more enraged about that than anything else. 

A nervous laugh stumbles out of him, and he covers his own mouth in shame. Hannibal glares and he bites his tongue so he can’t laugh again. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles when he pulls himself together. “Seriously, I wasn’t thinking when I told you to hold that. I didn’t think you’d break it.” 

“Neither did I,” Hannibal answers dryly. 

Will smiles sympathetically. 

“How do I help you out?” 

“First aid kit in the hall closet.” 

Will rushes off, bouncing on his heels as he goes. Hannibal won’t die, and he’s not nervous, but there is still a weight of guilt that comes with harming him unintentionally. If he were to harm him, he’d want to be entirely aware of what he was doing. 

That’s how they work.

He comes back with the kit and Hannibal has scooted forward on the couch, with his arm still risen over the wine stain. He’s fine with the blood dripping into the mess there, as long as none of it makes it to the rug. The couch is a lost cause, but nothing else has to be.

“Please tell me you don’t need stitches.”

“The glass did not go so deep. Would you care to pull it out?” 

Will shimmies closer, on his knees. “Are you sure?” he asks, reaching for the hand anyway. Hannibal keeps still with a hand on Will’s back as he nods. 

Without preamble, he tugs the glass shard free from the clutch of Hannibal’s skin. The skin is frayed on the edges, a small scar if it becomes one. Hannibal sighs as blood gushes a new rivulet from the wound. 

“There is a saline solution in the kit. Apply it to the wound.” 

Will licks his lips and does as he’s told. He can still taste Hannibal there. The guilt grows solid in his stomach and his arms feel heavy as he moves to work, pressing a wet rag against the wound, cleaning and disinfecting it. 

“Yeah, I’m starting to feel real bad about this now,” he admits awkwardly, reaching for bandages. He begins wrapping the wound, and looks to Hannibal only to discover amusement in his eyes. 

“Must I reiterate that this was my doing?” Hannibal asks. 

Will sighs and finishes with the bandages. He kisses the palm of his hand, and looks at the glass scattered across the couch. 

“Stay still?” Will asks, beginning to pluck the glass shards off Hannibal’s lap and the couch cushions, Hannibal grabs his wrists.

“You’ll injure yourself.” 

“Not if I’m careful. Stay still,” Will repeats firmly, and places the glass pieces down on the edge of the coffee table, to sweep into the trash bin later. When he’s finished, he helps Hannibal to his feet and kisses his lips apologetically, tasting wine. 

“I’ve been hoping to go furniture shopping anyhow,” Hannibal murmurs. His eyes are closed when he presses his forehead against Will’s. “You will come with me.”

“Yeah, I owe you that much,” Will laughs, butting him with his forehead softly. “God, I can’t believe you crushed that glass with your hand.”

Hannibal hums and kisses his neck. He toys with his vest. 

“I’m fairly certain I could bend a crowbar when your mouth is on me.” 

Will smirks, slips his hands under Hannibal’s shirt. When he feels him shudder minutely, he licks a stripe from the base of his neck up to his bottom lip. Hannibal’s eyes fix on his own, dark and offering. 

“You’re going to tell me it’s not my fault, but I’d really feel oh so much better if I were paying my dues right now,” Will tells him, tugging him closer. His smirk grows wider. 

Hannibal nearly rolls his eyes, but nods. 

Will reaches up to suck on his bottom lip while simultaneously reaching for his cock. Hannibal places a gentle hand on his frenzied fingers. 

“Bedroom, my love.” 

The next evening, Will is signing a document for a pair of movers. They’ve come to take the couch away, to make new room for whichever monstrously expensive couch they decide to replace it with.

After they take their leave, the living room is strangely barren. 

The rug across from the coffee table and armchair is a wide open expanse of space, flat and comfortable when Will spreads himself out, face up to the ceiling. 

He stretches his limbs, drags his nails through the rug to hear the scratchy noise that erupts and startles when a shadow crosses over his body. 

“What are you doing?” Hannibal asks him patiently. He’s holding his hands behind his back, standing directly next to Will as he watches him flounder around the ground like a child. 

“Making snow angels,” he harps, heaving a sigh. “Trying to fill space.”

“It does look quite empty in here, doesn’t it?” Hannibal concedes. 

“I like clutter. I like my rooms filled,” Will murmurs, shimmying around just to feel how much open space he is allowed. The coffee table seems far away, and even Hannibal is too far in the sky. Like a beanstalk. Will ponders if he’d be rewarded with gold if he climbs to the top. 

Hannibal tilts his head, trying to make their eye contact level. 

Will smirks. 

“We don’t have to get a couch. We could get a bear rug.”

“And what would we do with a bear rug?” Hannibal asks with humor, an indulging smile playing on his lips. 

“Sit on it, like beasts sit atop thrones made of bones,” Will says, staring up at the ivory ceiling. He squints, and tries to see shapes in the shadows created by the swirling fan. “We could fuck.” 

Hannibal sighs and moves slowly, folding his legs under him as he sits by Will’s side. He strokes a hand through Will’s hair, watching him with reverence. 

“I can’t have you besmirching all of the new furniture,” Hannibal says finally.

Will huffs. “I thought you agreed the couch incident was your fault.” 

“I did. However, you are guilty of prompting these incidents.”

Will grasps Hannibal’s wrist, halting the movement of the fingers in his hair. He tugs until Hannibal is halfway over him, and kisses him firmly. Hannibal opens up to his probing tongue instantly, slotting himself further over his body. Just as he settles, Will grips a hand in his hair, and digs the other into his hip, flipping him over so he’s the one underneath. 

Hannibal startles, only for a moment, relaxing into the role of submission easily. It had taken a while for Will to harness this power, and even longer for Hannibal to fully accept it with every ounce of sincerity in his body. 

He leans up for a kiss, but Will grabs him by the waist and flips only him around so his face is pressing up against the rug. He can’t move, there is a hand in his hair pressing him hard to the floor, and his cheek burns as the rug continues to chafe his skin.

Will’s half hard cock is pressed against his ass, holding him down. The other hand is holding Hannibal’s wrist to the rug as well, the same burn there matching his cheek. 

It is perfect. Hannibal sighs. 

“If I fucked you right now, you’d replace the whole rug wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t complain, you’d do it. You’d let me force you.” 

Hannibal grimaces at the language more than anything else. 

While readily submissive in every physical sense, he still hasn’t completely gotten used to the way he is supposed to verbally respond. It delights him to hear Will’s demands and words. More than Will knows, but the responses do not come easy. 

“Yes,” he mutters, and he can sense Will’s delight at the defeat in his voice. 

Will sniffs his neck, licks the crown of his ear and suddenly releases every hold he harbors over his body. Cautiously, Hannibal turns his head a fraction to see Will’s gentile smile. 

“Perhaps another time,” he suggests simply, standing to his feet. He helps Hannibal up, but retreats from his side the second he regains balance. 

Hannibal follows him into the kitchen, like a man possessed. Will is another creature entirely, one who wields his power wisely, and knows the ideal time to strike. Knows the ideal moment to reject, manipulatively abate an escalating situation.

And he does it with a sly smile and silvery, innocent eyes. 

It makes Hannibal livid.  

“I know you’ve been waiting,” Will says, not bothering to turn and take in Hannibal’s presence at the archway of the kitchen. He sweeps across the room, moving gracefully to craft a dirty Shirley Temple for himself. “I want to tell you what I’d like us to do.”

Hannibal watches him reach for another glass in one of the cabinets.

“Would you like one?” he asks.

Hannibal shakes his head, and Will closes the cabinet instead, swirling his drink together with a wooden toothpick, three cherries speared into it. 

“We are still on for tonight are we not?” Will asks, catching his gaze. 

The arousal clouding Hannibal’s mind finally begins to dissipate and he takes in a deep breath before nodding and replying, “Yes. I will oblige your vision for the rest of the night, dear Will.” 

Will takes a long sip of his drink, eyes continuing to burrow into Hannibal’s gaze.

“I think mutual satisfaction can be had tonight, if we play our cards right.” 

“Oh?” Hannibal’s eyes lock onto Will’s white-knuckled grip around his drink. For a moment, he thinks they’ll be experiencing a repeat of the couch incident, but Will puts it down and grows closer to him. 

“I want to kill Jack.” 

Kissing interrupts quite a bit of the conversation, but they manage to pull away from one another long enough for specifics. 

Will wants to kill Jack. He wants to do it with Hannibal.

They can’t kill Jack in this timeline. The man is searching for them even now, high and low. While he does not have the advantage of the FBI on his side, he has unscrupulous connections. He could easily figure out a way to knock down their door guns blazing if he had any inkling of their whereabouts, and he remains perched in the United States, a place neither of them can ever return.

However, this device of theirs, this miracle of time travel, is giving them a once in a lifetime chance to fulfill their desires. Without consequence, without ramifications, with free reign. Will doesn’t have to fear for the feeling of guilt to return to him when he looks in Jack’s eyes and watches the life drain from them. 

It won’t be real, it will be fantasy.  

The fantasy Will has thought about often, but never considered he’d have the chance to bask in the glory of. With Hannibal, nonetheless. 

“When?” Hannibal asks in a whisper, hand clutching Will’s cheek as he pulls him in for another kiss, and another. Will loses himself in them, runs his tongue along the back of his teeth. 

“Tonight,” he chuckles. 

“No, when, when in the past,” Hannibal clarifies, voice completely free of jibe. He kisses the corner of Will’s frown, drags his swollen lips through the beard forming along his jaw. 

“Ah,” Will sighs, tugging Hannibal closer. “Before that night in the kitchen. Before you gave me this.” He moves Hannibal’s free hand to the scar on his abdomen. 

“When Jack believed wholeheartedly I was working for him. When he had no clue that I was falling…” Will averts his gaze. “That I was willing to run away with you.”  

Hannibal doesn’t call out the correction, he just kisses Will again, eliminating any remaining space between them. 

“Anything,” he murmurs between kisses, “anything you desire, I’m yours.”

“Stop that,” Will whispers, shuddering. “We’re not going to get anything done tonight if we keep getting distracted.” 

“This is the one time I will allow the blame to fall unto you,” Hannibal tells him, taking a step back. His glare is dark, and Will relents. 

“I know, I’m sorry. I think, uh, I think maybe a day or two before Freddie Lounds’ funeral,” he explains, not daring to look Hannibal in the eyes as he suggests this. His betrayal cuts him deeper than it does Hannibal. When he looks upon that time in his life, he remembers the cold sliver of shame that cut fathomlessly, more so than his sorrow. Hannibal has long since surpassed dwelling, in opposition to him. “I want…I want to kill her, and I want to feed her to him. Before we take his life.”

“To Jack,” Hannibal says lightly in understanding. His eyes glisten, staring into the middle distance between them as he imagines Will’s design. “Oh, Will.”

 “What would you make of her? For our Devil’s Night?” 

“I’ve thought about it often.” 

“Not the same dish you served me of Randall Tier’s.” 

“No, I’ve thought about it often only after I discovered she was still alive.” 

Will splays his fingers over Hannibal’s abdomen, under his sweater. He presses his nails in the skin, and Hannibal’s eyes close. 

“Tell me,” Will implores, watching him closely. 

“At first I thought of her tongue,” Hannibal explains quietly, “This was when I was imagining the meal for myself. A dinner for one. If we were to prepare a dinner with Jack as our honored guest, I would want to make it a meal he’d never forget. Large and illustrious.” 

“We can make it that,” Will promises. 

“Lung, I think. She’s wasted far too much oxygen as it is. I’d feel righteous taking them from her. The apparatus that allows the intake of breath, the fuel she uses for calumny.” 

“Perfect, as always.” 

“Do you think we’ll be able to convince Jack to eat what I serve? He avoided doing so at my dinner party,” Hannibal questions, discreetly keeping Will’s arms trapped around his waist. 

“If he won’t, we’ll threaten to kill Bella,” Will shrugs. “Or him. Or Zeller and Price. Just empty threats, he’ll at least taste a bite for that much.” 

“You’re looking forward to killing him, more than you are the reunion,” Hannibal states, not a question. 

Will nods, feeling caught.

“I want to do it at the table. Is that too improper for you?” 

Hannibal smirks, abnormally nostalgic. “Did I ever tell you, I killed a man at my dinner table in Florence? I stabbed the man through the head with an ice pick. He babbled on, so Bedelia crossed the table and took the pick out herself.”

Will doesn’t often appreciate references to Bedelia, but he manages a weak smile. It is an explicitly Hannibal maneuver to make, after all.

“I told her that technically, she killed him.” 

“You would,” Will murmurs, with a genuine chuckle. “I guess that’s a ‘yes’ then.” 

“The trip will be a tricky one. We will need to find a time to capture Jack without any interference from our alternate selves. We will also need time before then to acquire Freddie Lounds’ lungs.”

“Not as tricky as you think. I know where the FBI was keeping Freddie hidden while she was certifiably dead. I, and only a few other officers, knew of her whereabouts. I could appear there any time, and she would deem me trustworthy company.” 

Hannibal’s jaw clenches. There’s something there, but Will can’t pinpoint what. 

“I suppose some evening you and I were sharing dinner. Preoccupied with each other. Meanwhile, we can find a way to attain Jack,” Hannibal supplies. 

“If you and I are going to be busy having dinner at your place, where are…you and I going to have dinner with Jack?”

Hannibal’s chest heaves with silent laughter at the ridiculousness of the question. He runs his hands down Will’s shoulders and meets his gaze complaisantly. 

“Would your house suffice?”

“Would it?” Will echoes. “I don’t exactly have a dinner table.” 

“The house Freddie Lounds will be staying in, then. You could call Jack and tell him to meet you there, that it is urgent he come immediately.” 

“Damn, that could work.”

“It will,” Hannibal states, squeezing his forearms.

“Now,” Will mutters impatiently. “I want to go now.”

“Dressed like this?” Hannibal tracks a hand over Will’s clothes, wrinkles his nose in distaste. “No, I think a crimson suit would do you wonders.”

“A shame I don’t have one,” Will retorts, narrowing his eyes. Hannibal is giving him a very evasive look, and that’s never good.

“Not again. Hannibal you can’t keep buying me suits.” 

“Why not?” Hannibal protests lightly. 

“It’ll be real great when we’ve run out of safehouses because you bought me an entire Gucci factory.” 

“I could buy you several factories and still have enough for a lifetime.” 

“Your money stopped impressing me a long time ago,” Will shoots back and smirks at the micro-pout that follows in response. “Let’s get dressed. I’ll wear your crimson offering.”

“May I adorn you in it, like Seth, the Egyptian God of war and chaos?”

Will sighs, “That’s a new one.” 

Hannibal strokes a finger down Will’s scarred cheek, curls a strand of hair behind his ear before saying, “Egyptian mythology is beautifully tragic in its own right. In Ancient Egypt, red was often correlated with the desert and with evil. Seth was an impersonation of evil, donning red as a symbol of murder and wrongdoings.” 

“Naturally. I thought for a moment you were considering me as your Roman bride.” 

“Perhaps the suit can have multiple meanings,” Hannibal whispers against the back of his hand. Will hadn’t noticed him take it, and blushes when he kisses the soft skin there. 

“Just get the damn thing. I want to see it.” 

“I would have thought our yellow and red suits would clash, but I’m beginning to see just how wrong I was,” Will admits, taking in the sight of Hannibal. 

“Golden and crimson,” he corrects mildly. 

Hannibal’s suit is golden, perfectly tailored to the broad contours of his body. It slims him down, erasing any type of paunch the clothes in the mental institution had implied. The hue brings out his eyes, and they glimmer summer brown, rather than the muted hazel they normally are. Will swallows and glances over his own suit, a deep crimson velvet. It is soft to the touch. He fears he’ll spill food on it, or blood. 

They look good together, like faded Egyptian hieroglyphs. 

“Does gold stand for anything?” Will asks softly, running a hand down the expensive threads of Hannibal’s lapel. 

“The brilliance of the sun, the skin of the Gods.” 

Will huffs, and Hannibal steadies him when he intertwines their hands, and stretches the wristband of the watch around their wrists. He doesn’t let go as he dials and turns knobs.

“Mostly, it symbolizes that I am indestructible.” 

“I can’t argue with a man who fell off of a cliff, covered in battle wounds, and survived,” Will concedes, though he’s irked about throwing fuel into the ever burning fire of Hannibal’s ego. 

“Nor can I.” 

“Are we ready?” Will asks, heart pounding. 

Hannibal presses their foreheads together and tells him quietly, “close your eyes,” with a gentle and protective gaze. Will shakes his head, butts him harder with it and squeezes his fingers tight around Hannibal’s. 

“No. Not this time.” 

Hannibal clicks the red button, and their surroundings fade and warp. He keeps his eyes level with Hannibal, and can see the smile stretching across his face in his peripheral. Their surroundings settle into place, and Will wobbles, keeping their hands intertwined more out of balance than anything else. 

There’s something intimate about looking into Hannibal’s eyes when they travel in this manner, almost more intimate than sex. 

“Are we in the right place?” Hannibal asks, looking around.

An empty street in Baltimore, close to the hideaway Freddie resides in. The air smells of pollution, and the trees loom over them much like they do in Virginia. Will hates it. 

“Yeah, you got the location down. It’s only two blocks away. Come on, we can take the backroad so nobody sees you.” 

“It shocks me I never knew of this place. Underestimating Jack had nearly been a mistake,” Hannibal says conversationally as Will drags him by his hand and waspishly checks behind them every few seconds to make sure no one is following them. 

“Underestimating me was your mistake.” 

“Not underestimating you, no, never that.” 

“What then?” Will asks, distracted.

“Trusting you,” Hannibal responds reluctantly, quietly. Will turns back to see a look of remorse retreat from his face as quickly as it had taken residence. He doesn’t want to show his utter regression of emotions. Will catches it though, he always does. 

“A mistake we both understand, if I recall.” 

Hannibal softens and squeezes Will’s hand. 

“Yes.” 

When they reach the house, Will and Hannibal enter through the back door. The kitchen is set up at the rear end of the complex. Hannibal roams and categorizes the tools he’ll need for the meal. Will watches him anxiously, waits for any sign of trouble. Freddie could enter the kitchen at any moment if she heard the back door open. 

“Everything here to your liking?” Will asks sharply, keeping his eyes on the empty living room just beyond where the kitchen tile ends and the rug begins. 

“Yes. This kitchen will work wonders, I imagine. Shall I help you?” 

“I want to do this by myself.”

Hannibal closes a cabinet, and approaches Will. Will allows himself a moment to sink into the kiss placed on his forehead, the hands squeezing his shoulders. 

“I must remind you there is nothing in our life I want you to make up for.” 

“I know,” Will assures. “It isn’t about that. I felt so alive in the moments after Freddie found Randall stored in my shed. I felt I could kill her then, but I couldn’t. I finally can, I can finally understand how it feels to take her life, and I want to.”

“As long as you are doing it for yourself,” Hannibal tells him. 

“I am.” Will straightens his posture and levels with him. “Prepare for a banquet.” 

Hannibal does, and Will stalks through the safe house. 

The living room is empty, lights shut off. He moves to the stairs, knowing full well that she is likely to be on her computer rather than anywhere else. Especially if the first floor is vacant. 

She is on her laptop at a whitewood desk. Naked. A towel hangs over her chair and Will swivels in the doorway out of shock. Her laugh grates his ears when she sees him. 

Freddie doesn’t even flinch. 

“Sorry, old habits,” she explains, and he turns when she’s finished wrapping the towel around her body. He tries not to look at any section of her glistening bare skin, fresh from the shower. Hannibal will be happy the meat is washed clean, at least. 

“I should have knocked,” Will admits awkwardly. 

“I heard voices. Crawford here?” she asks bluntly, arms crossed.

Will folds his arms behind his back, fondles the dagger he’d brought along from home. It is tucked in the back of his pants, strapped in by his belt. 

“He will be.” 

“Called in the cavalry just for me? What’s the occasion?” she asks in a way that resembles flirtatious and is anything but. Her words always come with a bite of venom that’s just as sharp as the fiery color in her hair. 

“Thought we’d update you about the acquisition of new information regarding…the Chesapeake Ripper,” Will tells her, steps closer. 

To her credit, she is not intimidated. Even in her raw nudity, she stands tall and confident. Her wet hair is drying frazzled, still as bright as the day he first met her. 

He remembers wondering how satisfying it would be to feel her throat muscles contract under his palm, to feel her windpipe crush under the strength of his fingers. 

“I hope this acquisition of yours will give me at least a ballpark estimate of when I can get out of here. I have a livelihood, unlike some people,” she mutters the latter part, moving to her dresser. 

She pays no mind to Will as she picks through her bras. 

“Never pegged you for a pervert of all things,” Freddie murmurs, shooting a challenging glare towards Will who is still standing, watching her. Savoring the moment. 

“Another label to shout at the press,” Will muses and Freddie cocks her brow. She would easily add this to one of her articles, no hesitation required, or permission. A strange part of him admires her impulsive and honest wielding of defamation. 

She turns back to her clothes, but doesn’t have time to begin getting dressed before he is disregarding the dagger tucked behind his belt and surging forward with the brute force of a wild animal. She tries to shout, but his hand is already squeezing her airway. 

He remembers distinctly how it felt to hold her struggling in his arms, all those years ago when he’d dragged her from her car kicking and shouting.

She is a strong opponent for a woman, docile yet brusque in her movements. Calculated even. She kicks out as she thrashes, forfeiting the attempt to get him to stop squeezing. He grows distracted by the quivering muscles and growing heat of her skin as she struggles. 

When he closes his eyes, she kicks out again, this time knocking one of his legs from its footing. He tumbles, hand loosening its grip automatically, and she darts away. 

Her towel drifts to the floor, too delicate for the way she stumbles in her retreat. She screams hoarsely, for Jack, for anyone, but Will is faster than she is. 

When she reaches the hall, the first step of the stairs, he kicks her down with a firm boot on the skin of her back. With nude limbs and a swash of red hair, she is sent down the steps violently in an agonizing tangle.

Will watches her fall calmly, descending the steps slowly so he can take in every hit and twist on the way down. When she falls to the bottom, he suspects one of her arms may be broken. She is sputtering, dragging herself away on the floor of her temporary home like a barn animal scheduled for slaughter. 

Hannibal, having heard the commotion, appears in the archway of the kitchen. He doesn’t enter the living room, just watches from afar as Will circles his prey. 

He has adorned himself in an apron now, and his hands are covered in flour, waiting. 

