Archive of Our Own ^beta

The house was warm when Will stumbled through the door, worn down to the bone. The case had left marks—beneath his eyes, in the stiff way he carried himself, in the hollow slowness of his breath. Hannibal was already waiting, sleeves rolled up, the fire casting golden light across the room. He approached Will unhurriedly, as if nearing a wild, wounded thing.

“Will,” he said softly, voice catching low in his chest. No questions, no are you alright—they both knew the answer. He reached out, palms up, and waited.

Will’s fingers found his without thought, latching on like a man lost at sea. Hannibal closed the space between them, thumbs brushing slow circles over the backs of Will’s hands. They stood there, breathing into the softening space between their bodies. When Will’s knees buckled slightly, Hannibal caught him effortlessly, arms cradling his frame, tucking Will’s head under his chin. One hand splayed across Will’s back, the other threaded into the curls at his nape.

“Shh,” Hannibal whispered into his hair. “Nothing sharp tonight. Only this.”

Will sagged into him, letting himself be held—a thing he rarely allowed, always bracing for the inevitable hurt. But Hannibal made it seem simple. With infinite patience, he guided them to the couch, arm firm around Will’s shoulders. He sat first, drawing Will into his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Will curled sideways against Hannibal’s chest, knees drawn up, arms tucked between them.

Hannibal draped a heavy blanket over them, his fingertips tracing Will’s spine in slow, hypnotic loops, smoothing tense muscles, grounding him. His other hand mapped Will’s knuckles, the fragile bones of his fingers, thumb brushing the pulse at his wrist in an endless rhythm. Will’s breathing hitched, then deepened, his fingers twisting into Hannibal’s jacket as if afraid of losing him.

“I’m here,” Hannibal murmured against Will’s temple, rocking them gently—not enough to jostle, only to soothe. He pressed a reverent kiss to Will’s curls, then his brow, his closed eye, each touch feather-light but unwavering. Will murmured something unintelligible, half-asleep, his body yielding to the safety Hannibal offered.

“I have you,” Hannibal said, barely audible over the crackling fire. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in years, Will believed it—not with his mind, but with the aching trust of his body resting completely against another. He slept, held in the steady sway of Hannibal’s arms, the fire’s glow softening the world beyond.

Will drifted awake like a leaf on a slow current, weightless, held. Hannibal’s chest rose and fell beneath his cheek, a hand curved protectively around his head, fingers tracing lazy circles in his hair. The fire had burned to embers, but the room held the warmth of woodsmoke and home. Will stirred, and Hannibal’s arm tightened—not constricting, just a silent Stay. You’re safe.

Blinking into the grey morning light, Will met Hannibal’s unguarded eyes, soft and unbearably tender. No hurry, no expectations. Hannibal cupped Will’s jaw, thumb brushing the hollow beneath his cheekbone. “Good morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

Will hummed, nuzzling into the touch, his body strangely pliant, some inner knot uncoiled. He curled closer, guiding Hannibal’s hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart as if to say, Feel this. I’m here. Hannibal’s mouth curved faintly, and he kissed Will’s forehead, then his temple, lips lingering. His thumb traced Will’s ear, his neck, his shoulder—slow, reverent, memorizing. Will closed his eyes, drifting without fear, the blanket tucked snugly around him.

The soft rumble of Will’s stomach broke the quiet. Hannibal chuckled, a gentle sound, and kissed Will’s hair. “Stay here. I’ll bring you something.” Will made a content noise, too relaxed to protest, watching through half-lidded eyes as Hannibal crossed to the kitchen. The morning light streaked pale gold through the windows, painting the room in quiet intimacy. From the kitchen came the clink of a pan, the sizzle of heat, Hannibal’s deliberate movements a kind of devotion.

Will drifted in and out of light sleep, the smell of butter and sweetness tugging him back. Hannibal returned with toast, eggs, and apple slices, a steaming cup of coffee beside them. He crouched beside Will, knuckles brushing his cheek. “Come, my dear. You need to eat.”

Will stretched, letting Hannibal help him sit, the blanket wrapped like a second skin. Hannibal settled beside him, thigh pressed lightly against Will’s, and offered a piece of apple. Still drowsy, Will took the bite from Hannibal’s fingers, the taste bright and cool. Hannibal’s eyes darkened, but he only smiled, wiping a drop of juice from Will’s mouth. They ate slowly, Hannibal feeding Will small pieces, coaxing him back to life with each tender gesture.

When the food was gone, Will leaned into Hannibal’s side, drowsy and full. Hannibal gathered him close, kissing the crown of his head. “Rest. I’ll be here when you wake.”

The sun rose higher, filling the room with delicate light. Hannibal stayed, arm loose around Will’s shoulders, fingers tracing patterns along his arm—a steady tether. Will shifted closer, breathing in the quiet thrum of Hannibal’s heartbeat.

“You knew,” Will said quietly, voice rough with vulnerability.

Hannibal’s hand paused. “I did,” he answered softly. “The way you carried yourself, how you breathed. You have a tell, Will. A language all your own.”

Will looked up, eyes clearer now, the weight of those words sinking in. Hannibal hadn’t guessed—he’d seen him, understood without explanation. No one had ever looked at him with such precision, such tenderness. “I didn’t want to be alone,” Will admitted, raw.

“You are not alone,” Hannibal said, simple and absolute, his hand resuming its soothing strokes. Will felt a deep knot ease, burrowing into Hannibal’s warmth without hesitation. Hannibal’s lips brushed his head, fingers twining with Will’s, fitting together as if they’d always belonged.

The day drifted golden and slow. They moved quietly around each other, sharing space without the world’s brittle noise. Will watched Hannibal in the kitchen, the soft clink of dishes, his calm hands preparing lunch. From the couch, still bundled in the blanket, Will’s heart moved carefully. He hadn’t realized how much he needed this: the quiet being together.

Almost without thinking, Will stood, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. He crossed the room barefoot, hesitant, like stepping across thin ice. Hannibal turned, face softening, and opened his arms. Will stepped into him, forehead pressing into Hannibal’s shoulder, arms hovering. Hannibal’s embrace was gentle, patient, waiting.

Will exhaled, wrapping his arms around Hannibal’s waist—raw, unpracticed, but real. Hannibal cradled the back of Will’s head, fingers in his curls, rocking them faintly, the house’s heartbeat in their sway. Will tightened his hold, giving back the trust offered to him.

They stood there, breathing into each other’s spaces, the world’s sharpness fading. No words, no conditions—just touch, closeness, a promise stitched into the silence: You are not alone. Only this, soft and steady, together.