Freddie spots him, and moans in pain and fear. How the titans fall so quickly when their adrenaline makes itself known. Will tugs her up by her hair, and kneels harshly on the back of her legs so she can’t kick or thrash. He’s not sure she’d have the strength to do as such now. 

With her good arm, she tries to pry his fingers from her bruised throat.

It won’t work this time. Will closes his eyes and takes in the scent of her hair. He tries to imagine how it felt to smell her nauseating perfume and natural paprika scent on his body, tries to imagine it from Hannibal’s perspective as he’d discovered his betrayal by the fireplace all those years ago.

His hand tightens, and Freddie chokes earnestly. 

“You’ll be headline news, I promise,” Will whispers bitterly. 

Her light begins to fade, and he makes eye contact with Hannibal who is watching him proudly. However, he does appear a tad impatient. 

The oven must almost be done preheating. 

Freddie flops like a fish in Will’s grip, and he presses his fingers into her esophagus a moment longer, just to make sure. He stands, lets her body fall limp to the floor and only then does Hannibal pass the barrier of tile, treading onto the rug and to the stairwell.

He sidles up to Will and strokes a hand over his back, sending a shiver of appraisal up his spine. Like a master rewarding his dog for its good behavior. 

“I appreciate you not using the dagger. You may have slipped, and tarnished the lungs.” 

“I wanted to feel her die,” Will states, unwilling to elaborate. 

“I’m sure the autopsy will delight Zeller and Price. You’ve left prominently feral marks on her pale skin,” Hannibal observes, nudging her temple with a foot to see her neck. He disregards the fact she is naked. 

Will realizes that murdering her just now will incriminate the Will of this timeline. And Jack’s murder will likely be added ontop of the count. He can’t find it within himself to care. It’s what he’d wanted back then. A part of him always did, anyway. 

“Where will we put the body?” Will asks. 

“I’ve laid out a tarp on the kitchen floor. I’ll take her lungs cleanly and efficiently and you can wrap her up and place her in a room Jack will not have the time to venture off to.” 

“Okay,” Will murmurs, thinking of the attic. 

It takes a shorter amount of time than Will expected. When he has Freddie tucked away into the attic, like another one of the accompanying relics lost to a hostless house, he rushes downstairs to the house phone. 

Jack’s number is on speed dial. 

“Ms. Lounds,” Jack greets, picking up on the third ring. 

“No Jack, it’s Will.” There is a heavy pause as Jack’s boss voice rises to the surface.

“You were to tell me if you had any plans of going to Freddie’s house. There better be a good reason for this, do you understand me Will?”

“Perfectly.” 

Will’s nails dig into the indents of the phone. He grits his teeth.

“Well? Spit it out.”

“I need you to come here in…an hour. I’ll explain then.”

“I don’t like it when someone speaks vaguely to me,” Jack reminds sternly. 

“Freddie is threatening to leave. I can defuse the situation, but it’ll take me a while. I can’t have you charging in here guns blazing, demanding she stay put.” 

“You sound pretty sure of yourself. Ms. Lounds doesn’t do well with polite, cordial talk if she has her mind set on something, and she wouldn’t do better with you there of all people.” 

“Jack, I need you to trust me,” Will presses, regretting his choice of explanation. It is growing tiresome. Jack never played well with others, always had trouble listening. “You’ve trusted me countless times. Will you do it one more time?”

There is a silence, which means Will is getting somewhere. 

He continues, “Jack, do you really think you’d be a better candidate for this? You can come, but wait an hour alright? I’m not as fragile as you think I am.”

“Yeah, alright, Will,” Jack eventually complies. “I’ll be there.” 

Jack hangs up first, and Will sets the phone back down with a brusque sigh. 

To recollect himself, he wanders into the kitchen and nudges up against Hannibal. He takes in the familiar scent of sweat by Hannibal’s shoulder and allows relaxation to seep into his muscles. 

“Smells good already.” 

“I’ve barely started,” Hannibal responds, though he looks pleased.

He has the two lungs spread out on a wooden cutting board. He presses into them with floured hands, testing the versatility of the organs. Will watches raptly for a few seconds before retreating to the fridge to grab himself bottled water.

He downs it in less than a minute and turns to find Hannibal watching him. 

“Jack is irritating,” Will mumbles. “As per usual.” 

“I heard a muffled attempt at compromise.” 

“Yeah, I told him to be here in an hour. Is that good?” 

“It will be cutting it short, but yes, that will do.” 

“You can make it,” Will encourages with a crooked smile. “And it doesn’t have to be perfect. He won’t be alive long enough to savor it.” 

“You intend it to be quick.”

“Sudden,” Will corrects, crinkling the empty bottle in his hand. “I’ll give you a tap on the foot under the table, and we’ll strike together. Is that satisfactory, Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal’s eyes glisten, and his hands still around the veiny meat they’re sunk into. 

“I believe it is, Special Agent Graham.” 

Will blanches. Hannibal has never called him that, and if he has, it is so far in their past it is buried with the small talk and those dismissive early conversations. 

Hannibal seems pleased with the reaction, turning back to his work with a smirk plastered to his face. Will sucks in air and leaves the room to prepare the dining table. 

Will is waiting by the door when the doorbell rings.

He opens it, and as he suspected, Jack bustles in with his hat, scarf, and coat. He doesn’t greet Will until he takes in his immediate surroundings and has taken his shoes off. 

When he takes a good look at Will, he freezes.

“Will, what is going on? What is wrong with your face?” 

If I get asked that question one more time. 

“Let’s go to the dining room, Jack,” Will says, keeping his eyes trained on him. He can’t have Jack looking behind him and seeing Hannibal emerge from the shadows. 

“Why? What’s in there?” Jack gawks at him. “You cut your hair. I just saw you yesterday.” 

“Did you?” Will echoes, and raises his gun up to point directly at Jack. Enough distance is between them that Jack cannot gain the upperhand, and the safety is off. 

Will had retrieved the gun from Freddie’s bedside drawer. He’d given it to her after all, he knew exactly where she had been keeping it.

To his credit, no fear shows in Jack’s eyes. 

Disappointment, buried rage, and a look of understanding.

“What are you doing, Will?” Jack asks, anger dancing around the edges of his tone. 

“Inviting you to dinner,” Will replies quietly, unable to stop the shaky smile spreading across his face. Jack’s jaw shifts and he shakes his head with strong resolve.

“This isn’t you.” 

“You said it yourself. Not feeling like myself is kind of what I do.”

Will’s voice is trembling, not matching the confidence he feels in his gut and his heart. Excitement is what claims him, not anxiety. The clarity of this moment sets him aflame. He’d never known how badly he wanted to kill Jack until now. 

“Dining room,” Will repeats, his nostrils flaring when Jack reaches for his own gun. His finger balks on the trigger. “Don’t.” 

Jack’s eyes widen only when he finds his gun missing. 

The sound of bullets falling to the wooden floor in the foyer is deafening in the mutual quiet. Jack swerves around, to find Hannibal gleaming and holding his emptied gun. He’d slipped it out of his pocket when Will had him distracted. 

“Good evening, Jack,” Hannibal greets brightly. 

Jack lets out a small sigh of defeat, more in sympathy for Will's demise, the one he should have seen coming. Will can remember vividly his cold disappointment when he’d admitted he wanted to run away with Hannibal all those years ago. 

“Doctor Lecter,” Jack says easily, backing up just enough to keep the two of them in view. “I’d say what a surprise, but then again, Will warned us all didn’t he?”

“That he did,” Hannibal responds, chest high and proud. 

Will always thinks he looks like a lion in these moments. All that’s missing is a mane to assert his masculinity and dominance over the beings residing in lower links of the foodchain. 

Will lifts his gun up higher, keeps it close to Jack’s face.

“Will you can come back from this. You haven’t killed anybody yet.” 

Will scoffs. “Even if that were true, you know I killed Randall Tier.” 

“Out of self defense,” Jack shoots back and Will winces. What he’d done had not been self defense. Punching and thrashing until the man had been bloody pulp beneath his high strung body. His muscles had been taut with adrenaline, enthusiasm. Nothing about that kill had been necessary or orderly.

“I killed Freddie Lounds,” Will bites back. He wants to tell Jack he’s killed dozens of human beings, for crimes far tamer than murder.

Jack looks minutely hopeful, thinking Will is playing his game still.

He can’t have that.

“I killed her before I called you on the phone. Would you like to go see the body in the attic?” 

Jack closes his eyes, slams his head back against the wall.

“Damn it, Will. We were so close – ”

“Not to interrupt,” Hannibal chimes in as he places the empty gun down on an end table by the coathanger, “but the food will cool if we delay.” 

“Dining room,” Will orders, cocking the gun. “Now.” 

Jack looks skeptical, but he does as he’s told. He still has a reason to live as long as he can manage. Bella hasn’t died yet, and he still has a chance to catch the Chesapeake Ripper. Will won’t allow him that chance, not in this timeline. 

The dining room is large, and Will can tell Freddie doesn’t eat here often.

The table is dusty, and the flowers in the centerpiece vase have withered. It is fitting, for now. Hannibal manages to find matches for Will to light the candles, and he does so one handed, keeping his gun held on Jack all the while.

Jack sits at the head of the table, just like in one of his dreams. 

His fantasies have often played out like this, but with far less preamble. 

Will can’t say he hates the build, the slow walk to the climax. 

“Will – ” Jack tries to start, but Will makes sure he sees his finger press lightly against the trigger. Just a bit more force, and his brains will splatter against the carpet. 

“You should have known, Jack,” is all Will says, or allows to be said until Hannibal returns from the kitchen. He doesn’t know if he’s referring to the fact Jack should have known about Hannibal, or if he should have known Will would eventually be drawn in enough to join him. Join with him. He doesn’t allow Jack to ask for clarification. 

Hannibal enters the room with three plates set along his arms, like a circus performer. He begins to place the steaming plates down on their rightful placemats. Jack winces when he is handed his own, and Hannibal announces that it is, “Pierogi with Veal Lung and Lentil filling.” 

“Lung,” Jack whispers quietly, staring at his plate.

The meat is portioned throughout small pouchy wraps that resemble ravioli. Leaks and onions are diced on the side, and it smells heavenly together. Crisp and hot, fresh from the oven. 

Will has long since been disgusted at the prospect of eating human meat. It is a part of Hannibal, one that he’d accepted, even before he accepted the man himself. 

“The supplier didn’t make good use of it anyhow,” Hannibal teases, glancing once at Will who smirks back. 

Jack is on the verge of vomiting, observing the plate intensely. Will wonders if he’s looking for strands of ginger hair. 

Hannibal would never contaminate a dish like that; he is a superb cook. 

Will makes the first cut, slicing one of the Pierogis in half and raising the steaming meat filled dough to his lips. He makes eye contact with Jack who is watching him in an absent daze, unbelieving of what he’s seeing. 

Jack knows Will has willingly eaten human meat before. It is strange to him that he balks now, when the only difference is that he’s finally seeing it. 

Will chews his piece up, swallows, and smiles genuinely at Hannibal.

“It’s perfect,” he tells him.

Hannibal gazes at him affectionately. 

“I do believe you’re giving me more credit than our guest will this evening.” 

They turn to Jack in unison, and he looks up from his plate. Repulsion shudders through him and he shakes his head. 

“You’re sick,” he spits to neither of them in particular. “I won’t eat this knowingly.”

“You’ve been my most vocal guest, Jack. Don’t stop now,” Hannibal implores, glancing down at his untouched plate. “You’ve ingested even more than Will, and have come back for more time and time again.”

This version of me, Will corrects in his mind. 

Will raises his gun again, hating to use it, but knowing it is the only thing Jack understands. He understands a gun and a badge, not much else. 

“Try it Jack,” Will croons. “And you can see Bella again.” 

Shadows appear in Jack’s eyes, and his hand tightens into a fist. Will can see him contemplate using the fork or knife at his side to weaponize, but he reconsiders. Smartly so. 

“You’re not a bad man, Will,” Jack tries one more time. He’d always believed in the best of him, but how fruitless an effort it had been when Will had only ever flourished in fields of ash, not in fields of green. 

“There is no good and bad. No good and evil. I’ve given up good and evil,” Will glances at Hannibal, asking with his eyes if he remembers, “for behaviorism.” 

Hannibal’s posture changes, and his fingers tap in delight against the spine of his knife as he cuts. Jack looks between them and sighs. 

Will wants to ask him what he sees. 

Instead, he continues to watch Jack. Continues to point his gun. 

Jack’s fork hovers over the leaks and onions. He knows he won’t get away with trying those and those alone, so he roundabouts to the smallest Pierogi, cuts into it ever so slowly and spears a slice with his fork.

Jack closes his eyes, and moves the piece into his mouth quickly, making a sound that resembles a sob as he chokes it down. Will watches with wild eyes, staring blatantly as his throat bobs when he swallows. 

“Good job, Jack,” Will’s voice wavers slightly. “It’s not so bad after all.” 

“I would normally take offense to such a reaction at my table,” Hannibal explains, “but I do realize that Pierogi is not for everyone. I’d say he’s been a good sport, wouldn’t you say, Will?” 

“Yes, very good.” 

Jack’s eyes are glazed over with despair. His hands are gripping the seat of his chair, and he looks as pale as he’s ever looked. Will tilts his head, lowers his gun just a bit. 

“I have a question for you, Jack.”

Jack looks up, settles his gaze on Will’s with a plea in his eyes.

Will looks to Hannibal, and reaches across the table. Hannibal only hesitates for a moment before intertwining their hands together, lovingly. Jack looks between them, lips pressed into a tight line. Morbid understanding. 

“When you kept forcing me closer and closer,” Will begins, “did you know you were killing me? Or did you not bother wondering?”

Jack sighs, “Will, I was thinking about the big picture. I didn’t want you to be hurt, but I wanted the murders to stop. The bloodshed, I thought you understood.” 

“I understand your morals were closer to behaviorism than mine were when we first met. I understand you better than I ever have, Jack.” 

“And what about him? You can live with what he is? You can understand him, better than you understand my need to save innocent people?” Jack demands, voice raising with a desperate edge. 

“I find that hypocrisy bothers me more than murder. And at least he’s not a hypocrite,” Will spits out. “Make of that what you will.” 

Jack opens his mouth to speak, but Will rips his hand away from Hannibal’s grasp and points the gun with both hands. 

“Eat,” he barks. 

“Will – ”

“ Eat. ” 

Jack does. Reluctantly. He swallows another portion down with the same mortified grimace, the same shudder running through him after his throat bobs. He turns to Hannibal and shakes his head. 

“You were supposed to help him.” 

“I did,” Hannibal replies simply. “Did you?” 

Will has had enough. He nudges Hannibal’s foot with his own under the table and Hannibal’s hand instantly coils around one of the knives. Will grabs a fork, and they lunge simultaneously. Jack barely has time to shout, as they puncture his flesh together. Hannibal goes for the neck, and Will goes for the heart, sliding the utensil under his ribs with an animalistic grunt. 

A fountain of blood erupts from Jack’s mouth, and his eyes are bright with fear. 

His mouth hangs slack, like a reflection of the vision he once saw. 

Satiation ripples throughout Will’s body when he sees it. He wonders if Hannibal can smell his fear, if it’s just as satisfying for him as it is for Will.

Hannibal’s eyes are impish as he drags the knife further across his jugular. Will keeps his fork buried in his heart, not moving, just watching with heaving breaths as blood gushes out of his stout body, watching the light fade from his eyes. 

A fantasy come to life. 

Hannibal pulls him in for a kiss when Jack is dead. The utensils fall to the floor with a clink. Will grabs at his jaw with ferocity, tasting Jack’s blood in Hannibal’s mouth, feeling a headiness that resembles both arousal and victory. It sparks where Hannibal touches him, digs nails into his skin. 

This is all he needs, all he hungers for.

Will swipes an arm out and knocks half the contents off the table to the floor. They clatter to the rug, staining and meshing together. Will grabs Hannibal by his collar and shoves him down hard on his back. He straddles him and rips open his shirt. A button flies to the left, and the fabric is unsalvageable, but Hannibal is watching him in worship. 

Nothing more, nothing less.

Will rotates his hips a bit just to soften the edge, the bright firelight obscuring his vision. Hannibal’s hands have a vice grip on his thighs as Will opens both their flies, grabs both their cocks in hand and starts stroking, fast and rough.

There is no ease to it, nothing soothing about the gesture. 

Dry skin against dry skin, rubbing and burning, and Will moans libidinously, prepared to topple over at the first sign of orgasm. Hannibal doesn’t make a noise, but his eyes are red and his hands are tightening steadily. Bruises will form on his skin by morning. 

“Your rage is glorious,” Hannibal whispers, and Will whines, rocking his hips. He squeezes their dicks into a tighter channel, furiously pushing himself against Hannibal’s cock. He rides his thighs as if Hannibal were a brazen bull. 

One of Hannibal’s hands moves to surround Will’s. He doesn’t press or guide, he’s just along for the ride. Will is in control. 

He groans, and tips forward, placing one hand in the middle of Hannibal’s chest to balance himself. He tangles his fingers in his chest hair, tugs when he feels like he’s falling. 

Hannibal raises his free hand up to his cheek, and cinches his jaw to force him to look directly into his eyes. Will grits his teeth, bottom lip quivering with the wave of emotions that catapult through his nervous system, paralyzing him. He’s losing his grip on their cocks, his hand is shaking. 

“Only I can take care of you,” Hannibal murmurs to him, taking over completely. Will shudders and falls forward, palms falling flat to the table on either side of Hannibal’s head with a sweaty slap. 

Only Hannibal can take him apart and put him back together again. Jack Crawford had never been able to. And he’ll never have another chance to try. 

“Come on,” Will begs, barely recognizing his own voice. “ Please. ” 

He thrusts his hips through the tight circle of Hannibal’s fist, and it’s easier now. Slick with precum, and pleasure controlled by an expert hand. 

He squeezes around the heads, eyes on Will and only Will.

Will’s mind is everywhere and nowhere. He’s thinking about Jack, the corpse sitting right behind them. He’s thinking about Freddie, up in the attic and hair still red as fire. He’s thinking about going home, and how deprived he’ll feel when they can’t have this. When this stops being real. 

What he’s really thinking about, is how badly he wants to come. 

“Hannibal,” he chokes out, and they both topple over, coming together in hot spurts and shuddering, keyed up limbs.  

Hannibal grunts, gripping Will’s face harshly in his hand as he continues jerking them together in the other. Will is writhing against him, twitching in the aftershocks that seem to come before his orgasm is even complete. A sticky mess stains Hannibal’s chest and Will’s clothes. 

“I’ll pay for the dry cleaning this time I promise,” Will mutters in apology, kissing Hannibal’s cheek. It is sticky with sweat, but Will feels drenched in it. 

They lie together, motionless.

Heavy breathing fills the silence.

“I hadn’t planned to ruin the table,” Hannibal says. He looks around them, not bothering to remove Will from his lap. The table is also unsalvageable. The FBI team will have a field day looking through all of this. Especially, if they find any bodily fluids on the table that aren’t blood. 

Will lifts them up, helps Hannibal off the table. Hannibal half-heartedly tries to brush the drying semen off of Will’s velvet suit, but it’s far too late. 

The dry cleaners at least don’t ask questions. 

“That may have been impulsive,” Will admits, and Hannibal snorts. It is such an out of character noise for him that Will finds himself laughing too. He holds their hands together and sighs. 

“Another mess we leave in our wake. What will be our next I wonder?” Hannibal muses.

Will stares at the bloodied corpse of Jack Crawford with indifference. 

“It’s your turn. I guess I’ll have to wait and see.” 

Chapter Text

“I admire the thought of witnessing your rage toward Bedelia, in a similar way you showed me with our dear Uncle Jack,” Hannibal muses over a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. 

Will quirks a brow, but Hannibal raises a palm to put him at ease. 

“Though, I realize we’ve indulged ourselves with that already. She owed us an arm and a leg and we showed her just how generous we can be,” Hannibal elucidates. “But, this means I must come up with a new concept.”

“I thought you had a few more fantasies already ripe for the picking,” Will mumbles, eyeing his own empty glass on the coffee table. They are sitting parallel, much like their old therapy sessions. 

“I have one I’m saving for the very end of our adventures. The other one isn’t so much of a fantasy as it is a humble curiosity.” 

“Out with it then,” Will says. 

The reflection of flame flickers in the translucent drink Hannibal whirls around his hand. Will wonders absently if he should add fuel or let it die out for the night. Hannibal doesn’t like when the fire dies on its own. It’s the only type of death he’s ever seen Hannibal despair. 

 “I do not want to indulge in this trip if you want nothing to do with it. I could have easily gone  on my own, but I felt this required your distinct consent.” 

Will lifts up, almost off his seat cushion. 

“That’s worrying,” he remarks. “Considering what we’ve already done.” 

Hannibal crosses his legs and sets his drink down deliberately, which is cause for further worry. Will doesn’t worry often, not anymore. And yet, there is something in Hannibal’s eyes tonight that is sending him blaring signals of unease.

It has been a week since they killed Jack. 

They’d loosely planned to leave tonight, at some point, for their next adventure, but neither of them has made a move to enforce or encourage these plans. Will hasn’t prodded Hannibal for information, trusting him to reveal whatever he likes whenever he likes. 

The pause draws on longer, until the pin drops.

“I’ve always wondered what I could have done differently that night I took you home from Muskrat Farm. It isn’t a regret that I can’t change the past, but I do wonder.” 

Will tucks his chin, nails scraping over the arms of the chair. 

“Oh,” he manages. 

“If this makes you uncomfortable, Will, we won’t go.” 

“If you had any regard for my comfort, you wouldn’t have asked in the first place,” Will mutters, “That isn’t a gripe by the way, I’m just telling you. You know what bringing this idea up would mean to me.”

“I did. Perhaps I also wondered if you harbored similar curiosity.” 

Will grits his teeth. He’s trying not to come off as cold, and is trying to remember that Hannibal agreed to bring them both to visit Abigail. He’s made sacrifices too. 

“I don’t share your curiosity, no.” 

“Is this your way of telling me ‘no?’” 

“No, it’s not. I want you to do this, if it is truly important enough for you to suggest it. I may not be enthused about the prospect, but I want this for you.” 

Hannibal breathes in through his nose, and his body sinks when he sighs. 

“Will you indulge me further,” he pushes.

“How.” 

“Tell me why you are opposed,” Hannibal suggests. “By understanding your hesitation, I may feel differently about my choice.”

“I don’t want you to feel differently about your choice,” Will says quietly. Forced changes between them have never wrought favorable results. 

“I won’t change my mind, I may just change perspective.” 

“If it turns out you manage to succeed in, I don’t know, making me agreeable to run away with you rather than reject you, it’ll make your sacrifice pointless.” 

“Are you afraid that if I manage to easily sway you in the past that I’ll resent you for it? Because in that case all the years I spent in the institution would be a waste?”

Will swallows hard, jaw twitching with the discomfort of being seen. 

“I feel…as if you could have said many things that night. And I would have disappeared with you. The pain I felt was so harrowing and I was so desperate for it to dissipate.” 

“I could have convinced you that there were means of resolution other than severance,” Hannibal concludes. 

“Y – Yes.” Will sinks his teeth into his lower lip and curls his toes. “All the signs in my head are pointing in the opposite direction. I don’t want to know what we could have had in that case scenario. What I could have avoided, what you could have.” 

Hannibal stands elegantly and crosses the room to rest on the edge of the coffee table. Their knees brush together, and Will drags his gaze up to absorb the thoughtful calm of Hannibal’s.

“I have never for a moment regretted my three years incarcerated,” Hannibal says. 

Will scoffs. “I don’t need consolation, I’ve never felt guilt for putting you there.” 

“That’s not what I’m trying to give you. I want you to know also, that I never thought your marriage to Molly was a waste. Every action we take is a reflection of our desire to understand ourselves better. You matured in the three years you were absent from me. You came back to me victorious in ways I had not nearly understood when you’d woken up that day after our return from the farm.” 

Hearing Hannibal speak of Molly fondly makes Will’s stomach flip. Hearing her name at all can cause that to happen, but it is rare that talk of Molly comes about, let alone from Hannibal’s mouth to start. 

“Why then do you need this?” Will asks gently, and Hannibal reaches for his hand. It feels cold against his skin despite the warmth from the fireplace. 

“I do not need this, Will. I want this. You must understand, while it may not be as significant a moment in your eyes, that is the moment I truly realized the gravity of my feelings for you. I knew before, I’d even told Bedelia about the love I harbored for you, but I hadn’t understood until then my incapacity to live without you. You were more than just a limb attached to my hip, you were all of me, in me. Without you, running was pointless. As it had been when I gallivanted through Italy recklessly.” 

Will averts his eyes, looking down at their hands clasped together. Tears well up in his eyes and he holds them back forcibly. The things he said to Hannibal had been so cruel. 

Even by their standards. 

“I love you,” he whispers. 

“I know,” Hannibal promises.

“I didn’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers again, lower. “I saved your letters. I yearned for you. I…missed you. I tried to lie to myself.” 

“But, you were happy and you were satisfied,” Hannibal replies warmly. “And that was enough. I’ve never held that against you, Will. Never.” 

“Yet if this works, you may change your mind.” 

“I won’t.” 

“I’ve changed you before.”

“Will,” Hannibal begins carefully, kneeling on the floor to grow close. He places his large, calloused palms on either side of Will’s face and levels him with a serious stare. “Do not agree to this if this is the way you feel.”

“I won’t be selfish,” Will argues quietly. 

“I quite adore when you’re selfish,” Hannibal replies. “In fact, I prefer you the brutal mercenary of your own desires. It makes my life all the more interesting.”

“And it makes my life interesting when you take what you want, regardless of how I feel. Please don’t make this easy for me.” 

Will sinks into the feeling of Hannibal’s palms dragging down his stubbled cheeks, all the way to the smooth skin of his neck, fingers tapping over strained tendons in a calculating rhythm. 

“May I make it simpler for you, if not easy?” 

Will nods and Hannibal’s hands find his knees. He keeps his eyes on him. 

“Come with me, but don’t watch. Don’t listen. Wait in your shed, or in the woods. I will come to you when it is over, and tell you of my success, either with a yes or with a no. I won’t go into detail, I want you to have that much.” 

“Then what is the point of me coming?” 

“My support,” Hannibal supplies with a gentle smile. “I told you I could have done this without your knowledge, on my own, just to see what would happen, but I didn’t and I won’t. I want you there in some capacity, supporting me even if you do not want to experience the memory yourself.” 

“I can do that for you,” Will whispers, fingers closing over Hannibal’s hands, thumbs rubbing his knuckles. “I’ll wait in the shed. That’s where you waited, right? When…”

“Yes. I made a room in my palace for that shed. For my feelings of reconsideration and premature regret. It had been the only regret I’d ever experienced in relation to my decision. Once I turned myself in, I never felt a shred of it. I knew I’d taken the right path.” 

“Was I in that room?” Will asks, eyes glazing over as if to create his own version of it. His palace isn’t a palace, but a vast sea of locations. He can wade from the waters of the stream in Wolf Trap to the musty catacombs beneath the Norman Chapel.

“Often,” Hannibal replies reverently. 

“I’ll go.” 

“I’m glad for it.” 

“What are we going to do about…the other you, and um, Chiyoh?”

“That was a concern of mine. If we materialize around the back of the house, there should be no problem getting inside without Chiyoh seeing me. I can send her on her way, and then we can relocate the other me to the shed.” 

“With me?” Will asks, shocked. 

“I can give you sedatives to keep him sedated for as long as it suits you.” 

 “Okay, a sound plan,” he admits.

“I would like to leave tonight.” 

To get this over with is all that Will craves. He nods, and the two of them move like dancers, choreographed. First, to the kitchen to put their glasses away. Then Will returns to the living room as Hannibal gets dressed, and he makes sure the fire is on its last legs. It will get no more fuel from them tonight, or at least not until they get back.

Will is inspecting the doorknob on the front door, in need of a stronger screw. It is nearly dangling off the door itself. Footsteps approach from behind and Will turns. 

Hannibal looks just as he did that night. Bloody scars line his face, and Will can tell it’s real blood. He sighs and steps closer, lifting up a finger to lightly touch the frayed edge of one. 

“Was the blade sterilized?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” Will takes in his clothes, the nauseating association crashing over him like a wave of toxins. It has been a long time since he’s thought of that groggy morning between them.

“Are you going in this?” 

Hannibal fingers the collar of Will’s beige button up shirt. He’s wearing only this and a pair of jeans, and nothing else other than the house shoes he’d just slipped on. 

“I’ll grab a jacket,” he compromises, glowering at Hannibal’s frown. “I’m not wearing a suit for this, or dressing up for the occasion. This isn’t an occasion.” 

“As you wish, Will.” 

“You’re worse than my father, except he had no excuse for complaining about my clothes since he never bought me anything better to begin with.” 

“You never appreciate good attire until you are without it,” Hannibal cogitates. He slips on the watch and gestures for Will to insert his wrist through the band. 

Before that, Will slithers into a fleece jacket from the coat hanger, one Hannibal particularly despises, thinking about the soft material of his crimson velvet suit. 

He shimmies his fingers through the watch and wonders what Hannibal wore in the orphanage he’d lived in until his aunt and uncle found him. 

“Are you ready, my love?” Hannibal asks, dragging him back to reality. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he grumbles, clasping his hand to Hannibal’s tightly. He focuses on a button on Hannibal’s jacket when their surroundings start to change. 

The cold bite of Wolf Trap nips at his skin. Instead of materializing in the woods like before, they materialize behind Will’s house, like Hannibal had planned. 

The morning is blinding, and Will feels exposed in the open air.

“Chiyoh is waiting for me outside. Around this time, I’m just finishing tucking you into bed.” 

A pang of some unrecognizable feeling thumps hard in Will’s chest, and he crosses his arms. “Okay, so knock yourself out and then distract Chiyoh while I drag your heavy ass to the shed. Damn, there’s some things I just never imagined I’d say.” 

Hannibal smirks, digging into one of his coat pockets. He hands Will a small rectangular box; inside, it contains a filled syringe. “One and a half cc’s of this if and when he wakes up.”

“The sedative,” Will surmises, tucking it into the back of his pants. 

Hannibal opens the backdoor discreetly and Will grabs his wrist. “Wait, how are you going to knock yourself out?” he whispers with frantic curiosity. 

“I have a plan,” he responds simply.

“What if the other you gets the upper hand?” 

Hannibal’s grip on the door loosens and he shoots Will with an irritable glare. “I have just carried you across extensive fields and valleys to return you home. I have no strength left in me other than figurative, I assure you.” 

Will swallows and allows Hannibal to vanish into the house. 

He doesn’t expect him to return for several minutes, but in a matter of thirty seconds, Hannibal is back with a body in his arms. It is surreal to see Hannibal carrying himself, handing himself over to Will. Like a strange, but somewhat enticing dream.

“You are sound asleep inside,” Hannibal murmurs fondly. “Count for sixty seconds, then take me to the shed. I will have Chiyoh distracted.” 

Will nods, and grunts with the effort to keep Hannibal straight in his arms. He’s limp, like a ragdoll.

Hannibal looks over the two of them then quickly adds, “Tie me up. Just in case.”

“Are you sure?”

“Do what I ask, Will.”

“Okay, okay.” 

With that, Hannibal is gone again. Will struggles to count for a whole minute in his head, and estimates instead when he’s reached sixty seconds. The weight of the body in his arms is distracting. He starts dragging Hannibal’s body across the snow. His heels leave a trace, picking up not only snowfall but mud from the ground.

Will just barely manages to get Hannibal inside the shed without dropping him. 

Inside, he immediately rummages for ropes. If he were anyone else, the knots he would tie around Hannibal’s wrists and ankles would be ones Hannibal could easily escape from. However, Will’s specialty has always been knots and ties and he’s been practicing with Kinbaku, for more alluring situations than this. 

If what Hannibal says is true, he won’t have the strength to even attempt a fight against his binds. Either way, Will ties him tight, connecting the knots at his wrists with the knots around his ankles, then he crouches a few feet in front of him, watching him with blatant astonishment. 

Will is going to sedate him when he wakes up. He would rather not deal with the wallowing conversations of a man he no longer avows for. 

Chiyoh leaves without a glance behind her. 

The cold winds swirl around her, dragging up dead leaves in her wake. She materializes and dematerializes from the earth as if she were never apart of it to begin with. Hannibal watches her with sentimental eyes, with the understanding he hasn’t seen her in years. 

Reentering the house is a hardship. Seeing this younger Will, unscathed by the dragon, but so heavily scarred from Hannibal’s worldly and inhuman efforts, cracks the brittle clay-like forts around his beating aorta. 

Will’s eyelashes flutter, and he stirs. 

Memories flood back to the forefront of Hannibal’s mind. It doesn’t stop him from sitting in the seat across from Will’s bed, setting out his equations and early renditions for time travel theory across his thighs. Here, the fabric of time remains much the same. 

“Do we talk about teacups and time and the rules of disorder?” Hannibal asks, voice even. He remembers his own words well. Will never hesitates, only relishes the pause. 

He always acts as if he expects every word that comes from Hannibal’s mouth.

It’s maddening, to an extent, even now. 

“The teacup is broken,” Will mutters coldly. “It’ll never gather itself back together again.” 

The webs we weave, Hannibal wants to say. 

“Not even in your mind?” Hannibal pries. “Your memory palace is building. It’s full of new things. It shares some rooms with my own. I’ve discovered you there, victorious.” 

Will’s eyes shine with zeal no longer. The shards of their shared cup are scattered across the snow, had fallen to bits on the road here. Hannibal remembers their sharp graze well.

He takes a breath, having planned this for days. 

“We are a zero-sum game?” 

Will knows they are. He doesn’t say yes. The words he is about to speak have haunted Hannibal for years, even in the nights he felt the warm wrap of domesticity snug around his body. When Will rested next to him in his guileless slumber, he had often heard echoes of these words.

“I miss my dogs,” Will murmurs, glancing longingly at the empty dog beds in the corner of the room. He turns back to Hannibal, a new look in his eyes like a dull blade. “I’m not going to miss you. I’m not going to find you. I’m not going to look for you. I don’t want to know where you are or what you do.” 

Will scarcely swallows, softening but not with mercy.

“I don’t want to think about you anymore.” 

These words had brought Hannibal to tears back then, as nothing had before. Nothing except watching Will’s life drain from him in the kitchen of his own home in Baltimore. 

He remembers his response; You delight in wickedness, and then berate yourself for the delight.

Will’s power in this instance is to wield every remark against him, to turn every phrase back around. Like a mirror with no reflection. The light Hannibal protrudes will only bounce off the surface, showing him his own distorted features. The Picture of Dorian Gray, without the benevolence of a before and after comparison. He wants Hannibal rejected, he wants the pain to be visceral. Visual.

Hannibal intends to disregard Will’s stance. 

He stands, instantly breaking the arresting entente. Relocating on the edge of the bed, closer to Will, he isn’t surprised to find Will unphased and unaroused by Hannibal’s advance. 

He reaches out to curl a strand of hair behind Will’s ear. 

Will watches him, bitterness seeping into his expression. It isn’t entirely directed towards Hannibal; he’s adopted a severe loathing for his own desires. 

“You mean to reject me. Is this the reckoning you promised yourself? Your forgiveness had been a double edged sword. If both sides cut deep, why lacerate what remains?” 

“Nothing remains,” Will argues blankly. “Nothing worth cultivating.” 

“You’ve never dabbled in cultivation. Fisher of men, you are drawn to fishing holes in the ice, tight passages of light that draw your prey to the surface. Have you ever considered tossing your catch back into the water to see if it would come back?” 

“Fish are smarter than most understand. They know what bait looks like when seeing it a second time, or a third.”

Will’s keeping his eyes level with Hannibal’s, no longer an effort, but it isn’t a gesture made in good will, but rather in fortification of his judgement. 

“Did it always stop them?”

“No,” Will whispers, unrelenting. “And it doesn’t stop me.” 

“I want you to know exactly where I am, and where you can always find me,” Hannibal murmurs to him, fingers brushing the chilled sheets on the mattress. Will doesn’t even twitch. 

“Contending desires,” Will spits out softly. 

“I do not believe so,” Hannibal claims. “I believe you know the only way I would ever turn myself in willingly, is if you rejected me.” 

For the first time since waking, Will looks taken aback.

It is mild, but it is progress.

Hannibal’s heart thuds in his chest, feeling something resembling heartbreak. He hadn’t expected to experience the feelings he’d once felt. Perhaps his Will was right to refuse this show, this experiment. Perhaps this moment in time shouldn’t have been trifled with, but Hannibal is already here, ruthlessly attempting a rewrite. A tear in their tapestry. 

“Have you convinced yourself that’s the only reason?” Will asks bluntly. 

“I haven’t convinced myself of anything.” 

“I don’t have your appetite, Hannibal,” he states, softer. 

“You do,” Hannibal argues, knowing Will won’t fight the same point a second time. “Do you truly believe truncating the chord between us will bring you resolve? Or are you that curious to see if we will survive separation.” 

“I was willing to kill you, to test my theory.”

“As was I, and yet in my instance, you did not take delight in my wickedness as you had before. Had you believed your forgiveness would go unanswered?”

Will glares at him, fingers finally twitching where they lay over the hem of the blanket covering his body. He could so easily wrap them around Hannibal’s throat, but he won’t. 

“Do you remember when I suggested we leave a note for Jack, slip away together in the night, almost polite?” Hannibal inquires, inching fractionally closer. 

Will doesn’t agree in any discernible way, he just stares, empty.

“I knew then, what you were scheming. If you would have left with me that night, you would have never known I’d known.” Hannibal places a hand on Will’s leg over the comforter. The muscles stiffen, and Will’s blood doesn’t contain that hot smell Hannibal is so used to when it rises to the surface. Even here, he is unresponsive. 

“You would have allowed dishonesty to remain a foundation. I find I have no more tolerance for ignorance. Or for wickedness.”

Hannibal frowns, levels with him. 

Will doesn’t move, only blinks when he closes the space between them to place a kiss on his lips, chastely. Will’s nostrils flare when he pulls away, his jaw clenched. 

“Goodbye, Hannibal,” he declares.

Will explores his shed while the other Hannibal lies limp on the ground. 

Before, he’d only briefly examined Hannibal’s face, observed the scars he’d once ignored in favor of rejecting him. They are bestial, brilliant. True marks of unbounded savage destruction. 

Plastic still hangs from the wall like curtains. He remembers Freddie’s hair obscured by it, similar to a film over the eyes. He remembers her fear, almost smelling it. Perhaps the scenting had been an aftereffect of spending so much time by Hannibal’s side. His empathy is an intense gift, but surely it can’t reward him with a stronger sense of smell. 

He’s in the middle of canvassing a pet bowl he’d been engraving for Winston when he hears a gruff sound from the floor. Hannibal is stirring, so Will reaches for the tranquilizer. 

It doesn’t take long to angle it between his fingers and kneel down before him. 

Hannibal’s eyes are weakly fluttering open when he presses the tip of it to a vein in his forearm. He sinks in the amount prescribed and steps away. He leans against one of his tool cabinets, allows the handles of the drawers to dig into his back, and waits for the sedative to kick in. 

The confusion in Hannibal’s eyes starts to become distracting, especially when he manages to sit up all on his own, regardless of the binds. 

Will tenses with concern. 

“Will,” Hannibal mutters, looking him over head to toe. 

He sees the scars, the clothes, the tan.  

The pendulum drops, falls off its hinges. Hannibal hadn’t given him a sedative. He’d given him a placebo. Remembering the moment Hannibal ordered him to tie him up, it all starts to dawn. 

“Son of a bitch,” Will says to himself. Hannibal tilts his head. 

“I am in your shed,” Hannibal notes, looking around. “I don’t suppose whatever was in that tranquilizer was meant to have an effect on me.” 

“Yeah, I don’t suppose.” 

They come to a standstill. Will can see the moment Hannibal acknowledges he won’t be able to escape the bonds that hold him in position. He can also see it in his eyes when further understanding settles into place.

“I thought I saw myself,” he states. “I marked it up to dehydration until now.”

Will doesn’t see a reason to hide his intentions. Not if his own Hannibal isn’t going to play by the rules. God knows what else he has in mind for this trip. 

“And if I told you that you did? That I’m from the future?”

“I’d be forced to take that suggestion into consideration. There are scars upon you I do not recognize,” Hannibal says, gazing at the mark on Will’s cheek. 

“You are bronzed. Have you been spending time luxuriating beneath the sun?” 

“You shouldn’t be so surprised,” Will grumbles, ignoring the latter question. “You were the one who spoke of rules of disorder, teacups and time. The one with a journal full of equations. Where did you expect them to lead you?” 

“In actuality? Nowhere,” Hannibal admits with humor. “Odd to discover that isn’t the case.”

“The other you thought it odd too.” 

Hannibal averts his eyes, tugs at the ropes again just for effect. Will can’t help but smirk, feeling the instinctive rush of power. 

If he weren’t so agitated, he might feel aroused.

“I can see you struggling with what will happen if you ask me questions about the future. You shouldn’t think too deeply about it. We’re not messing up our own timeline by being here, or else we wouldn’t be here. I don’t see a problem in asking questions,” he tells him. 

Hannibal nods sluggishly. 

“What did you come here for?”

“It’s a significant moment from our past. Of course, you won’t know why for a while. If at all. It all depends on what my Hannibal is accomplishing inside,” Will explains, nodding towards his house. 

Barely any light leaks through the wood-paneled door of the shed. 

A flash of danger shines in Hannibal’s eyes. Not so much jealousy, but animosity. He does not wish for any moment between him and his Will to be squandered or disrupted. It’s understandable to Will; it would be pretty damn harrowing if a clone hopped into his timeline and stole personal time with Hannibal. 

“Tell me of your scar,” Hannibal implores, eyes back on it. 

“I’ve slain a dragon,” Will muses. “With you by my side.”

Hannibal’s eyes sparkle, and he smiles faintly. 

“Glorious.” 

“I thought so,” Will quips. “If I may make a suggestion, don’t continue working on those time travel equations. We’ve had some fun, but I didn’t want to come here, to this day. It’d be better off if the other me remains ignorant.” 

“I cannot promise that,” Hannibal admits. “But, I will think on it.”

“Good enough for me. Not my timeline anyway, what do I care?” 

“What am I trying to accomplish by coming here?” Hannibal rephrases and Will lets out a long, sturdy breath. 

“You explained it to me, as a curiosity. You wanted to see if you could change my mind about something I said. We went back and forth about it, but it was your turn to choose the place to go. ”

“Where else have you traveled?” Hannibal asks, mystified. 

“We went to your home in Lithuania,” Will responds tenderly. “Mischa was lovely.” 

Hannibal stalls, a fragile countenance crossing his face briefly. He looks away, toward an empty chair. They don’t speak for a few silent minutes. Will doesn’t want to be speaking in general, but of course he’s been thrust into this situation head first with no way to swim but down. 

“You know why he wanted to come here, don’t you?” Will presses.

“I knew as I was laying you down in your bed. It felt like a macabre jigsaw coming together,” Hannibal murmurs distantly. He’s still staring at the chair, with loose limbs and a frown.

“Did you know you were going to turn yourself in, when you carried me home?” 

“I knew before you that I wouldn’t survive separation.” 

“When did you know?” Will questions, suddenly desperate for the answer. 

Hannibal turns to him, brows knitted together. His lips part and he sighs before telling him in a low, tame voice, “When you were dragged from my side at Muskrat Farm. The possibility of your death left me bereft, aching.” 

“Are you really that banal?” Will snarls. 

He’d expected the answer to be as early as the Uffizi Gallery, though he supposes the actions taken after that reunion would oppose that theory. 

Laughter blooms in Hannibal’s throat. 

“In all the time you’ve known me, I’m sure you’ve come to realize how incredibly hackneyed I become when you intersect my spaces.” 

Will’s defense dissolves and his snarl is replaced with lips curling upward. 

“And yet you’re the same. Still playing your old tricks. You told me that was a sedative, that I wouldn’t have to talk with…well, you.” 

He gestures to the syringe, only an ounce of serum left over.  

“Satisfying to know you haven’t broken me in,” Hannibal teases, straining his back. There are a few pops. Will can imagine the pain he’s in, after carrying deadweight across miles.

“Oh, I’ve broken you in, in other ways,” Will murmurs flirtatiously and one of Hannibal’s brows flies up.

A pause as Hannibal considers this, cheeks rising substantially. 

“I don’t believe you can change my mind, even with the added benefit of hindsight. With the benefit of spending years with me, by my side. I don’t believe you’ll succeed,” Will says.

“I must have thought there a possibility, if I came here anyway.” 

Will is about to respond when the door to the shed jostles and opens. A breeze of cold air whirls in, and Will shivers with it. His Hannibal steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“Verdict?” Will asks, ignoring the other Hannibal for now. He can feel his awe emitting toward them in waves. 

“No,” Hannibal whispers, quiet. There is a somber edge to him that hadn’t been there when Will last saw him. It doesn’t stop him from getting up and smacking the syringe down into Hannibal’s palm. 

“You were curious to see what I would do. Haven’t had the distinct pleasure of being the subject of one of your games for quite a while, Hannibal.” 

“I thought you’d find merit in the company,” he admits, unapologetically. 

They both turn to see the more battered Hannibal watching them, with paled curiosity. This will be enough fuel to keep him going throughout the years of incarceration to come. At least, there’s that. 

“Did I budge at all?” Will asks, though he genuinely doesn’t want to know. 

Hannibal doesn’t look at him when he smiles, no meaning behind the expression. “No, I don’t think you did,” he mutters. “I commend you for taking this trip with me.” 

“I told him everything,” Will nods to the Hannibal on the ground. “Well, lots of things.”

“I suspected you might,” Hannibal agrees, warming up even in the cold of the small boarded room. It strikes Will that the other Hannibal is going to stay here until dark. 

He slips his coat off his shoulders and places it over his lap. The Hannibal on the floor bows his head in grateful acquiescence. 

“Jack will come in the night. Use this however you want. And this,” he moves to get a boxcutter from one of the toolboxes. He places it in Hannibal’s fingers. “Cut yourself loose when we leave.” 

This Hannibal stares at him with shallow melancholy. 

Will holds back a remark about the raging atmosphere of brooding and self-righteousness rising steadily in this room, heavy enough to rival a frat house. 

Disregarding the look and his thoughts, he returns to his own Hannibal, unwilling to press the matter and says, “Tell me you’re done here.” 

“I am done,” Hannibal asserts in a low voice, taking Will’s hand and lifting it to his lips to kiss. He wants the other Hannibal to see, either to gloat or to comfort. Maybe both. 

Will doesn’t notice the watch stretched around him, or Hannibal clicking the button until the visage of the shed starts to fade into their cozy living room, and the image of a bloodied and bound Hannibal vanishes all together. 

He can’t help but wonder if his jacket he’d given away will keep him warm. 

“If you could, stoke the fire,” Hannibal implores, hand curling on his jaw so he can draw him in for a kiss on the cheek. “Please.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Will murmurs gently, watching Hannibal disappear down the hall. The coat is already coming off, shirt half unbuttoned before he even departs into the bedroom. 

Will needs to reset the flame in the hearth. 

There are no sparks left, until he adds fuel and lights a new match. 

It burns bright and hot by the time Hannibal returns. He acknowledges Will with his eyes, disappearing again into the kitchen, only to come back with cups of herbal tea. 

“Thank you,” Will says, taking the searing mug between his sensitive palms. He can almost feel the bite of Wolf Trap, still on his skin. 

“I won’t disclose details, as I promised you would not hear of it. But, I will tell you that there is nothing to disclose that I hadn’t earnestly expected. The rejection rang the same. I thought you may have preferred that outcome, though I did try valiantly to sway your conviction.”

Hannibal sits beside Will on the couch, stroking a hand over his thigh. 

Will cradles Hannibal’s hand in his own, squeezing his cold fingers tight. 

“I do prefer that outcome. I’m finding I prefer little change. Our romps have been fun, but that game of yours took a lot out of me.” 

“Giving you a faulty sedative?” Hannibal asks, impassively. 

“I felt his pain, as I’d felt it all those years ago. I didn’t want to. That was the exact reason we agreed I wouldn’t be watching, or listening.” 

“Perhaps I realized too late that I needed you to feel as I was feeling. Perhaps there was another reason for my wanting you to go.”

Will slides down further into the cushions and leans into the kiss placed on his forehead. Hannibal is generous with the physical affection tonight. He must have felt starved for it in the face of Will’s familiar, cutting sendoff.

“I thought we fixed this bit about communication,” Will grumbles, turning bodily into Hannibal’s side to be wrapped up in warm arms. 

“I’m not sure what came over me. I haven’t felt the need to hide anything from you for a long while,” Hannibal admits, voice even and hand steady as he strokes it down Will’s back. 

Another kiss is pressed against his temple.

“These trips are drawing out our maladaptive habits.”

Hannibal hums. “My curiosity had never felt so much like an old flame.” 

“My empathy as well,” Will says quietly, voice muffled into Hannibal’s shoulder. 

There is silence apart from the lapping flames. 

“Do tell me you have a more appetizing idea for our next venture,” Hannibal presses, kissing down his cheek until he reaches his nose, and kisses the button of it. Will wrinkles his nose in response, but doesn’t pull away. 

“Oh, I’ve come up with something.” 

“Is it devious?” 

“Very.” 

“Do I get a hint?” 

Will smirks with teeth, throwing his leg over Hannibal’s lap so he’s straddling him. His icy fingertips glide under Hannibal’s fresh button-up shirt and find the brand on his back. 

“I’m going to prevent Cordell from marking what’s mine.” 

Chapter Text

It is a rainy afternoon in Argentina, meant for spending time in the bedroom. 

Will drags the head of his cock over Hannibal’s red, used hole. He carefully watches with a coveting edge to his desire as he slips inside. He draws a gruff noise out of Hannibal when he bottoms out fully, and he teethes at his shoulder to prevent his own from rising out of his throat. 

“How’s that?” Will mumbles, lipping at his shoulder blades as he rocks. 

Hannibal makes a noise that is closer to a purr than a moan, and reaches back to grab one of Will’s hands. He pulls it over his body, above their heads and intertwines their fingers. 

Will slides out and thrusts back in, moving them only centimeters up the bed with each one. Will groans when Hannibal’s wet heat clamps around him, tugging him further into his warmth even when Will’s cock can’t nudge any deeper. 

There is miniscule space between them. Will’s hips are flush to the curves of Hannibal’s ass. His chest is pressed up against his back, sternum and nipples brushing the pink ridges of his brand. He’s draped over him like a cloak, grinding pleasure into him as he excavates his own. 

With his free hand, he taps against the brand, scratching his nails in circles to trace the pattern. Tilting his head down, he mouths at it to hear Hannibal’s low moan. 

“Is it sensitive, or are you putting on a show?” Will asks dryly, thrusting harder, abandoning the mark to grip the handles of his hips instead as he ups the pace. 

Hannibal grunts after a particularly loud slap of skin on skin. He squeezes Will’s hand and tosses a dark look over his shoulder. “I don’t think about it unless you’re touching it.” 

“Then you think about it too much,” Will alleges. “It’s in an inaccessible spot. Easy to forget, even in the shower when you wash your back. But, I remind you of it weekly, daily even. Do you remember the pain or the healing?”

“What of your scars?” Hannibal pivots the question in Will’s direction. “Did you remember them happening, or the aftermath?” 

“I remember reminiscing,” Will admits simply. “Sitting in your kitchen and wondering what would have happened if you’d gutted me completely.” 

Hannibal arches up, pressing his ass back to meet Will’s rhythm. He pounds him faster, louder. It isn’t so rough as it’s meant to be noisy. When he’s allowed, he prefers to agitate Hannibal’s refined vision of what sex should be like, and come as close to a porno as humanly possible. 

Hannibal never asks him to stop. In reality, he likes it, but can never admit it. 

“We haven’t done this for a while,” Will murmurs, gaining leverage by pushing himself up with a palm flat on the mattress. “You’re tight as hell.” 

He can’t see Hannibal’s face, but he can picture his smile. 

“I’m sure you prefer it that way,” he responds evenly, curling an arm around the pillow under his cheek. He looks graceful, even while being ridden hard. Under the whip of Will Graham’s wiles. 

Before Will can reply, Hannibal clenches around him and holds it. 

“Fuck,” Will gasps, high-pitched. His hips catapult forward into the tighter passage, and he moans when he feels Hannibal give, just barely, before clenching hard once more. He can only hold it for a few more seconds before his muscles give again, and Will’s cock is slipping in and out of him wetly, easily. Will groans, digging nails into skin. “And I wonder why you have an ego the size of a hot air balloon.” 

“Much bigger than that,” Hannibal jokes breathlessly, rubbing a thumb over Will’s knuckles with tenderness, as if Will isn’t ramming him so hard he’ll bruise. 

They undulate together for another few minutes, until Will feels the electric coil making his thighs tense with perspiration, and his hips move without his permission, starting to unfurl. 

“Touch me,” Hannibal murmurs, voice reedy and fingers loosening and tightening in intervals around Will’s. Will nods, forehead sticking to the middle of Hannibal’s back as he wraps his free hands under them and locates Hannibal’s length in the sweaty, overheated trap between him and the mattress. 

He’s hard as stone and when he touches him, Hannibal lets out a breathy, wanton noise. It spurs him on, jerking him quickly with his short thrusts. 

It surprises him when Hannibal’s body locks up and jolts. He forgets that Hannibal is far more sensitive when Will fucks him than the other way around. 

Come trickles down Will’s fist as he continues to stroke him inside and out, and he whines into Hannibal’s shoulder blade when as hole flutters around him, like a mouth, the last few moments of Hannibal’s orgasm draining. 

Will’s erection is still straining, surrounded by raw and damp heat. 

Sometimes, Hannibal urges him to continue, but not tonight. 

He harnesses some leverage, placing elbows under them and leaning up, pulling an arm back to push Will gently out of him. Will slips out with a hiss, head buzzing with nothing but arousal and wanting desperately to be back inside his body.

Hannibal rolls on his back and nudges Will to walk up his chest, knees on either side of him on the mattress. At first, Will thinks he’s going to take his cock into his mouth, but he keeps nudging until he can swipe his tongue over his opening. 

Will grabs at the top of the headboard, face nearly collapsing into the wall. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, sinking further down until he’s seated on Hannibal’s face. All he has are the bars of their headboard to hold onto, and he’s so close to coming that he’s not even sure he needs a hand on his cock. 

Hannibal provides either way, mouthing at his hole and reaching with both hands over Will’s thighs to massage the head of his dick in a tight fist, and to lightly stroke the base in unison. 

The double sensations have him rocking senselessly, with whimpers that might be poorly formed words. He can’t tell amidst the fog of sparking arousal. 

Hannibal’s cheeks are stubbly. He hasn’t shaved, and it pricks against his skin as his jaw practically unhinges, mouthing mercilessly at his quivering opening. Will clenches around nothing, twitches when Hannibal’s tongue pokes at his entrance, drags the pointed tip around his hole before laving it with the flat side. 

Will smacks his temple against the wall, unable to escape the pleasure mounting inside of him. He can’t control any of it. Hannibal’s hands on his cock are all encompassing, drawing his orgasm out of him before he can even breathe a plea. 

He paints the wall with his release. Some of it splatters on the headboard, drizzles over Hannibal’s hands, ends up on Will’s stomach. He feels debauched. 

Hannibal keeps going when he’s boneless, and the sharp drag of his almost-beard against Will’s tingling skin has him moaning helplessly, scrambling away from his tight hold and wet, intrusive tongue. 

He flops down on his back, in the first stages of rolling away when Hannibal lurches down and starts licking up the mess on Will’s stomach. 

“Christ, Hannibal,” Will murmurs, a rough aftershock running through him. He jolts with it, and then settles. Hannibal’s tongue retreats back into his mouth when he reaches one of his nipples. He kisses Will, tasting musky with a tinge of salt. It shouldn’t be enticing, but it is. 

They kiss for a moment longer, with Will’s hands on Hannibal’s hips, then he falls back against the sheets with a whole-hearted laugh. The shadows on the ceiling shift and swirl on a loop, cast from the breezing fan. 

Occasionally, the irony that the best sex of Will's heterosexual life involves a man, is striking.

“Can you make me something with chocolate?” Will requests, Hannibal’s kisses now trailing down his sternum, licking at the soft space between his pecs. 

“How does mousse sound?” he murmurs. 

“Like I would pay you back in sex if I hadn’t just worn us both out,” Will replies hoarsely and Hannibal grins up at him, kissing him close-mouthed before retreating from the warm cocoon of their bed. 

Will uses the empty space to stretch his muscles, and rub the sweat off his body. It sinks into the sheets, slowly spreading like molasses. 

When noises erupt from the kitchen, Will finally gets up to put on a pair of jeans and a blue sweater. It is definitely Hannibal’s sweater, hanging loose on his shoulders, but for now it’s his. 

While Hannibal prepares two cups of mousse for them, he tears the sheets from the bed and bundles them in his arms, heading down to the laundry room. 

He sits on the washing machine during the extreme portion of the cycle, and he closes his eyes to the vibrations. It almost lulls him to sleep, and how dearly Hannibal would hate it if he found Will’s skull cracked open after toppling forward onto the cement floor of their basement. 

He expects Hannibal to appear at the top of the basement stairs, an adumbrated figure with a bewitching voice. Instead, the stairs creak as his slippers flop against each step.

He’s shirtless, wearing only his heather grey drawstring pants. 

Will reaches out for one of the cups of mousse he’s holding, not bothering to hop up off the washing machine despite Hannibal’s weekly admonishments about the matter. He takes it and holds back a smile when he sees even this treat is twirled into an intricate design, white sprinkles decorating the top. 

“What did I do to deserve delivery service?” Will teases, spooning a large portion into his mouth. The flavor bursts on his tongue, a thick cocoa with almost a hint of cherry. 

“An apology for my behavior, yesterday,” Hannibal suggests, gathering only a tiny chunk. His nostrils flare before he captures the chocolate between his lips. Will wants to lick the flavor off of him despite having a cup of the thing in his hands. 

“Hey, please,” Will starts with a half smile and a sarcastic lilt, “that was yesterday.” 

Hannibal smirks. “Even so.” 

The washing machine jolts and the glass cup nearly slides out of Will’s hands. The basement is hot, and his palms are clammy. Not the best combination.

Before he can concede and hop off the washing machine, Hannibal’s cup of mousse is already placed away on the detergent rack (which is a sacrifice for him, in and of itself), and he’s gripping Will strongly by the waist and hauling him to his feet. 

“Manhandler.”

“Maneater. Mason was the manhandler, if I recall,” Hannibal corrects. 

Will nods, leaping through the caverns in his mind to remember the grating voice of a man now dead. His voice stung like no other, made Will’s ears feel like they were bleeding pins and needles. 

“Have you thought more on our trip tonight?” he asks, dessert cup back in his hands. 

“Yes,” he gives a breathy reply. “Yeah, I want him to eat a part of himself.” When Hannibal continues to watch him expectantly, Will clears his throat and clarifies, “I want to overcook his penis.” 

“Machiavellian, darling,” Hannibal says in a quiet, delighted tone. 

“He wouldn’t shut up about it at the dinner table. One would suspect he’s eager to try such a dish,” Will mutters, thinking back fouly at the time he ripped away flesh from Cordell’s face. 

“I think Mason often appreciated karmic irony.”  

“I wonder if he’ll appreciate the taste of it.” Will scoops up another endowed portion of his mousse, and asks, “Will we be able to get past the security?” 

“I got past security with nothing more than a hammer and determination. After my arms had been strung behind my back for hours on end, mind you.” 

“Right,” Will tuts, then adds, “There’s the issue of Alana and Margot.” 

Hannibal’s eyes flit up and then down, in deep thought as if he hadn’t considered this. The look he shoots Will is imponderable. 

“If we care to have the space to ourselves, I’d suggest killing them.” 

Will breathes in then out, tapping fingers against his thigh. After a few moments contemplation, he nods with a question voiced gently, “Will you do it?” 

A familiar expression crosses Hannibal’s features. One that tells Will he’s going to continue pushing until Will compromises, or until one of the glass cups in their hands is smashed to bits on the cement floor. 

Instead, he mutters, “If that is what you wish.” 

“Then, there isn’t an issue.” 

Will meets his eyes with menace.

Alana has been a briefly opened and immediately closed subject for the better part of their time in Argentina. It’s been at least a year since Hannibal’s promise to her has been so much as mentioned. It appears he assumed Will would deny him the kill even in another timeline. 

Will isn’t so fickle.

“No, there isn’t,” Hannibal agrees finally, with dark eyes and a shifting jaw. At first, Will thinks he’s agitated, but he can often confuse that with amusement when Hannibal is acting ruefully duplicitous. 

Will licks some mousse from his spoon, quirking a brow. 

“Can I convince you to let me bring a gun?” 

“It is your choice to carry a firearm. I cannot comment on the matter.”

“Can I convince you to carry a gun?” 

Hannibal’s head tilts sideways. “Will,” he chides.

“This isn’t reality, Hannibal, not really. This is a game you and I are playing, and it’s not worth either of our lives. Just for one, miniscule reward.” 

“You haven’t requested this of me before,” Hannibal observes, glancing at the vibrating washing machine. It makes a loud crackling sound, jostling next to the drier. 

“Before, we weren’t charging headfirst into Mason’s lion den, filled to the brim with what money buys best. Power and protection,” Will debates. “At least carry one with you. You don’t have to have it in your hands.” 

Hannibal purses his lips and folds, murmuring, “I suppose those guns I purchased for you for Christmas weren’t an entire waste.” 

Will sighs, relief expelling from and filling him all at once. He leans forward to kiss the corner of his pout with chocolate stained lips. Hannibal’s tongue flicks out to lap up a speck that made it on his chin. 

Affection is a sure fire way to loosen Hannibal up, make him agreeable. 

If Will had known how easily swayed by gentle physicality Hannibal is, he would have put good use to it in their early days, or even the days leading up to that brutal night in his kitchen. 

“Shall we reconvene after dinner?” Hannibal offers. 

Darkness spreads through Will, as subtle as an eclipse, but perfectly stable. A gawky smile forms before he whispers, “Wear your best suit.” 

Hannibal’s ‘best’ suit stands out with a black plaid suit jacket and a silvery white button-up shirt underneath. The tie he wears is a deep maroon, so deep Will thinks in certain lights it would appear quite black. Intentional, definitely. 

Will is wearing a plain beige suit, unpatterned save for his navy blue tie which is layered in grey pinstripes. They look the pair, but Will doesn’t feel the dark fae creature Hannibal so often implies he is. He feels like a businessman, powerful and rich, more so than even Mason Verger or his father had been. 

“I tell you this often, but I must reiterate how well-suited you are to the color blue. Your eyes resemble sea glass, obscured by the Nile,” Hannibal says, brushing the back of his hand along Will’s unmarred cheek. 

“And I think you should wear black more often,” Will replies curtly, taking him in head to toe. “You wore this for me.” 

“While I would not personally consider this my best suit, it is your favorite, and by all means that are important, objectively the best suit I own,” Hannibal curls fingers around his cuffs, adjusting the links. They are cracked white marble, in the shape of ovals. 

Will’s cufflinks are navy blue ovals, to contrast. 

“If all goes well tonight, maybe I can take it off you when we get back,” Will says suggestively, “Just to look for any tears or stains, of course.”

“Of course,” Hannibal smirks back. 

Once their suits are lint-rolled (Hannibal’s ungodly suggestion) and straightened out with a few tugs and adjustments, Will hands Hannibal the smaller, silver handgun he’d received in the set that one Christmas. For himself, he takes the black revolver, much larger in his hand. 

If it were daggers and knives, Hannibal would make a fuss about having the biggest and sharpest, but for guns, he’s satisfied to have as little horsepower as possible. 

Hannibal slips it into the back of his trousers, underneath his suit jacket, and Will does the same, though he’ll be holding it when they get to the gates of the farm.

“Don’t forget, I want to stop you from being branded. Personally,” Will reminds when Hannibal starts turning the knobs and clicking on the watch. The more he does it, the more Will becomes confused on how the thing works at all. Perhaps it doesn’t work and Hannibal’s genuinely had magic powers this entire time.

It would explain the stag. 

Hannibal only hums in agreement, with a short curve of his lips. It excites him to know Will wants to prevent him from being marked, by anybody other than himself. 

It works both ways; Will knows this dearly.

“Though nausea doesn’t seem much of an issue for either of us at this point, are you ready, Will?” Hannibal asks, allowing Will to be the one to loop their fingers and wrists through the flexible wristband. 

“ This , I’ve always been ready for.” 

Hannibal clicks the red button, and the image of their front door vanishes. Will expects the woods to come into view, the vast fields of snow and dry grass stretching for miles. The smell of farm animals and slop. Instead, golden columns appear, marble floors. Walls shiny with polish and the mixed scents of antiseptic and perfume. 

They’re inside the Verger estate, surrounded by mansion walls. 

“Hannibal, what – ”

“I figured we could avoid the guards if I tampered with the coordinates. Didn’t imagine I’d get it quite so precise, however,” Hannibal explains, looking around with the consequenceless curiosity of a cat. Will bares his teeth when he hears footsteps, and drags them into the closest closet he can find. 

Fortunately, it is unlocked. 

They squeeze together in the small space, filled already with mops and brooms and cleaning supplies. The smell of antiseptic making him light-headed is much stronger here. 

Hannibal shifts, and accidentally knees Will’s groin. 

Will grunts, moving back and bumbling into the wall, elbow banging against the closet door. “Jesus Christ, we’re a fucking circus act,” he grumbles. 

Hannibal shushes him silently, with a finger to his lips. 

“This is your doing,” Will argues petulantly, but Hannibal’s lip curls up in a snarl, so he does as he’s told. Seconds later, the clack of heels grows close and Will realizes it’s Margot. 

She hasn’t changed her perfume, not since that night she spent at Will’s house in Wolf Trap. Hannibal must have been able to smell it too.

They stay quiet, touching in awkward places to remain still. 

Margot exits through a door adjacent to the closet. 

“That door leads out to the barn. There is an entrance that doesn’t lead outside. We won’t be seen if we enter through there,” Hannibal whispers into Will’s ear. 

Will shivers from the heat of his breath against his skin. 

Whoever said romantic closet scenes in films aren’t sexy? 

The broom digging into his hip is telling another story though, and he winces when Hannibal shifts again and pushes him further into it. 

“When Margot gets back, and leaves, we can go," he bites out in lieu of badgering Hannibal for being a clumsy moron. 

“I only hope I haven’t missed the mark entirely.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Hannibal’s nostrils flare, as if sensing for another presence close by. He really is like a dog, which should be a clue to Will that his old habits die hard. 

“There was a very short window between your being taken away from the barn, and my being strung up to the ceiling and branded. I doubt we’ve come too late, but we shouldn’t wait long.” 

“Gotcha,” Will mutters, instantly waspish. “If she doesn’t come back in two minutes, we’re going in. If she’s in the way, well, we planned for that too.” 

They wait sixty seconds. Will counts to the full sixty this time, even with Hannibal breathing down his neck, his familiar warmth emitting from him in heavy waves. It’s like being in the tropics. The man is practically a furnace. No wonder being branded hadn’t affected him.

The door to the closet opens abruptly and Will clutches the lapels of Hannibal’s suit with one hand on instinct. 

A housekeeper stands before them, in black tie and pants. He gawks at them with a baffled expression, eyes narrowing and head turning to look in the direction of the barn. 

In a flash, a dagger slides out of Hannibal’s cuff, and is puncturing the man’s heart. Will moves out of the way so the miniscule splatter doesn’t stain his suit. Only a few specks sink into Hannibal’s black suit jacket, barely noticeable. 

Will squirms out of the closet and watches as Hannibal slits his throat, now curled around the back of him to prevent further mess. Blood splashes across the brooms and bleach bottles. The man collapses forward, noisily, face first into the shelves. 

They clatter down around him. The scent of cleaning product spilling is almost as overwhelming as the blood. 

Head whipping around to check their surroundings, Will is relieved to find no one’s come running. Too big of a home; the mansion spans nearly miles. 

Hannibal adjusts the body to lay down, splayed to fit the small space. He wipes the flat ends of his blade on the man’s somewhat untarnished trousers. Will doesn’t understand when Hannibal reaches for towels on the top shelf, until he’s making a small barrier between the man and the crack at the bottom of the door. The blood won’t spill out, and hopefully won’t signal to any of the security guards that something is wrong. Perhaps this man won’t be found for weeks. 

Primly, Hannibal shuts the door and it looks as if they’d never been here. 

Will only just recognizes his heart pounding rampantly against his ribcage. Notices, because Hannibal puts a hand on his chest and allows him to lick the speck of blood that landed on his jaw. 

It tastes like iron, and Will grins.

“Come on, let’s not waste anymore time,” he murmurs, teething at his neck. 

Hannibal looks at him the way he looked at him on the bluff. It is a thrill, to draw that expression out of him. Bloodlust blurring the line of the lustful devotion ancient prophets soliloquize. 

Margot is nowhere to be seen when they reach two big doors leading into the barn. 

It’s starting to smell like hay and farm animals now. Through the cracks, Will can see Hannibal strung up by ropes, arms stretched taut above his head. It must be agonizing if spent too long in the same position. 

“Alana told me you deserved torture, not necessarily death,” Will whispers, eyes on Cordell to make sure he doesn’t pick up the rod in the flame. “I used to think she was just as morally grey as I. More than capable of cruelty.”

“She doesn’t have the stomach for it. She much prefers justice,” Hannibal responds, eyes on Will rather than peeking inside the barn. 

“She has a stomach for it when it suits her needs,” Will bites out. 

It is a humorous thing. Will often speaks ill of Alana, and yet had been the one to refuse Hannibal the opportunity to kill her all these years. When Hannibal speaks of her, it is fond, and warmly reminiscent. To be fair, Hannibal speaks about most people in their past in this way. He finds amusement in the most depraved or contemptible people. Will’s affection for Alana, platonic and romantic, dwindled when he learned she’d been screwing Hannibal Lecter. 

The jealousy he’d experienced then hadn’t reared it’s ugly head until he’d become intimate with Hannibal, only then had he understood his contempt for Alana bled deep into the crypt’s door in his heart he keeps open for Hannibal and Hannibal alone. 

Hannibal’s head turns, the way it moves when he’s scenting the air, but he’s listening. 

“If you would like to hinder Cordell’s efforts, darling, now would be a good time.” 

Will nods, fondling for his gun. He wields it in his right hand, gifting one last peck on the cheek to his Hannibal who receives it with a tender hum. 

“Do I look like a knight and shining armor to you?” Will asks smugly. 

“Perhaps with longer hair and a longer beard.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Will notes, “Stay here unless Cordell impossibly gets the upper hand. Got me?” 

Hannibal’s lips tighten into a firm line, a formal acquiescence; “Got you,” 

Rearing back, Will gathers all his strength and knowledge from his cop-training days and kicks in the barn door. They hurtle forward, and he marches inside, raising the gun in Cordell’s direction. The man had just picked up the brand, shining and steaming from the heat. 

Hannibal’s eyes snap to him, and he smirks widely, proudly, when Will shoots Cordell in the shoulder.

Cordell shouts, dropping the brand to the ground. It makes a loud clang, and Will continues briskly, shooting Cordell in the knee when he’s close enough to get the angle right. 

“Hello Will,” Hannibal greets cheerfully. 

“Hello Doctor Lecter,” Will greets back, keeping his eye strained on Cordell’s whimpering, squirming body. He’s attempting to reign in his reactions, gather his faculties, but Will toes one of his shoes into the wound in his knee and he howls. 

“I was going to shoot you until you were pulp, but I have a better idea,” Will begins, crossing around Hannibal’s swaying body to retrieve the still-hot rod on the floor. 

Without preamble, he presses the searing end into Cordell’s face and the guttural scream that erupts from the man is barely animal and nowhere near human. A sick feeling of pleasure twists in his stomach, and then he finally tosses the brand aside, gazing at the new Verger Industry marking covering all of his cheek and most of his nose and forehead. 

Now, Cordell’s whimpers have gained a weepy quality, eyes wet with helplessness.

“Don’t cry. I doubt you had much luck with the ladies to start with,” Will grumbles, digging around into Cordell’s pockets to find the keys for Hannibal’s restraints. 

He approaches Hannibal, twirling them with a finger in the keyring. 

Will can’t resist the ingenuous expression on Hannibal’s face, gripping his jaw in one hand and kissing him with tongue and teeth. If Hannibal's stories of the branding are accurate, he draws more of a reaction out of Hannibal now than the scorching metal would have. 

“Will,” Hannibal whispers tenderly, fully taking him in and frowning. “ Will? ”

Will hadn’t been planning to keep up a charade of being the Will he knows and loves, if you consider cutting into someone’s brain loving, but that’s a debate for another day. 

“Not entirely,” Will starts, moving around him to unlock the shackles around both wrists. When his right arm is free, Hannibal shakes it out and the gesture is so entirely human, it makes Will swoon internally. “Uh, long story, from the future. Good enough for you?” 

Hannibal turns when he’s free, lips parted in question, but Will shakes his head.

“The Will from this timeline is somewhere in this mansion, being held in wait before a surgery that…Cordell can no longer complete. Save yourself, and save me. Kill them all. But, leave Mason for us.” 

Hannibal’s brows raise. 

“Us?” 

“Don’t ask questions,” Will says in a low, teasing voice and lies, “Timeline contingencies.” 

Hannibal surprisingly doesn’t ask any more questions, and thankfully leaves out the exit Will had been hoping for. That is when his own Hannibal, adorned in a suit and not nearly as beaten up as the other had been, comes striding in. 

“Getting lazy with the explanations are we?” he asks playfully. 

“I feel like I’m in Groundhog Day,” Will replies, stepping away from Cordell’s body so Hannibal can get a better view. His chest puffs out, like a proud bird, and Hannibal mirrors the action.

“He’s still alive. Shall I snap his neck?” 

“He’ll bleed out,” Will suggests, anxious to get to the main event.

“Getting sentimental?” 

Will snarls and points the gun at Cordell’s throat. He shoots the center, point-blank. The last of Cordell’s murmurings cease as blood spurts weakly and overflows from his neck. 

Will tucks his gun away, and Hannibal’s resounding hum is almost accusatory. 

“Oh, please. Cordell doesn’t deserve to die by my hand. He’s barely worthy of being called a pig. I’d reckon he deserved a more underwhelming death, in fact,” Will remarks. 

Hannibal straightens Will’s collar, in a way that is more condescending than helpful and replies, “Sometimes I fear you still cling to the commiserable views of right and wrong, like you used to.” 

“You’re saying I clung to them?” Will barks out. “I know right from wrong Hannibal. What we do isn’t right, it’s what I delight in as you yourself say.”

“If the you of the past had accepted such delight, you may not have gotten caught up in predicaments such as these,” Hannibal gestures around the barn. 

“Says the man I just saved from being branded,” Will glowers, then snaps, “But, if you still think I haven’t marinated enough for your tastes, you’re free to saw into my brain whenever the opportunity arises.” 

He breaths in through his nose sharply before walking ahead of Hannibal, returning to the mansion through their original entrance. Hannibal is following close behind, but giving him space. It won’t last, and neither will he apologize. 

It’s their way. But, an argument like this hasn’t formed in quite a while. Will had naively thought they were past such trifles, and he’s oddly relieved to find that isn’t the case. 

Gunshots sound in the distance. The other Hannibal must have already started in on the security. It is eerily silent aside from the bullets being shot off, over and over. Will expects muffled screams and the fleshy sounds of skin and guts being torn and cut into. 

The estate is too large. 

Will stops when they reach a hallway, leading down to several doors. He vaguely remembers his way around this wing. He’d been rolled in and out of several of these doors, on an almost segway contraption. 

He sighs, feeling Hannibal’s stickling gaze on his nape. 

“Truce,” Will declares, turning to face him. “I want to have fun today.” 

Hannibal’s head turns, in a half nod, then he murmurs, “I harbor no resentment towards you Will, at any point in your life. Not in the past, and not now.” 

Will sighs again, feeling calm against all odds. 

“I know, Hannibal.” 

The echo of another gunshot reverberates through the halls, more distant this time. Will looks up at the ceiling, circling Hannibal as he tries to figure out where the source came from. 

“Do you remember where Mason is being held?” Hannibal asks. 

“I scarcely know where I was being held,” Will mutters, taking his gun out of his trousers again to aim in front of them as they advance down the hall. He keeps it trained on entryways of open doors. 

“I could attempt to follow his scent,” Hannibal offers.

“Like a dog?” Will asks. “Can you really do that?” 

“Not as well as a dog,” he states, amused. “I might be able to suggest general directions, and it would be better than floundering around the mansion aimlessly.” 

“Lead the way,” Will concedes, waving down the hall. Hannibal steps forward, nostrils flaring. He takes long strides that have Will rushing after him, gun pointing warily in several directions just in case. He won’t stand for Hannibal being branded a second time in this place. 

After ten minutes of closing in on potential rooms, and entering halls that look the same and different all at once, Will can’t help but ask. 

“You never added Muskrat farm to your memory palace?” 

Hannibal doesn’t turn, or acknowledge him for several moments. His nose is turned up, either whiffing the air or in deep thought. Eventually he says, “No. Only the dining room.” 

Will is about to ask ‘why’ when he remembers the pungent taste of Cordell’s flesh in his mouth. Hannibal had never looked prouder of him than in that shining, grotesque moment. 

On the second floor, Hannibal stands before an archway. He pauses, which is a first, and Will sidles up behind him to get a look at what caused the hesitance. 

A master bedroom. Reds and golds are all meshed together to create more than an illusion of significant wealth. It is a reality, as well as the blood coating the tile floor, just beyond the rug under the bed. The bodies are tangled together; Margot and Alana. 

“You found them before we did,” Will breathes, goosebumps shivering up his arm. 

“Alana did not have time to negotiate my freedom for your safety, and in turn, the temporary pause on the promise I made to her.” 

“And Margot never had a chance,” Will adds solemnly. “Her fate was intertwined with Alana’s from the moment they met.” 

Hannibal continues staring at their mangled bodies. Not so mangled, but rather bloody and pale in the way that the dead always are. Their eyes are like glass, and their hands are intertwined weakly, the last grasp of two dying lovers. 

Will turns to watch Hannibal, to see something resembling disdain crumble on his features. He turns to meet Will’s eyes with sharp focus. 

“Were you wondering if you could go through with it? Or did you know that you would, all this time,” Will says, nearly an accusation. 

“I have no qualms with killing Alana or Margot.” 

“But, you know what killing them would mean to me, and you did it anyway. Did you think that you’d hold back, that you could show me now how merciful you can be?” 

“This version of me is not the same as the version of me you know now,” Hannibal debates, adroitly. “You were the one to suggest I kill them all. I could hear you through the barn doors.” 

“I wanted to see if you would do it,” Will whispers, eyes trailing down to the floor, then back to the bodies in the silent bedroom. They haven’t stepped through the threshold.

“We did not understand each other nearly as well in this moment in time, despite what you may believe or remember. We were still testing each other’s limits, our boundaries.”

Will nods, eyes on Margot’s sharp cheekbones and nose.

“I still thought I could change you.” 

“You have changed me,” Hannibal responds, fingers curling around one of Will’s wrists. “You were the one to tell me that, a long time ago. Do you think in our own timeline, I could kill Alana and Margot or their child, against your will?” 

Will strains against Hannibal’s grip to test how far he’ll restrict. Hannibal lets go of his wrist immediately, as if to prove a point.

“Wouldn’t you?” Will asks quietly, meeting his eyes. 

There is a muffled shout, a high-pitched and familiar grating voice. Will peers down the hall, and knows precisely where it must have come from. There are two large doors, most likely leading to Mason’s bedroom. It makes sense he’d want to be close to his sister and her girlfriend. 

“Close the door,” Will mutters and Hannibal follows his orders, “Follow me.” 

Ignoring the tension refusing to dwindle between them, Will and Hannibal rear up to the two large doors with dead security guards splayed out and lifeless, like decorations. The other Hannibal must have been able to tell Mason was in the room, and left him for Will just as he’d requested. 

“He’s inside,” Hannibal says, in a low voice. 

Yeah, I gathered that . Will refuses to turn the wound that’s festering into a gaping one, so he doesn’t voice the remark.

Instead, he kicks the locked doors down, and Mason swerves to face them in his electric wheelchair. Hannibal moves to stand at Will’s side and Mason sneers at them. 

“Love the suits gentleman. Did my sister provide them?” 

“Your sister is dead, Mason,” Will announces, raising the gun up high just in case he has anything up his sleeve. “As is Alana, and most of your guards.”

“Not to mention Cordell,” Hannibal adds, cheerfully. 

“You can’t kill me, Mr. Graham,” Mason’s tone is gravelly and overconfident. “You’re not a killer, unlike your companion over there. Why don’t you let your dog do the dirty work for you?” 

“Oh, I’m not planning on killing you Mason,” Will responds softly, getting close enough to touch him. “We want to have you for dinner.”

In that moment, he swings the gun and slams Mason across the temple. Will had suspected he’d need more than the one blow, but Mason easily slumps in his chair, unconscious. 

Hannibal moves to look over Will’s work. 

“He should remain unconscious for a short time. More than enough for the dish we planned,” Hannibal takes his fingers away from Mason’s pulse and starts folding up his sleeves. 

“You’ll have no problem sniffing out the kitchen, right?” 

Mason wakes up when Will is wheeling him into position at the head of the table. He grumbles, first incoherent and inaudible ramblings, which turn into accusations, words spitfiring rapidly before Will shushes him with a flick to the ear. 

“We thought it fair you be at the head of the dining table, since you are providing the space and the meat,” he states, making sure the straps locking his arms behind his back are secure, as well as the ones locking his body and waist down, motionless. 

“What have you done?!” Mason shouts, spittle drizzling down his chin. With distaste, Will wipes his mouth with a napkin then sets it across his lap. The gesture seems to make Mason realize he is without all his parts. Will almost feels a pang of empathy when Mason glances down between his legs, eyes widening and mouth clamping shut. 

Almost. 

“You’ll pay for this Mr. Graham. You and your playmate,” he garbles.

“I highly doubt that, Mason. The numbing agent is bound to wear off soon, so I suggest you eat your meal and savor it painlessly,” Will tells him, disappearing for a moment into the kitchen. 

Hannibal is preparing the dish. Will had insisted on not making it a spectacle. They haven’t the time, and he wants to see Mason bite into an unsavory, fibrous meal of his own manhood. Overcooked, of course. 

It had pained Hannibal to overcook this meal, even while it’s just a raw cock on a platter, but Will is sure the result will make up for it. He’s placing a silver cloche upon the dish, prepared to roll the tray into the dining area. 

“Lead the way,” Will gestures.

Hannibal rolls the rickety cart out to the dining room. Mason is struggling against his restraints, growling and grumbling when he sees the two of them. Hannibal and Will exchange glances, only mildly humored by this irritating worm of a man. 

Mason hasn’t made notice of Will’s scars, or Hannibal’s grayer hair. He isn’t an observer; he’s so caught up in his own world, that he would never care to focus on minute details. 

Will doubts he’ll recognize them as different men at all. 

They sit in the same positions they’d sat in for dinner with Jack. Hannibal makes a show of placing the dish in front of Mason, and lifting the cloche to reveal the steaming member no longer attached to Mason’s body. 

Mason retches, squirming in his binds. 

The flaccid penis is charred, not enough to be blackened, and it is extremely small. Hannibal and Will smirk down at it, and then in unison, turn their expectant gaze to their host.

“I’m afraid we cannot allow you use of your hands,” says Hannibal after he’s settled in his own seat. His voice is purely faux sympathy. “You’ll have to use just your mouth.” 

“The irony amuses you I imagine, Doctor Lecter,” Mason gnarls, mangled jaw shifting back and forth. He’s leaning far back in his seat, to avoid the scent of his own roasted cock. It doesn’t smell great, to be fair, but Will is enjoying this far more than he imagined. 

“It is more than irony,” Hannibal admits. “I take pleasure in seeing you debased.” 

“It would be rude to let your dinner get cold,” Will says, nodding at the plate. 

Mason grimaces and snorts, pig-like. 

“You can’t expect me to eat – ”

“In its entirety,” Will interrupts. 

There is a beat of silence, thrumming throughout the room. Mason looks at the gun in Will’s hand, angled at him, and sees Hannibal’s dagger, unsheathed from its hiding place in his cuffs. He stares down at his own overcooked penis, the expression of distaste on his warped features priceless. 

Will can’t imagine the humiliation and revulsion he’s feeling. 

“I am sure it won’t take more than two or three mouthfuls,” Hannibal reassures, in the masterful way only Hannibal Lecter can deliver a backhanded comment. 

“If you want the Verger Dynasty to keep on thriving, I suggest you do as we say,” Will adds darkly, forcing down a smile at Hannibal’s invective nature. 

 “Why the cutlery if I’m to use nothing by my teeth?” Mason spits out. 

Will shrugs, “Added effect.” 

“Cordell should have put you both on a spitroast,” Mason says with spite. 

Hannibal’s cheeks rise in a smirk, and the two of them watch as Mason angles his head down, balancing his weight on his chest as he leans against the edge of the table. He opens his mouth as much as possible, takes as big of a bite as he can muster. 

He gags the second his tongue flicks against the meat. 

“I must reiterate, this is not my best work,” Hannibal states, turning to Will with a smile. Will sighs and smiles back, before gently speaking.

“No, but it is the most satiating.” 

It seems to take hours for Mason to lick the plate clean. To chew and swallow the rest of his overdone penis. The numbing agent must be wearing off now; Will can see the winces and hear the low rumbling sounds of agony falling from his lips. It makes Will want to cup his own cock protectively, on instinct, but he has table manners. 

For lack of a better word, when it’s done, Mason appears quite nauseous. 

“Well, then. I’d say this dinner was marvelous. Unfortunately Will and I did not share your appetite, but watching you indulge was enough to please,” Hannibal says, standing and folding his unused napkin. 

Unexpectedly, Mason lurches forward with his teeth, only managing to reach Hannibal’s wrist. Caught off guard, Hannibal stumbles back, but Mason’s teeth catch on the watch.

The watch. 

It snaps off his wrist, which sends Will into panic mode, and he stands abruptly, knocking the table over, sending all the cutlery and decor flying and crashing to the floor. The watch has fallen from Mason’s teeth. Will surges around the table, searching for it recklessly amongst the broken shards of glass, forks, and knives. 

When he finds it, he finds it smashed. The edge of the table hit the clockhead, and it is no more than shimmery glass and wires jutting out. His gaze snaps to Hannibal’s. Hannibal is staring back with blank shock. He’s apparently not processing it. 

Laughter erupts, and Will turns his head, a deadly movement. 

Mason is giggling uncontrollably, more of a hoarse caw, repeated over and over hysterically. He’s on the floor, chair knocked down in the commotion, and drool coats his chin, but he won’t stop. Not until he croons, “I was trying to go for one of his fingers. Figured I deserved that much for dessert.”

Mason doesn’t know what he’d just done, having broken their only ticket home. 

Will sees red.

He grabs a spoon, ignoring the soft-spoken “Will” from behind him. Mason squirms when Will lurches forward, tugging and tugging at his binds, but he won’t get away. He wouldn’t be able to get away even if he weren’t disabled. Will holds him down by his throat. Spit flies up as he chokes, but Will is focused on bringing the spoon to his left eye, scooping it out. Indifferently, he watches it plop to the floor, blood pool in his eye socket as Mason lets out a gargled scream. He repeats the act for the other eye, mind empty and body moving on autopilot.

Mason is thrashing, bleeding from his eyes. Shouting and crying for help. For Cordell, despite knowing the man’s current status.

Every man becomes a child when tortured. Will barely glances back at Hannibal, who has now drawn silent. Well, almost every man. 

Will easily finds two forks, still half straddling Mason’s pathetic, wiggling body. He wields the handles in two fists and slams the pronged ends into both of his ears. Mason howls, voice cracking with how shrill it sounds, and so he does it again, digging in deeper each time. 

He must be puncturing his brain, because Mason goes limp. 

Even as he continues stabbing, tearing, he lies still.

The squelch of flesh being punctured is music to his ears. 

The hand on Will’s shoulder startles him, and he swerves around, digs one of the bloodied forks into Hannibal’s jugular. Pressing, not penetrating. 

His thoughts start to come back to him when he sees the calm affection in Hannibal’s eyes. Not an ounce of fear dances in the hazel there, and neither does Hannibal’s breath hitch with adrenaline. The trust he holds for Will runs deeper than human instinct. Will drops the fork and shakes apart in his arms, grappling his shoulders and shirt collar with sticky, red hands. 

Trembling, he reaches for the broken watch and hands it to Hannibal.

“C – Can you fix it?” Will asks unsteadily, refusing to look at the monstrosity he’d just committed on whim. He’s not sure he’s ever been that brutal or cold during a kill. The thought of never being able to go back home, to the home he shares with Hannibal…it had all been too much. 

“No,” Hannibal murmurs and Will can’t control the noise that is ripped from his throat. Too short to be a sob, and too broken to be a sigh. 

“But, Will–”

“We shouldn’t have been playing with time. We were foolish, overzealous. So detached from what’s r – real – ”

“Will,” Hannibal interrupts, holding Will’s face in both hands. Despite the blood coating his skin, his beard, his clothes. “Will, you must know I would never allow for a possibility such as this.”

“Huh?” Will asks, sweetly baffled. 

Hannibal just smiles, and reaches into his suit pocket. He brings out another watch, identical to the one that had just been crushed. Here on the floor of an empty mansion, Will takes the watch in his hands and grins wide, like a child on Christmas morning.

“You made two?” he asks. 

“Of course. I made four in fact, but I only brought this spare. So, I’d suggest we get home as soon as possible, before we lose this one as well.” 

Will swallows, not sure what he would have done if they’d been stuck here. Years ago, when they still harbored so much resentment. They’re destructive, in the face of their own past. 

Will slips his wrist through the band, and keeps his eyes on Hannibal’s deep concentration as he sets the watch for home. It takes longer than usual, since the other watch had their home and coordinates pre-set. 

He doesn’t look back, not at Mason, or the mansion. 

He doesn’t think about Alana and Margot dead upstairs, or the dozens of guards scattered across the property. Neither does he think about the other Hannibal saving him from demise only to be rejected coldly and bluntly on a chilly Virginian morning. 

With patience, he watches Hannibal. 

“Shall we?” Hannibal asks, meeting his eyes. Will clasps their hands together, and kisses the tips of their intertwined fingers. 

“I want to go home.” 

Hannibal ghosts his lips over Will’s exposed neck, pressing a kiss under his ear as he kneads at his nape with calloused hands, loosening muscles and unraveling knots. 

Will stares into the fireplace, roaring and big. They’re so close to it that the heat makes him sweat, but he wants to be closer still, and closer to Hannibal all in the same breath.

“That’s enough,” Will murmurs, turning in Hannibal’s hands to kiss him, tongue brushing against his upper lip. One of Hannibal’s hands gravitates to Will’s hair, curling into strands of hair, while the other strokes down his waist, stretching to the small of his back to lower him smoothly to the floor. 

Hannibal descends, kissing his jawline and his neck. 

Will tucks his chin to keep him in view, stroking his silver hair and the lobes of his ears. He touches a finger to his forehead and feels his nose, the curve of his lips. He holds Hannibal’s chin between a thumb and forefinger and draws him in for another sloppy kiss. 

Their bodies are touching everywhere, and he’s never felt warmer. 

“I’m done,” Will whispers on his lips. “I don’t want to risk it again. This. ” 

“It won’t happen again,” Hannibal assures, kissing him on the cheek. Will leans into the gentle touches and kisses, mouth searching for his again. 

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t think I’ll be able to go anywhere else thinking about what happened. If you got killed, or me, I just – ” Hannibal kisses him to quiet him, but it only works for a breathless moment, “ – just, it isn’t worth it to me. None of that is worth it.” 

“I must admit, I only had one idea left. It was beginning to become a fruitless affair, rather than anything resembling a good time,” Hannibal murmurs into his throat, soft kissing turning into sucking bites now. Will rolls his hips up against him. 

“Maybe one more. You deserve a last turn.” 

A pompous look takes over Hannibal’s gentled, domestic expression and Will scoffs, “Not if it’s dangerous, though. We’re not doing Dragon slayage part two.”

“That was certainly not my idea, nor is my idea dangerous in any way.” 

Will blinks, and waits for Hannibal to lean in close to his ear.

What he hears makes his eyes widen like saucers and his breath catch in his throat. When Hannibal leans back to take in his reaction, Will is fully red from head to toe. 

“Well then,” Will clears his throat. “I suppose that wouldn’t hurt…figuratively speaking.” 

“The hurt will be minimal,” Hannibal promises, with a sultry glint in his eyes. Will sucks in a breath and lets out a shaky sigh, drawing him in for one final searing kiss of acceptance. 

Chapter Text

“Is it time?” Will asks, glancing anxiously at the watch Hannibal has been wearing for an hour. Their last trip will not take them far. In location, and in time. 

“Finish your wine, darling,” Hannibal responds primly. 

The clock ticks on, and Will does his best to chug the rest of his drink, but it’s as if the drink doesn’t make it down his throat, the same amount in the cup everytime he rests the base against his knee. 

The living room is silent. Hannibal’s socked foot is tapping against the rug. 

Hannibal is in a white button-up shirt. It is rare for him to go traveling in something so simple, colorless. The flare is gone for tonight, and considering where they’re going, Will isn’t sure why. He would have thought Hannibal would want to stand out, but he supposes, there is no standing out against an exact replica of yourself if they are going to be traveling thirty minutes prior to this moment. 

Will is nervous. A different kind than he’s felt before. There’s always been a showmanship to confronting their past selves. It was similar to acting in a play, Will had to remember his lines, and play the part of a more naive, fragile mind. Hannibal had to act too, though for him, nothing is ever an act. The person-suit he wears is an act sure, but one he purposefully melds with his own beast. At least, in front of Will. 

This trip is about sex. 

It’s not as if a handful of the other trips weren’t about sex, but specifically, this is about overwhelming Will. Hannibal wants to be fucking Will twice at the same time. And god knows what he wants Will to do to himself, or vice versa.

This isn’t a scenario of past lives colliding with present lives. 

Hannibal is going to be the Hannibal Will knows, fully and dearly, but there will be two of them. Like clones, not replicas of a past long gone. 

Hannibal must have known Will had his doubts. Making him drink two glasses of red wine had been calculated. He won’t allow them to leave and ‘get it over with’ until Will obeys his direct order. At first, Will thought it was to loosen his muscles, prepare him for double penetration. The act Hannibal had so filthily whispered into his ear as one of his long standing desires. But now, Will understands Hannibal can see him. See his doubts about allowing himself to be overwhelmed by an overabundance of Hannibal’s character.

One Hannibal, he can handle. Two? The line of overwhelmed may very well be crossed. 

At least, there won’t be a risk of life and death. That much Hannibal had promised he wouldn’t subject Will too once more, if that is what Will ‘truly wanted.’ 

And he does want it. Safe and sound. No more playing with fate after this. 

With another glance at the silver watch, glinting in the firelight, he holds back a snarl. Imagines how he’ll bury it, crush it. Crush the remaining spares Hannibal holds in his possession. 

Hannibal uncrosses his legs, and keeps his eyes on the last swig of wine left in Will’s glass. His head inclines closer. 

“Don’t forget, while there will be two of me, there will also be another you.”

“Yeah, I’m trying not to think about that too much,” Will mumbles back. 

He can barely stand looking at himself in the mirror. When he’d sucked his own cock back in Wolf Trap, he’d been in a different mindset. He had been channeling Hannibal’s fantasy. What is about to occur will have to manifest out of his own, personal desire. 

He’s not sure how he’ll feel if Hannibal (both Hannibals) want him to fool around with himself. Right now, just thinking about it, he feels dirty, wrong. He supposes Hannibal wants him to feel that way. 

“You are not required to do anything you do not want to do, Will.” 

“I know, I’ll tell you if I’m uncomfortable,” Will assures, picking up his glass again and swirling the purple liquid around, watching it coat the bottom of the glass in a thin reddish film. “You know, it’s just that fear all people have before their first threesome, or foursome I guess. I can’t imagine this won’t be awkward.”

“Perhaps at first, until the novelty of strangeness wears off, and we all realize we have nothing to fear in the presence of ourselves.”

“I just hope the novelty does wear off.”

“I can almost guarantee that it will,” Hannibal tells him, smiling lightly. “I believe you will bond with yourself over the…awkwardness of the affair.”

“Odd, but not entirely untrue,” Will admits. “I’m wondering if the other me will be disappointed he won’t be the one getting two cocks up his ass.” 

A laugh half-rises in Hannibal’s throat automatically. It’s rare he can make Hannibal laugh without Hannibal calculating the noise, thinking about it, deciding to laugh. It makes Will smile back, and relax. 

“He will get a chance to do so at another point in time. Tonight is about you,” Hannibal says, crossing the distance and slumping down beside Will. 

Sometimes, he moves so slow, Will can’t help but wonder if there are phantom pains from wounds long healed. 

“And you,” Will adds. “What you want to see, what you want to happen to me.” 

“I heard no complaints when I first brought the idea to light.”

Will sighs and bites the bullet, downing the rest of his wine. He sets the glass down on the end table beside the arm of the chair, and turns his body so he’s facing Hannibal. 

“I’m not complaining. The reality is setting in, that’s all. I’m still straight remember? It took a lot of time for me to reconcile having even…one anything penetrating me.”  

It felt like it went on for hours, the first time Hannibal stretched him open. 

“I told you, I’m well-practiced. Even if it’s been years, I know how to make the experience entirely comfortable for you,” Hannibal murmurs, cupping the back of his neck and drawing him in for a kiss on the jaw. Will sinks into the touch. 

He nuzzles his stubble against Hannibal’s smooth chin. 

“I’m not just wondering about the pain,” Will whispers, tilting his head against Hannibal’s searching lips. The wine has him feeling buzzed, loose. “I’m wondering if I’ll be driven out of my mind. I could lose myself too much.” 

“Never,” Hannibal promises. “I’ll – we’ll be there to keep you steady.” 

“What is the other me going to do? What do you want him to do?” 

“Warm you up,” Hannibal replies, unbearably devious. 

A harsh breath is knocked out of Will’s lungs. He expected this of course, but being hit with the actual confirmation is a bit nerve-wracking, and irritating, if Will’s being honest. 

“Doctor Hannibal Lecter’s wet dream, laid out in high resolution. Surround sound, and all,” Will grunts and ducks away from Hannibal’s fingers, reaching for his cheeks, jaw, anything to ground him. “You’ll be watching then? Or…”

“Warming myself up,” Hannibal muses, smirk widening when Will realizes. 

“We’re what? Gonna be fooling around with ourselves for ten minutes before the main event?” Will asks, dumbfounded. He tries not to think about it. He tries to ignore the surge of arousal that flies up his spine like a bolt of lightning. Hannibal sucking his own cock. Two Hannibals, one on top, the other beneath. Both of them fucking Will had been a fantasy in and of itself, but he’s on the verge of coming after these images flash through his mind. He presses a palm to his cock, the other to the couch cushion to keep his balance.

“Wow.” 

“You empathize with my willingness to watch you in a similar act?” Hannibal surmises. 

Will swallows, mouth so dry he feels short on oxygen. He squeezes his cock once to subdue the throbbing need pulsing in his groin. It barely helps, but the gears in his head are moving again, the blood is retreating, helping him get it together. 

“No need for ‘I told you so’s.” 

“No need for that,” Hannibal agrees easily. He reaches out the hand which has the watch strapped around his wrist. Will stares dubiously down at the contraption, remembering the mishap from last time. 

Hannibal notices his hesitation, as he always does. 

“I have two spares in my pockets. And where we’re going, there will also be spares. My love, we aren’t even traveling far. Thirty minutes into the past at the most.”

The phrase, anything can happen, haunts him, but he refuses to let his fears control him. 

Will nods, slips his hand through the wristband.

“It’s the fact that it’s the last trip, you know? It almost feels like something bad must happen. If you slip up, we could end up naked in the age of the dinosaurs.” 

Hannibal muffles a laugh in his fist, turning one of the knobs only twice. 

“Let’s hope everything goes according to plan, then. And if not, let us hope that your knowledge on the prehistoric era exceeds mine.” 

“Well, I’m pretty sure out of the two of us, I’m the only one who’s seen Jurassic Park,” Will jokes, and Hannibal’s eyes flash with opportunity. 

“Life finds a way,” he whispers as if spilling a secret.

Dumbfounded, Will doesn’t notice Hannibal helping him to his feet.

They’re less likely to fall on their asses if they are standing when they travel. “I’ll give you the honors,” he murmurs, stroking the instep of Will’s foot with his own.

Will clicks the button, unwilling to dwell on the strangeness of this further. The strangeness will only intensify during the act, or at least the concept of it will become oversaturated. The oddity may be so odd in fact, that it isn’t odd at all. 

Hannibal set the clock back thirty minutes. Same coordinates, same day. 

They materialize a few feet apart from the couch, in the middle of the living room. The fire is roaring only a bit stronger than it had been moments prior. Will glances at the end table by the arm of the couch and finds the wine glass he’d just emptied to be full. 

Hannibal, the other Hannibal, is sitting back on the opposite side of the room. The other Will is on the couch. They’re all making eyes at each other. 

The other Will gives a nasal scoff and turns to the other Hannibal muttering, “I told you it’d be weird.” 

Will gawks at him. It’s like staring in a mirror. This isn’t like the other times he’d seen a past version of himself. This is a clone, an exact copy. Literally, the man he was thirty minutes ago. 

If he doesn’t say something, he’ll continue gawking, and he’ll fall into an existential crisis, and wonder if it’s accurate to call this man himself, or if the thirty minutes they’ve vanquished had been a requirement of his development as an individual. No, that’s thinking too deeply.

They’re all here for sex. Like animals.

“Kind of relieved I’m not going to be the one,” the other Will clears his throat and sticks two fingers through a circled fist, “ You know. ” 

Both Hannibal’s are smirking pompously at the Will on the couch, so Will finally chimes in with a, “Stop it.” 

“What he said,” the other Will agrees. 

It isn’t as if they think they’ll lose track of one another. It isn’t even that they think it’ll be too confusing during the act, but they’ve all agreed that the pair who are not from the (only somewhat farther) future will be wearing their clothes, or at least some of them. Both Hannibal’s want their shirts off at least; the other Will is fine with keeping all of his clothes on. 

This means Will is going to have to strip down to absolutely nothing, which he expected, but isn’t exactly enthused about when nearly the whole room is going to be clothed. At least his Hannibal will be nude, bare for all to see. It will make him feel like he’s less on display. 

Following the meticulous undressing and sharp glances cast all around the bedroom, Will finally ends up under himself, the dressed version of himself.

“The sick fucks are satisfied,” he whispers from above and Will turns to see both Hannibals staring at them like hyenas who just caught the scent of fresh blood. 

He shudders, suddenly relieved they own a king-sized bed.

The Hannibals are both  already in the process of groping each other, getting themselves erect, the Hannibal who is bared is tasting himself, licking over the other’s cock jutting through his now-open fly. 

It’s all going so fast, Will can’t decipher his disorientation from his arousal.

Will feels a hand on his erection and swerves his head to find his own face again. 

“Yeah, me too,” this Will whispers hotly in his ear and squeezes his cock again. God, there isn’t much need for a warm up apparently. Will’s dick is harder than rock the more the other squeezes it. The gruff grunts and harsh breathing from beside them, noises from both of the Hannibals are enough to rile him further.

The idea that he is a narcissistic just like Hannibal hasn’t occurred to him often, but when he looks at himself and thinks, I’d fuck me, he realizes perhaps it is the case.

“Is this masturbation?” Will asks, and the other laughs. 

“In a way, I suppose. Though, I’m feeling a bit like you’re the more vulnerable one of us.” The other Will crawls down his body, loose button-up brushing his nipples to perks, and he arches lightly for friction. He holds him down by the waist, just like Will does with Hannibal when he lets him fuck his mouth. 

“That can’t be true,” Will contemplates. “I’m you. There shouldn’t be variations.”

“Why aren’t you doing anything about it then?” The other Will asks, and he says it so provocatively that Will wonders if any of this is real. He wouldn’t act like this would he? But yes, then again, he could, he has . 

Will grabs himself by the shoulders and flips them, lurching down to suck a wet mark into his trousers, over his cock and through the fabric. 

“Oh god,” the other Will moans, grabbing at his mop of curls. “You’re gonna have to tell me how it feels.” 

“You’re not gonna tell me?” Will bites out, using his palm to rub the base of the other’s cock through his pants, just brushing shy of his balls like he knows he likes. He earns an incredibly loud moan that he winces at. Surely, he can’t be this loud all the time.

Certainly, not this shrill.

“No, I mean, when he – they –take you.”

“If I don’t like it, then you don’t have to try it,” Will surmises, unbuttoning his trousers and taking out a cock he very much recognizes. He rubs the thumb up to the head and repeats the motion, watching himself jolt. “Glad to be the guinea pig in this scenario.” 

“Finally, I have to deal with myself mouthing off…at me,” the other grumbles, the noise turning into a sharp choked out sound when Will sucks the head of his cock between his lips. 

Meanwhile back at the ranch… Will thinks, almost bitterly, and turns his head to take in what Hannibal and the other clothed Hannibal are upto. 

They’re kissing. Freaks. 

The sight, though. Will can’t deny how horribly turned on he is watching those pouty lips kiss and bite at each other. The same greying hair on his head, falling over their eyes. Strong legs encasing strong hips, and god, those hands. There’s a set of four. 

Will returns his attention to the other Will’s cock and bobs down the shaft of it. It’s like the last time he sucked his own cock, except this time the other version of him is far more receptive. 

And awake. 

“God, I remember how it tastes,” the other Will murmurs, hips thrusting up just a tad. Will holds him down with firm hands, but he knows very well that he’s often so restless that restraints, no matter how strong, won’t hold him down. “So strange. Sweet though.”

Will suckles at the protruding ridges of his circumcised cock, and tastes only salt, perhaps a bit of wine, but that may be the lingering taste in his own mouth. 

“Maybe we were tasting the fever.” 

“That bad?” 

“Not bad,” Will assures himself. “Tastes like him,” he nods at the two Hannibals, “though I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

Either all cocks taste the same, or Will’s cock tastes like Hannibal’s because the man controls what he eats, and they both eat the same thing. Every day. Unless Will sneaks a midnight snack Hannibal is unaware of (unlikely) then their diets do not waver. 

“We’re conjoined,” the other Will agrees. 

“Not entirely,” one of the Hannibals says and surprises Will by grabbing him by the hair and pulling him off of the other’s cock. A trail of spit strings off his lips before it disconnects and his lips are shoved against his own Hannibal’s. 

Skin touches skin and he moans, melting into his embrace. 

The other Will is watching reverently as both Hannibals move Will into position. 

There’s a fully clothed Hannibal behind him, uncapping a bottle of lube, but he’s in the lap of the Hannibal he arrived here with. Their thighs are sticking together with sweat, and he’s being kissed until his mouth is swollen. Red and plump with blood and use. Hannibal tastes more like himself than he ever has. Perhaps from the make-out session with Hannibal’s clone they’d just interrupted. 

“We look like movie stars from this angle,” the other Will chimes in, propped up on one elbow, watching them with dark eyes as the other Hannibal begins to finger Will open. 

No preamble. No warning. 

“What kind of movies?” Will grunts when the Hannibal behind him slips two fingers into him at once. “Fuck,” he whispers when he starts to scissor them around. He can feel his inner walls twitching, attempting to accommodate the rapid movements. 

They’re lucky he does this often; this part of him is naturally loose. 

He’s preparing him faster than normal, perhaps eager to get to the main event, or just forcing his body to take it quickly, so two cocks inside him won’t feel as overwhelming.

 Either way, Will breaking out into a full-bodied sweat and his Hannibal reaching down to fist both of their cocks together in a tight circle isn’t helping matters.

Another finger worms its way inside of him.

Gasping, he tries focusing on kissing Hannibal, imagining for a while that the other Will isn’t watching him. That the fingers inside of him are just from this Hannibal alone, not two.

That becomes hard when three fingers inside of him become four, and his body starts to stretch in a bizarre, unfamiliar way. He whines into Hannibal’s shoulder, a low and incidental sound as all four of the digits inside him prod over his prostate. 

“Relax, my love,” Hannibal whispers on his lips, kissing him sweetly, sweeter than he ever kisses him when they’re fucking.

Will weakly acknowledges Hannibal has stopped jerking him off, instead rubbing at his hips, and drawing his ass cheeks apart to help the stretch from behind go smoother.

His lips form a tight line as he tries to concentrate on relaxing, and he breathes out harshly through his nose when he feels his body give, infinitesimal, but enough.

“There we are,” the Hannibal behind him murmurs, growing close enough that his nipples brush against the skin of his back. Will shivers, presses back, only for his Hannibal to squeeze his shoulders and pull him back to him instead.

“Looks like a messed up tug of war,” the other Will announces, and Will glances once to see him palming himself, only stroking himself in a way that will appease his erection from faltering. 

“Jealous of yourselves?” Will asks, and shouts when the other Hannibal impales him on his cock without warning. He falls back against his body, scrambling for purchase in the haze of feeling abruptly full.  

The Hannibal in his line of sight grins, growing closer on his knees to watch Will’s reactions up close as the other starts to fuck into him ruthlessly. 

He groans long and loud, uncontrollable noises ripped from his throat as the other Hannibal hits his prostate with each shallow thrust, growing faster and faster by the second. “Fuck, if you don’t want me to come you need to slow down,” the words rush out of Will and are punctuated with a razor-sharp thrust making him cry out, the noise almost pained. 

“You know exactly what they want to do to you,” the other Will drawls as Hannibal takes a hold of his cock and matches the pace of the thrusts coming from the other, stroking relentlessly. “You’re just too horny to connect the dots.”

There isn’t enough time to consider the statement.

Will throws his head back, colliding with the other Hannibal’s shoulder as he’s jerked to a quick, and bone-wracking climax. Hannibal’s hand moves softer over the shaft of his dick now, gathering up  nearly every drop of his release and bringing it to his lips. 

Hannibal licks it off his palm as if it were a treat. 

Will slumps, whimpers when the other Hannibal slows his pace monumentally, but continues fucking into him. 

“Had to loosen you up, darling,” he murmurs into his ear, and though Will is still contracting around his cock with feeble little aftershocks, he suddenly understands their design. 

“How many?” Will asks weakly, feeling like jelly and thankful both Hannibal’s are putting in the effort to keep him upright. 

How many as in, how many orgasms are you going to coax out of me?

“ Three should be sufficient, wouldn’t you say?” Hannibal asks the other, and the other hums in agreement, close to his ear, picking up the pace of his thrusts just enough to make Will gasp and writhe. 

It feels like his prostate is tingling, sending vibrations all throughout his body whenever it’s glanced, and it’s not exactly a good feeling, similar to how the seconds before a seizure feel. But, some of his remaining release has dribbled down the length of his cock, down beneath his balls, making his entrance feel slicker. 

If he could get it up right away, he would.

There are times when Hannibal adores ignoring Will’s refractory period. He’ll suck his cock for longer than an hour, just waiting for him to get hard again after coming down his throat. Occasionally, he’s so desperate for a second serving, he doesn’t mind taking him into his mouth for longer than that.

Will never understood how Hannibal never sprained his jaw in the process.

When his Hannibal leers down and kisses the inside of a thigh, he holds his breath. 

Lubed up fingers start to pry at his hole, where he’s already stretched wide around the other’s erection. He whimpers when a finger slips in beside it. 

He’d felt looser than normal, when the cock first slipped inside. They’d taken their time with the stretching, and now they’re taking even more time, loosening him up further. 

He knows it’s more than practical, the anus is the most malleable part of the body, but he still feels as if he can barely take one finger alongside the cock already inside him. He feels so tight, clenching around the intrusions, gasping with each push and movement.

The thrusts are so slow and shallow, he isn’t so oversensitive that he can’t think, but the sensations at his perineum, dragging nails and calloused fingertips, working him open the way Hannibal dips his fingers into meat on a cutting board, it makes him struggle to hold a scream from falling off the tip of his tongue. 

“You need to breathe,” the other Hannibal whispers in his ear, entering him even slower if that is possible. When he listens to the command and sucks in a bout of air, the Hannibal between his legs adds a second finger alongside the first. 

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Will whimpers, convulsing when Hannibal’s cock and fingers both drag against his prostate at the same time. He feels his cock, not quite limp yet, start to thicken. 

“Take us in, Will,” one of them mutters; his eyes are closed, he can’t tell any longer who is saying what. He forgets entirely about the copy of himself, watching on like a fetishistic voyeur. 

He rocks down, fucking himself on the fingers and cock, and feels them hit that bundle of nerves again. If ever there was a time to see stars–

“Oh, shit, fuck, stop, stop, ” Will wriggles when he feels a third finger of Hannibal’s breach him. The burn is significant, and he’s suddenly so overwhelmed he can’t breath. 

The waves of devastating pleasure bring pain and feelings all wrapped in one figurative gift basket. And he isn’t prepared for any of it. 

Hannibal pulls all three of his fingers out of him, and the other starts to move back but Will grabs behind him and claws at his thighs, digging sweaty palms into his knees.

“No, stay, I just–I need a minute, fuck,” Will breathes out, sighing deeply as Hannibal leans in to kiss him, the other moving to his neck to suck hickies into his skin. His cock twitches and he writhes restlessly on the frozen cock inside of him. “You can move,” he mumbles awkwardly, and the other begins to. Leisurely and cautious.

“Did it hurt?” the other Will asks, hand still on his own cock, moving very deliberately and curiously, as if he’s not sure the display before him is worth jerking off over. 

“Not as bad as I– we –thought it would be,” Will admits begrudgingly, taking one of Hannibal’s hands and urging it back beneath his balls. In a whisper, he says, “Slow this time.” 

Hannibal does go slower, always the listener, and moves his lips to his neck as he slips one digit back in alongside the cock thrusting gently, angling away from where he’s most sensitive. The other’s lips are still on his neck, both on either side, and that’s it, he’s gone. 

His cock is fully hard again, bobbing against his stomach each time he’s jostled, and he’s making small, whimpering noises in the back of his throats, noises of encouragement and warning. 

“If only we knew where that first meeting in Baltimore would lead us,” the other Will mutters dryly, and they all chuckle, both Hannibal’s making the same exact dry-throated noise. It is a bit eerie, but endearing; Will can’t help but to smile as well, gasping when Hannibal slowly slips a second finger inside, and slides his tongue into his mouth.

Will sucks at his lips in response, happy for a distraction, even though most of the pain of intrusion between his legs is gone. There’s still an aching throb, punctuated with each push inside his body, but the sensations inside of him drowns it out to a low roar. 

They don’t shirk on the lube. He’s practically dripping, and every so often he can hear the noise of something getting uncapped, though he’ll be damned if he looks down.

It doesn’t take long at all for Hannibal to press that third finger against his rim, and now that he can anticipate the burn, he nods frantically and Hannibal wiggles it inside.

His eyes are dark, watching all three of his fingers disappear into Will’s body alongside the other’s cock. His own cock, if they’re being technical. 

Will groans, jutting his hips forward either in a convulsion or in invitation, he’s not too sure himself, but when Hannibal deems him ready, he sidles forward raising Will’s thighs up just enough to scoot between his legs and line himself up. 

The other Hannibal has stopped his thrusting, breathing hard into Will’s ear, close to the brink himself no doubt. He squeezes around him just to hear his breath stutter. 

“Fill me up,” Will whispers, with a smirk when he sees Hannibal’s eyes droop with lust, the beast rattling against the confines of its suit. 

The three fingers are out of him, making him feel oddly loose, but then the blunt head of Hannibal’s cock is pressing against him. 

Will holds his breath, looks down briefly to see Hannibal squeezing the tip, just enough to slide in easy. It feels just as big as his fingers, but the reality that there’s two cocks inside him makes him shake apart. 

“Hush now,” the other Hannibal whispers, kissing the lobe of an ear. 

Will didn’t realize he was making noise, high-pitched breathy sounds as Hannibal slowly seats himself alongside the other’s cock. When he bottoms out, Will feels like he’s been hollowed. 

“Alright darling?” Hannibal asks, and he forces himself to meet his eyes. 

“Give me a minute,” Will grunts. When he shifts, his hole contracts rebelliously around them, unused to the sensation of being too full. “A long minute.” 

Closing his eyes, he tries to capture the feeling of calm he gets when he enters a stream in his mind palace. The lazy flow of the river, the chirping songbirds. 

“How does it feel for you guys?” he thinks he hears the other Will say. It could be a part of his imagination, but the movement of one of the cocks inside of him isn’t. 

It nudges against his prostate as one of the Hannibal readjusts and he jerks, caught in one of their grasps. “Fuck, this is a lot,” he says under his breath. 

“It feels, otherworldly,” one of the Hannibals answers. 

The other Will hums, and then Will whispers, “Okay, fuck me.” 

“Are you sure?” both the Hannibals ask in unison, with the same infuriating level of concern. 

“Do it,” Will grits out impatiently, grappling with Hannibal’s shoulders, focusing on balancing his weight on them, and the other’s thighs behind him. They’re squished close, but not close enough. He wishes their skin would chafe on his, would rub durably against his as they fuck him. 

The reality is better than his imagination.

The other Hannibal behind him begins to thrust forward, carefully and languidly, getting used to fucking while he’s stuffed inside with another man’s cock. 

He’s sure the experience is fairly novel for them as well, though Hannibal had mentioned experience. If he were anymore aware, he’d have the gusto to feel jealous. 

The other picks up the pace, and he grunts, fingers tightening on Hannibal’s shoulders.

Will fights to keep his eyes open, but when Hannibal starts fucking into him as well, he makes eye contact briefly and nearly chokes at the onslaught of pure, unadulterated lust in his eyes, his entire expression. It’s radiant, crashing over Will’s faculties corrosively like lye. He’s never seen him this ravenous. 

He’s barely aware of the noises he’s making as both cocks start thrusting together, one after the other, faster and faster until an obscene wet noise accompanies the action.

“Oh, ohhh, oh god, ” Will moans, louder than he would have preferred if he held control over his own vocal chords. 

Usually the pressure on his prostate comes in intervals, Hannibal doesn’t always hit it with every thrust, but the way he’s being fucked, his prostate continues to get pounded, pressure on the nerves consistent and unremitting. One cock retreats as the other slides in, further each time, as if they’re mining him open. 

His moans start becoming short, blood-curdling cries as they both up the pace, and press closer. He throws an arm back to grab at Hannibal’s hair, nails scratching in frenzied encouragement. With a thought process not entirely coherent, he realizes he can grab his Hannibal’s hair as well, two heads of hair at once.

He slides his other hand forward, softer but with a firm grip.

With the leverage, Will finds himself tugging himself up and down, moving with the rhythm to make it faster, harder. Both of them get the hint, most likely because they are the same individual. 

And to think people have threesomes without doppelgangers. 

Will babbles, or at least he thinks he does. Words are forming before his brain can catch up with his mouth, but only first consonants arrive, unintelligible as the cocks continue sliding into him, his passage growing slicker with precum and lube. 

The other Hannibal’s cock nearly slips out, the head of his cock pulling at Will’s rim, stretching him in a way that burns, but is so entirely arousing his eyes roll back. 

Will’s entire body buckles when he fucks backward, burying both cocks in him at once.

He’s not entirely sure who is responsible for keeping him upright, but he knows he’s boneless, for lack of a better word. Motionless and guileless, allowing the others to take care of him entirely. Every limb and muscle in his body is as slack as his jaw.

The pleasure is building, under a thick fog of staggering sensation.

“That’s it, Will,” one of the Hannibal’s murmurs. Close to his ear, but almost far away. Like what Will would imagine a voice would sound like spooling from the mouth of a person he’s observing through a pair of binoculars. “Don’t think. Let go of it all, let me take care of you.” 

“Yes, darling, just focus on how it feels,” when he continues, the voice sounds further off, coming from another direction.

Will doesn’t care who said it, where it’s coming from, or what the words mean. 

He couldn’t find a second of focus to figure it out, either way. 

Will’s cock drools precum onto his belly, and he sees the color red behind his eyelids as the pace is heightened, prostate being grazed repeatedly, harder now. 

His second orgasm always comes to him out of the blue, the crescendo never as gradual as the first. Though, there are a few seconds, where he’s perched on the brink of white-hot, leg-shaking pleasure, when he knows he’s about to tumble. 

“Co–Com…” Will manages before he screams, nails breaking someone’s skin, body seizing up so intensely it feels like every nerve is cramping. His body clamps down hard on the cocks penetrating him, hole fluttering rapidly as he moans and comes apart.

For a few shining seconds, he has no clue where his body parts are, and he doesn’t feel the ground beneath him, or in this case, the other Hannibal’s thighs. 

Then when the blinding waves of pleasure subside, and the cocks inside him continue to move, only then does he come back to himself with an unbridled sense of alarm. 

He grimaces at the wet slapping noises, the arousal he’d been experiencing turning into knife-sharp pain, like someone dragging a blade through him from the inside out.

“I can’t, I c–can’t–” Will gasps, heels slipping on the mattress as he tries to gain leverage, tries to pull himself off of the cocks screwing into him. 

His own cock is refusing to deflate, remaining red and hard. It hurts, throbbing and wet with his come, but both of the Hannibals are ignorant to it as they chase their own pleasure. 

“Will,” his Hannibal moans, burying his face in the crook of Will’s neck, immediately lapping up the sweat he finds pooled there. 

He comes inside, and the searing wetness makes Will whine, push down to feel his release push out of him. He’s filled to the brim, and he realizes only now that the other Hannibal had come a minute ago, or a few minutes ago, he’s not sure, as he’s stopped moving.

Will is so full that come is amalgamating with the stains of sweat in the sheets, a squelching noise drawing more out of him when both of them pull out in unison. 

Will nearly topples over, but his Hannibal grabs him by the shoulders, and tugs him into his lap. Normally, he’d feel uncomfortable being watched so closely, but he feels so broken in that he finds himself smiling faintly when Hannibal brushes tears away from his cheeks.

There’s heavy breathing coming from all directions.

Will drops his forehead to Hannibal’s sternum, and drags his fingers up his biceps, gripping and pulling him closer. 

“I’ve forgotten how to think,” he mumbles dazedly and Hannibal chuckles. 

“Don’t start counting sheep,” he murmurs, kissing Will’s neck and inhaling as discreetly as he can muster. Even in this state, Will can always tell when he’s smelling him. 

Three. They had said three. Fuck.

“Would you care to indulge me?” the other Will asks, drawing Will carefully off of Hannibal’s lap and down on his back. He spreads his thighs, and runs his fingers through the mess the Hannibals left behind. 

“God, I can’t,” Will tells him, but he isn’t making a move to get up. He squirms when the other man slides three fingers into his pulsing hole. “I d–don’t think I can manage it.” 

“No pressure. At least not from me. Maybe from them,” Will glances deviously at the two Hannibals. They are cleaning themselves, and the sheets as best as they can manage, but they are watching. “All you have to do is lie there.” 

“All the times people told me to go fuck myself,” Will mutters and the other laughs, easily slipping his rock hard cock inside his entrance. His hole throbs as he seats himself.

“Fuck, you’re so loose.”

“Like a woman,” Will presumes breathily, gasping when the other starts riding him hard, pushing out more come from his body in the process. He’s oversensitive, but nearly so much that his lower half is numb with pins and needles. 

The other Will for his part looks mildly conflicted that he’s enjoying it so much, leaning down just as he’s raising Will’s thighs high. The inner bend of his knees rests on both of his shoulders. 

“Let’s not tell them we miss the feeling of our hands around a pair of breasts. They’ll find some and cook them for our breakfast,” he says quietly, close to his ear before nipping at the lobe, just how he likes it.

It is the first time Will admits to himself; I’m a funny guy.

He whines when his swollen prostate is slammed into. He can’t very well warn himself that he’s taking him too hard, so he lays there, eyes closed, and ignorantly takes it. 

The only problem is that Will is being fucked by himself. The other Will knows what he likes, knows exactly what makes him tick, even more than Hannibal does. 

He licks a palm and rubs the center of it around the head of his cock crudely while rubbing the thumb of his other hand over one of Will’s nipples and Will jolts with unexpected pleasure, thighs tensing around his hips. 

“Thought you wouldn’t be able to manage it? Don’t we know by now that Hannibal knows exactly what we’re capable of giving?” the other Will asks bluntly, driving into him hard again . 

Will’s throat burns when he cries out, sore and overused. 

“It hurts,” he whispers, lips barely parted. 

“I know,” the other whispers back, going faster. “Not long now.” 

It isn’t long, it takes less than a minute until the other Will’s breaths are shortening. He’s pumping into him like he owns this body. In a way, he does. 

Will isn’t sure if the waves of pain he’s feeling are approaching pleasure, or if he’s just willing them to. Either way, they grow in intensity, the longer the other uses him, plays with him aggravatingly right. When the other Will wraps a hand around his cock and dances his fingertips closer to the pink head, it hits him like a freight train. 

Perhaps it was the declaration; Hannibal always knows what my body is capable of. 

He comes again. It’s not as if he could help it when his prostate is getting hammered, continuously. He doesn’t leak more than one rivulet of translucent, thin liquid, but he’s writhing like he’s possessed and trying to escape encroaching evil. 

The last thing he sees is his doppelganger’s face, teeth gritted in pleasure as his cock spurts inside of him, spending copiously into Will’s body. 

When his own body peaks with pained pleasure, he completely blacks out.

When he wakes up, he’s in their bed, with Hannibal looming over him. He has his white shirt on, but it isn’t buttoned up. His trousers are in place as well.

Hannibal has his doctor-face on, and a cold hand towel in his fist. 

Will’s feet are elevated on a pillow. 

“Thank goodness,” Hannibal murmurs, brushing the wet cloth against his forehead. Will leans up into it, body feeling like it’s on fire. 

“Shit, was that a dream?” he questions, and the rasp in his voice immediately disproves this theory. As well as the throbbing pulse in his ass. 

“No,” Hannibal confirms, cheeks risen with a ginger smile. “That was not a dream. But, we are home. I insisted the second you passed out that we take our leave. You’ve only been out several minutes.”

“It’s not a seizure, right? Am I sick?” 

“No, no, definitely not.” Hannibal smiles when Will raises a suspicious brow. “Will, I would not lie to you about such a thing a second time. Not only do I not want to, but it would be repetitive and tacky.” 

Will grins weakly, moving to get up. Either to kiss him or find his footing, but Hannibal is pushing him down against the pillow with robust hands. 

“No sudden movements. Drink this, then move slowly.” 

Will takes the glass of water handed to him, and chugs it down. He relishes at the subtle wince in Hannibal’s features while he refuses to take small sips. 

“Got a bit hectic there at the end,” Will admits, the corner of his lips turning up sheepishly at the memory. At least he’ll be the only one in the world to say he was able to fuck himself. Hard and well too. He’s a bit smug about it, actually. 

“Quite,” Hannibal responds, brushing Will’s hair back with a hand. 

The clock in the room ticks comfortingly, and Will can’t help but feel enormously relieved it is just them now, alone and together in their own time.

“Where are the watches?” Will asks, placing the cup of water back on the nightstand. 

Hannibal sighs, looking towards the wardrobe.

“I didn’t touch them. I thought maybe you’d care to have the honors."

“Don’t wanna tear apart your invention, huh?”

Hannibal smiles somberly. “If it is what you want, it does not ail me for a moment.” 

Will looks thoughtfully to the closet, then takes Hannibal’s hand in his own. He kisses his fingertips, which still smell a bit like semen. Hannibal must not have bothered to wash his hands as he was tending to Will, fretting too much about him. It makes Will smile brightly, and he kisses them again. 

“I’ll think of a way,” he decides. “To get rid of them, make sure we can never be tempted to touch them again, but still keep them intact.” 

Hannibal ducks his head, hiding his smile. 

Yes, Will thinks, I’ll figure out a way. 

Chapter Text

Will Graham shouldn’t be wearing white sneakers while he’s digging a hole in their backyard. But, it is not his fault they are the only pair of shoes in his wardrobe that aren’t dress shoes. Unless he wants to wear his slippers out in the muck, the sneakers are his last option. 

He hits damp soil after about thirty minutes, and with the continued burrowing comes flecks of wet dirt flung across his shoes like rain droplets. Hannibal’s disapproving voice rings loud in his head, and he decides he could have at least gone barefoot.

“Twenty four inches should be sufficient,” Hannibal calls out, growing closer to Will from the sidewalk that leads from their driveway to the backyard. 

“I think I’ve gone deeper than that,” Will grouses, snatching the water bottle handed to him. Hannibal never buys water bottles; this must be an apology for the days prior when Will had blacked out. 

He chugs it down entirely, and sighs in gratification, “I could kiss you.”

“Surely I deserve more than a kiss for buying you a pack of water bottles.” 

“A pack?” Will grins, breathing hard from the labor of digging. He leans his weight on the shovel. “I could fuck you, then.” 

Hannibal slides his hands into his pockets, and diverts his smile to the hole he’s dug. He pushes up on his heels to see deeper. “Perhaps after dinner. Are you ready?”

Will isn’t ready, but the hole in the ground says otherwise. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m ready.” 

“I’ll set the chicken to broil, then I’ll come back with what we need. Catch your breath, Will. It hasn’t been long since your last spell.”

“It wasn’t a spell,” Will grumbles. “You fucked me unconscious.” 

“I don’t believe it was I who was responsible,” Hannibal reminds with humor, and departs back to their house. He disappears through the back door, and Will turns his attention back toward the muddy hole in the earth. 

The scent is overpowering, bawdy and ripe. It’s something he can’t help but inhale bountifully, and feel like a wild beast loose in the jungle. He wonders why he has the urge to step into it, bury himself deep. Why is it humans crave at their core to be so close to the planet’s center?

After several minutes, Hannibal returns with a silver, cylindrical container. It looks like a gadget used in spy movies, and it’s certainly just as heavy as one.

“Stainless steel,” Hannibal explains, running his finger down the length of it. “It is what people use for time capsules, at least the ones that are serious about wanting to dig up what they’ve buried.” 

“But, we’re not planning to dig these back up,” Will notes. It isn’t a criticism; he’s already opening up the side cap to peer inside the cavernous space. Though it is a small container, all the watches will fit in there.

“No,” Hannibal agrees, taking out a handful of watches from his pocket. “However, if for whatever reason we needed to, they would be in tip top shape for years to come.”

“Don’t like the sound of that.” Will lets out a resigned sigh, and points the open end at him. “Go on, then.” 

Hannibal slides each one of the watches into the capsule, one by one. Will watches them go, feeling strangely bereft when he snaps the lid back on. 

“I wonder if it will start to feel like a dream,” Hannibal muses, when Will tosses it into the chasm in the ground and picks up his shovel. “Once we are gone from this place, and the grass grows over, will we know that it was real?” 

Will shovels up some dirt from the mound beside the hole, and tosses it over the capsule. The dirt slides off the shiny surface, refusing to be adhesive. 

“Should we have put your notes inside?” Will wonders out loud. He turns and finds Hannibal shaking his head. 

“I threw my notebooks into the fire.”

“Really?” Will’s fingers twitch over the handle of the shovel. “Somehow, I didn’t think you’d want to part with those. Even just to store them underground.”

“I know your habits with alcohol when you try to cut back after a particularly abundant period of drinking,” Hannibal tells him, mildly upbraiding. “You would have asked.” 

Will parts his lips to protest, but he snaps them tightly shut when he realizes Hannibal is entirely correct. In a few weeks time, he’ll think of an idea he wants to try. And if there is an easy way to reenact it, he’d use whatever means necessary.

“You and I both have vices we are susceptible to,” Hannibal adds. His eyes are trained on the hole in the earth, watching as more dirt accumulates at the bottom with Will’s steady shoveling.  

“Yours being me,” Will pokes.

“I always suspected there was a reason for your aversion to drugs and gambling,” Hannibal says, rather backhandedly. Will straightens with agitation.

“If you’re implying my vice is addiction, you’re implying I’m addicted to you.”

Hannibal’s lips purse, and he raises his brow at Will in challenge. Will won’t take the bait, even if there is some heavy truth in the assumption. 

It takes Will a few more minutes to bury the time capsule entirely. He pats the top of the barren dirt with the back end of the shovel when he’s finished, humming to himself. It is always easier to replace the dirt in a hole than dig one up. 

Hannibal kneels down, and balances on his feet to avoid his knees getting scuffed with mud. Baffled, Will watches him take some seeds from his pocket and plant them in the dirt, just under the surface. 

“What is that?” Will asks, curiosity growing skeptical. 

“Just grass seeds. It will help the earth grow its grass back faster. Just in case we need to leave here sooner than we expect, I figured this way no one will look twice at this plot of ground.” 

There is something in Hannibal’s tone that slips out of Will’s reach. It crawls up his back like a bad hunch, resting there for a moment before he forces himself to shake the dubious feeling loose. 

Before he can say anything, Hannibal nods towards the house. 

“I have to check the chicken.”

Will waits for him to leave before he glares back down at the patched up earth. Resting the shovel against the nearest tree, he focuses his train of thought on dinner, and the savory smells drifting through the screen door and out into the yard. 

Hannibal makes a simple Chicken Francese. Instead of lemon, he uses lime slices which give it a sweeter, less tangy taste. Will digs into the meat with vigor, and Hannibal watches him with just as much adoration as he awards him during any meal. 

For tonight, the time travel devices are forgotten. 

It doesn’t even cross Will’s mind when he kisses Hannibal at the kitchen sink after dinner, and digs his fingers into his ass suggestively. “Take a shower,” he whispers, “I’ll finish up here.”

Hannibal’s eyes widen a fraction. Will only ever asks him to take a shower before sex if he knows he’s going to be doing something very specific. Will grins teasingly to confirm, yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do to you, and he watches Hannibal drop the dish towel and vanish down the hall, flushed head to toe. 

Will begins scrubbing the dishes with a wide smile still plastered to his face, even though he is entirely alone. 

Will’s ass is sore, even days after their little tryst with their past selves. The day after, Will had been unable to get it up, but the next day, he’d fucked Hannibal raw, and he plans on fucking him every day until he can stand being taken again. 

It’s not as if either of them are complaining. 

Will returns to their bedroom once he’s done drying and putting away the dishes, and Hannibal is sitting on the bed in pajama bottoms. Heather gray, the ones Will can easily see the outline of his erection in. He’s half hard it appears, and his posture stiffens when Will walks into the room. 

“You get dressed after every shower like I’m not just gonna take your clothes off.” Will shakes his head, and walks over with an arm stretched out. “Come on.” 

“It is proper. If you changed your mind, I wouldn’t wan – ”

“When have I ever changed my mind?” 

Will lifts him up to his feet and kisses his neck. It tastes like bourbon and cedar. “You hate this soap,” he tells him, licking down to his clavicle. 

Hannibal nods and says in a quiet voice, “You like it.” 

“It’s my favorite,” Will agrees, tugging him towards the open door. 

Hannibal makes a startled movement, like a skittish animal, and Will chuckles, tugging him harder. “Just come with me,” he commands softly.

That’s all Hannibal needs to repose and take his leave of the bedroom with Will. 

Ever so slowly, Will leads Hannibal through the halls of their home, stopping to kiss him, either on his mouth or on his neck. By the time they reach the living room, they’re bumping into end tables, and sucking each other’s tongues with want. 

“I don’t want you asking questions, or thinking about it. Just do as I tell you for the moment and then I’ll tell you why, alright?” Will asks, and Hannibal nods doubtfully. “Help me push the new couch aside.”

For a moment, a look of utter confusion crosses Hannibal’s face, but he doesn’t go against Will’s wishes. Without argument, he helps Will push the couch aside, off to the flat-end of the wall. The rug is bared, and Will shuts off the lamp so that the only light in the living room is coming from the fireplace. 

Hannibal and Will exchange sultry glances. 

“On your stomach,” Will orders, nodding down at the rug. 

Hannibal understands then, fingers twitching at his sides as he drops to his knees and then lowers himself further to the ground. When his arms are folded under his chin, he asks, “Why here?” just to make Will say it.

Will falls to his knees behind him and gropes the supple shape of his ass through his pajama bottoms. “Because I want a new rug,” he admits. 

“You need only have asked,” Hannibal replies, his breath quickening when Will tugs down his pants, and slides them completely off. He tosses them over the coffee table and spreads Hannibal’s cheeks apart, admiring. 

Will bends down and presses his tongue flat against the lower dip of Hannibal’s spine, licking up until he reaches the skin between his shoulder blades. Crawling forward on his hands, he kisses the knob at the top of his spine and works his way down again. Hannibal tenses the closer he gets to his opening, but Will stops short of the crease and works his way back up slowly. 

Hannibal lets out a somewhat frustrated sigh, body relaxing incrementally. 

“Are you critiquing my methods?” Will asks, nails digging into the side of his hips and dragging down his thighs. Hannibal makes an uncomfortable noise when his pelvis shifts against the rug. 

He’s going to have a hard time getting off without falling victim to rug burn. 

“No,” comes the thin, belated response. “No, not at all.” 

“Good,” Will says and spreads Hannibal apart to dive between his cheeks, licking a fat stripe up his crease. One of Hannibal’s hands darts out like a claw, digging into the tufts of fabric beneath him.

They don’t do this often, or at least Will doesn’t do this for Hannibal often. He’s gotten the impression Hannibal finds it abasing on some level. And Will had been reluctant himself to commit to such an act, but after trying it for the first time, he figured it’s not so bad. He even understands why Hannibal craves doing it to him. 

The reactions he gets out of Hannibal when he does this to him are ones he wants only when he’s in a very specific mood. And he’s in that mood now, wanting to completely wreck Hannibal’s exterior, and shave him down to the fidgeting, fleshy, ball of human nature, who he is at his core. 

Will needs a bit of a crude reminder that Hannibal’s just like him. 

He sucks on his rim and relishes the jumpy movement of Hannibal’s hips in response. Each time Will manages to jostle him, with a wet flick of the tongue, Hannibal adjusts himself again to avoid rubbing wrong against the carpet.

He’s practically squirming. 

“Come on, you’re holding back on purpose,” Will murmurs, pulling back only an inch to see how pink and slick he’s made him. “I know you like it.” 

Hannibal doesn’t respond, probably itching to sink a knife into something. 

Will has been gentle so far, so he tugs Hannibal closer by the hips and presses his face between his cheeks, really eating him out the way he knows women like. Physical intimacy isn’t so different between the sexes. It’s all just tonguing or screwing, orgasming at the same time if you’re lucky. 

Hannibal’s back arches, and he rocks back into Will’s face, making a soft sound when Will’s beard scratches over the sensitive skin surrounding his perineum. 

Between the beard and the rug, Hannibal must be suffering. 

Good. Will thinks again, and licks firmly, harder until Hannibal’s opening gives just enough for him to dip the tip of his tongue inside and swirl it around the inside of the rim. 

“Will, my god – ” Hannibal groans when Will scratches his nails over his back and brings them back down to spread him wider. It must burn, hell, everything must burn. 

Will loses himself in the act for a while, another reason why he doesn’t do this often. It’s not that it’s his favorite sex act, but he becomes so immersed, at points considering staying between Hannibal’s legs all day long, but he knows they have to move forward. 

There’s a certain calm that comes with the cause and effect, expecting every twitch with each swipe of his tongue, expecting the groans that come with him dipping inside. 

The throb of Will’s own cock reminds him they have business to attend to. The business being; get a new rug as soon as possible, preferably not an ugly one. 

He pulls back, out of breath, pants hot air over Hannibal’s clenching hole. For a hysterical moment, he wonders how he ever ended up on the floor of a house in Argentina eating the Chesapeake Ripper’s ass. Then as always, he decides he doesn’t care. 

Will reaches into his back pocket and fumbles with the small bottle of lube he’d been keeping there since he woke up, squirting some on two of his fingers. 

Hannibal is loose from the few days prior, and he wastes no time warning him, slathering the liquid over his hole before dipping them both inside. Hannibal tenses, then relaxes automatically. It never takes him long; he uses the same technique when he’s compartmentalizing his pain. 

“There we go,” Will mutters, pushing his fingers deep. He feels the muscles give easily, eagerly. “See? You hate the rug too, I can feel it.” 

Hannibal laughs, an actual full-bellied laugh, pressing his forehead into the rug to muffle the sound. He sounds so personally chuffed that Will can’t help but chuckle a bit too, drawing his fingers out and pumping more lube onto his right hand. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll pick a better one.” 

“You will not,” Hannibal responds instantly, and stiffens when Will pushes three fingers inside of him, forcing his body to take them. 

“Who’s calling the shots right now, Hannibal?” 

Hannibal may be the king of the jungle when it comes to interior decorating and cooking, but this doesn’t mean Will gets absolutely no say. And he is not going to be satisfied with another hideous rug. 

He refuses to admit to himself he cares about this only out of spite. 

Even if that is very much the case.

Hannibal’s tone dangerously approaches flippant, “Would that be you?” 

Will ducks down, pressing him flat to the rug. Hannibal grunts, cock crushed between him and the floor. “You tell me,” he demands, a hot whisper in his ear, before rubbing all three fingers over his prostate in a hard, beckoning motion. 

Hannibal’s eyes flutter shut and his hips attempt to lift back and chase the sensation, but Will has him completely pinned down. 

Will scissors his fingers apart, stretching him and teasing him simultaneously. Hannibal writhes and turns his head away from Will’s searching lips by his ear. Will easily moves to the other one and watches him try to hide the little twitches in his face that come with each press against that inner swell of nerves. 

“If I give you something bigger here,” Will drags his fingers across Hannibal’s prostate deliberately, “You’ll let me choose one, won’t you?” 

Every part of Hannibal’s personality is telling him to deny Will til the end, but every bone, muscle, and cell in his body is telling him to give in. 

Yet another reason Will doesn’t eat him out often. 

He needs to make these moments sparse, for when he really wants something. He doesn’t want Hannibal catching on to his little scheme. Because Hannibal fucking loves when Will puts his mouth on him. Is blindsided by it.

“Yes,” Hannibal breathes out, nodding face down into the carpet. “I’ll let you.” 

Will grins, completely diabolical, as he pulls his fingers out. 

“Hands and knees,” he orders and Hannibal complies eagerly, if not a bit languidly. His limbs are heavy with want, brain slow with arousal. Will can’t help but adore seeing him like this.

Will unbuttons his trousers just enough to take his cock out. He’s been hard since he buried his face in Hannibal’s ass, and he licks his lips to taste the bourbon and cedar there as he slicks up his erection. 

He tugs Hannibal back and rubs the head of his cock over his hole before sliding in, to the hilt. He’s not as methodical as Hannibal in this way, he just starts pistoning into him with the exact plan of unraveling him before he can unravel himself. 

A gut-punched sound expels from Hannibal, but he stays silent after this, falling from his hands to his elbows after a few punctuating thrusts come in succession. Will slows for a minute, grinding his hips, and then resumes his ferocious pace, just to see the way Hannibal’s back bows further, inclining like a feline. 

“Is it worth it?” Will asks, words gravelly with lust. He barely recognizes the sound of his own voice. “Tell me.” 

“It is,” Hannibal forces out, and Will loves how much Hannibal hates this. Submission. He’s fine with being taken, with being fucked, being on the receiving end, but he hates relinquishing his power.

Will can’t help but give into the temptation to remind Hannibal often, that he is the only one with the power to make him give it up willingly. 

It’s beautifully lewd, taking Hannibal in the living room. With just enough firelight to brighten their surroundings. Brutally salacious, to have Hannibal naked under him, while Will is entirely clothed. 

Will gathers all his strength in his thighs and hands, and drags Hannibal backward by the throat. Hannibal lets out an appealing, soft, baffled sound, but goes with him easily. 

He presses Hannibal’s back to his chest, and keeps him seated on his cock, sitting in his lap almost. He’s well aware Hannibal is a broad, big man, but with a bit of maneuvering, and one arm wrapped around his waist, the other strung under his armpit, hand pushing against his throat, he’s able to keep him steady. 

Hannibal’s back is curved, his chest heaving and red with a blush that reaches up to his cheeks. Will grins into his neck, grimacing when his tight passage convulses around his cock when he starts to fuck into him again.

He rides him harder, attempting to hit his sweet spot with each thrust. 

The noises Hannibal is making are encouraging enough, little raspy moans and gasps, so short and quiet he can barely hear them. Will bites at the straining tendon he finds nosing into the sweaty curve of his neck and Hannibal groans, reaching down with a hand to grip at Will’s forearm. 

“You close?” Will mumbles into his skin and he can feel Hannibal nod, so he moves the hand pressed into his stomach and curls it down toward his cock, untouched save for the rug. 

Will wonders if it’s sensitive because of that when he tightens a fist around it and Hannibal’s breath catches sharply. 

He loses some of his grip on Hannibal while he strokes him, so he tightens his hand on his throat and earns a full-bodied jolt. Turning his dark eyes to Hannibal, he finds his head lolling back onto Will’s shoulder, dazed out of his mind with pleasure. 

I’m gonna exploit the hell out of this, Will thinks, squeezing around the head of his cock and watching Hannibal’s eyes nearly roll back. 

Will licks up his neck and finally gets Hannibal to turn his head far enough to kiss him. It is mostly tongue and reaching lips, not much genuine kissing, but enough to make his cock pulse with desire inside of him. 

It’s getting a bit difficult to keep Hannibal upright and fuck him with the same fervor he’s been giving him the whole while, so he heightens the pace of his hand on Hannibal’s cock and watches him come undone. 

“Come on the rug,” Will tells him, smirking when Hannibal winces. 

“Will, I – ”

“Come on,” Will spreads precum down the shaft, and strokes back up to play with the head, “It’ll be our little secret.” 

Hannibal’s brow creases and he bites his lip, turning his face away as he jerks and groans, coming all over Will’s fist and the rug beneath them. 

Will smiles, stroking every last drop out of him, and shoves him back down to his hands and knees. Hannibal makes a gruff, only somewhat-surprised sound, when Will starts pounding into him, one hand pulling him back by the shoulder, the other fastened around his waist. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he gasps out, fucking as deep and as hard as he can, rushing to the finish line, “How do you look like that when you come?” 

Hannibal doesn’t reply, only gasps when he comes too.

Will lets out a guttural moan, forehead pressed sticky into Hannibal’s back as he pulses his release inside of his body. Then he’s pulling out and plopping to the floor, haphazardly letting his spend drip out of Hannibal into the puddle preexisting on the rug. 

He stares up at the ceiling and tucks his cock away, hissing with sensitivity as he zips himself back up. He turns to find Hannibal with an expression that looks entirely fucked-out. 

“Remind me to do that more often, I think you need it,” Will says and Hannibal blinks twice, slowly coming back to himself. 

He looks down at the mess they made and his eyes narrow to slits. 

“As long as you don’t ruin any furniture.” 

“Relax, we’re getting rid of it anyway,” Will grumbles, hands twitching in the direction of the kitchen. He wants a drink. When he meets Hannibal’s gaze, he’s shocked to see him looking apologetic. “Aren’t we?” 

Hannibal sighs and turns over on his back, further away from Will.

“I’m afraid we'll have to be moving from this place quite soon.” 

Will leans up, balancing his weight on an elbow. 

“What haven’t you told me?” 

“Nothing I didn’t learn myself this very morning,” Hannibal assures.

Will runs over the morning routine, and the phone call Hannibal took outside on the porch while Will heated up leftover pancakes. It must have been Chiyoh. 

“Hell, do we have to leave tonight?”

“Nothing like that,” Hannibal stretches his arms out and a few of his bones creak as he spreads them. “As you know, Chiyoh keeps her eyes on my accounts. There has been some suspicious activity regarding the account that harbors the information for this estate. Nothing more than the normal IP address concerns, but nonetheless, I believe it would be beneficial to take our leave before our exact location is discovered.” 

Will slumps down on his back, feeling overheated and exhausted. He just wants to sleep, and in this instance he can’t imagine going through the sluggish experience of moving house again. 

“Where?” Will murmurs, and turns to find Hannibal’s guilt hasn’t wavered. “Hey, this isn’t your fault, Hannibal. We’re not exactly on vacation. I’m just gonna miss the cottage, that’s all.” 

“If I could tear the cottage from its foundations, and bring it with us, I would,” Hannibal whispers, and though it is cheesy, Will can’t help but take the sentiment to heart. 

“Somewhere cold, I was thinking,” Hannibal responds a few moments later, when the smell of sex is beginning to dissipate. “Perhaps Greenland.” 

“You have a property in Greenland?” Will asks, having thought he knew every place Hannibal had bought a house or a plot of land. 

“I do, but it is even more quaint than this one,” Hannibal admits. “Would you be satisfied with that? It wouldn’t be for as many years. Perhaps while staying there, I could have a larger house constructed in Finland, or somewhere else in Scandinavia.”

Will thinks about the plots of land he purchased in Sweden, close to the woods, far from people and places, and though these locations are known for their frost and snow, he finds himself warm at the prospect. Curling up with Hannibal by the fire, the only reprieve from the chilly nights being each other. 

A long way they’ve come, since their past tribulations. 

“I trust you to get us safely to our next destination,” Will mumbles, eyes fluttering as he fights his fatigue. “Hannibal?”

Hannibal turns completely, eyes meeting Will’s, and he moves forward. They can both see when the other wants to be held, just by glance alone. Hannibal crawls closer and pulls Will against him, chest to chest, and Will tucks his head under his chin, breathing in his muted, natural musk. 

“Did you prefer any of the timelines we created together?” he asks, looking up. From what he can see, Hannibal looks wistful, but somber. 

“No, Will. I much prefer the reality we’ve created together,” he responds. Seeing that doesn’t entirely put Will at ease, he sighs through his nose. “I prefer the mistakes we’ve made, the regrets we’ve experienced that have helped us to grow closer. I prefer it untarnished.” 

“I do too,” Will whispers, inching down just enough to press his cheek to Hannibal’s heartbeat. The rhythm is just as fast as the night they slayed the Dragon. 

Will closes his eyes, and for a moment Hannibal feels like a physical extension of himself. He wonders if Hannibal is also picturing snowy mountains, and frostbitten evergreen pastures. 

Six Months Later

Jack watches the forensic teams scurry around the house like mice, picking and scratching at the walls as if they hold the secrets Hannibal Lecter has expertly kept hidden for years. 

His only advantage is having Zeller and Price working by his side, having known Lecter and Graham professionally, and somewhat socially. 

“They cover their tracks well,” Price sighs kneeling on the floor with the usual latex gloves, white suit, and plastic tools. “Just a few traces of DNA, but they didn’t kill anyone here.” 

Jack tiredly watches the police string yellow tape around the house, and not for the first time in his life does he consider the act a foolish one. Corralling the territory of a monster is as simple as tossing a coin into a shot glass positioned a mile away. 

Zeller is moving around the hearth with a long, hand-held, blacklight. 

“I think what I’m seeing over here is cleaner. It’s what we saw extensively at Lecter’s house in Baltimore. The man was bleach-crazy,” he notes.

“You didn’t see anything in the bedroom?” Jack demands, hands tucked into his pockets so he doesn’t end up punching a wall. 

“Nothing you want to hear about,” Price insists, and when Jack’s glare becomes deadly he puts his hands up. “I promise! Nothing, I’d tell you if it was important.”

Zeller tracks the blacklight over the space on the rug Price is examining. A big white spot shows up under the light. This is definitely not bleach. 

Price drops his tools, and the bag with the sample he collected. 

Zeller turns off the blacklight with a cough. 

Jack takes in a deep breath, and resists the urge to shout. 

As usual, Jimmy starts running his mouth at the most inappropriate times. “Well, at least you know what I found in the bedroom now. Hey, it’s basically all over the house, but it’s not like that’s going to tell us anything about where they are. Have the detectives found anything?” 

Jack shakes his head, huffing with enormous exasperation. 

“I’m going to get some fresh air,” he grumbles, leaving Price and Zeller to do their jobs. He squeezes by a few detectives and forensic scientists, opening the backdoor to a small porch. He looks out at the barren backyard, observing the trees as if they may hold the answer. 

When the wind rushes by, he picks up a whiff of something rotting. 

“Zeller! Price!” he bellows and trots down the steps to analyze the backyard more clearly. Of course they would bury something out here, the sick bastards. A gift for Jack and the team. 

The two scientists get caught in the door when they rush out at the same time and Jack stares at them to make sure they’re rushing to do their jobs and not focusing on another unnecessary tiff.

“What is it, boss?” Zeller asks, sidling up to him. Jimmy sniffs the air and exchanges glances with Jack. 

“We’ve got 'em,” Jack announces. “Figure out where they buried it.” 

Jack wonders how many bodies they’ll find this time. One? A dozen?

“It can’t be too deep if it smells like this,” Jimmy says, beginning his search of the yard at the eucalyptus tree. Underneath it, lies two or three odd looking purple flowers. Purple like a bruise, not like a plum. “Hold on. Brian, you’re the flower guy, can you check this out?” 

Brian clambers over, falling to his knees with no regard for staining his clothes. 

“Holy shit, this is Dracunculus Vulgaris,” he mutters. “They don’t grow in Argentina, well, if they do it’s extremely rare. Near impossible.” 

“Explain,” Jack demands, looming over the two of them.

Price looks lost, but Zeller looks in his element. 

“Well, this would explain the smell. Dracunculus Vulgaris is known for imitating the scent of rotting meat for a time, and that’s how it attracts flies, so they can pollinate it. There’s a few non-scientific terms: Dragon Lily, Voodoo Lily, Viagra Lily…” Zeller swallows at Jack’s expression of rage. “People call it that, I’m not joking. What’s strange is that this looks like it just blossomed, like whoever planted it knew we’d be finding it today, at this time.” 

Jack’s hands curl into fists in his pockets, and he seethes behind a cool exterior. 

“Dig it up.”

“Excuse me?” Price exclaims. “Do you think there’s something – ”

“Dig. It. Up.” 

“Alright, alright,” he replies, and leaves Zeller to go find some of the crew that arrived with them from Baltimore. There’s surely a shovel somewhere in the house as well. 

Zeller is still bent over, examining the flower. Jack assumes he’s never seen one this close.

It hasn’t gone over Jack’s head that the plant is referred to as a Dragon Lily. Hannibal reminding him in his own subtle way that he and Will were the ones to slay the Dragon without the help of the FBI. Almost as if to say, you’re welcome, abandon your mission before we slay you.

Never. 

When the team gets to work digging up the earth under the plant, Jack doesn’t stop Zeller from taking the flower away and attempting to preserve it for future research. Jack waits until they hit something, silver and small. Not at all what Jack had been expecting.

“It looks, uh, it looks like a time capsule,” Price admits, at a loss. He hands the silver container to Jack after Jack puts on a pair of plastic gloves.

Jack brushes dirt off of the surface, and cracks one of the side lids open.

Inside, he finds a handful of watches. His optimism plummets, and his confusion skyrockets. 

“Maybe this wasn’t left by Lecter or Will,” Price says. “This doesn’t look like something they would bother with. A time capsule of stopwatches?” 

No, it is from them. From Lecter. The plant wouldn’t have been there otherwise. They wouldn’t have found whatever this is without it. Jack squeezes the capsule tight and says, “I’m going to handle the investigation on this.”

“You?” Price asks bluntly before he can stop himself. Jack’s eyes fall on him, threatening and without mirth. Price jumps, “Sorry. Gotcha, boss.” 

Jack looks at the clockhead of one of the watches, and admires how still the arms are. How strange the knobs and buttons look. This isn’t a watch he’s ever set eyes on before, and he’s starting to suspect there’s something strange about it; more than meets the eye. 

He looks up at the sky, wondering where the hell Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham disappeared off to. Nothing; he’ll stop at nothing to find them, and take them down.

If the answer lies in his hands, so be it.