Chapter Text
The morning sun slipped timidly through the cracks in the curtains, tinting the room with a soft golden glow that clashed grotesquely with the dark stains drying on the carpet. The air still carried the metallic scent of blood, mixed with the fresh aroma of coffee drifting in from the kitchen.
Hannibal was already up, impeccable in his morning calm. White shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, gloved hands resting lightly as he observed the stiffened body stretched out on the carpet.
Will emerged from the bathroom, hair still tousled, wearing only an oversized t-shirt—probably stolen from Hannibal’s wardrobe. He rubbed his eyes as though what lay before him were no more than a minor nuisance, a cockroach on the rug.
“You’ve already thought about the next carpet, haven’t you?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Perhaps.” Hannibal crouched, assessing the knives still lodged in flesh.
“‘Perhaps,’ he says. Come on, I know you’ve already planned to change the curtains to match.” Will rolled his eyes.
Hannibal smiled, proud of how well his husband knew him.
“Rigidity has already set in. It’ll be more troublesome to roll him now.”
Will chuckled quietly, running a hand down his face.
“This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when you talked about a peaceful life in Cuba.”
Hannibal arched a slight smile, lifting his gaze to him.
“Peace is relative, vita mia.”
Will huffed but didn’t argue. He walked to the kitchen and returned with two steaming mugs of coffee, handing one to Hannibal, who accepted it as if it were the most natural thing in the world to sip coffee in front of a corpse.
“So…” Will took a slow sip. “Do you prefer burning him somewhere, or should we stage him for the police to find?”
“Our art is far too refined for a cheap thief, dear,” Hannibal replied, as if discussing whether or not to use a certain shade of paint in a canvas, rather than a corpse in a crime scene. “Besides, your knife struck his face. It’s far too sloppy to use.”
Will raised a brow, looking at his husband.
“Are you criticizing my knife-throwing methods, Doctor?”
“Of course not, Will. You know I’m your greatest admirer in everything you do…”
“But?”
Hannibal’s smile curved slightly as he examined the body again. “But your aim leaves something to be desired. You said you were aiming for his mouth?”
Will sighed, glanced at the damage, and nodded begrudgingly.
“I aimed too high.”
“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll let you practice on me later.” Hannibal teased, and Will laughed.
“Careful, Doctor. Your masochism is showing,” Will quipped, drawing a low laugh from Hannibal.
With meticulous calm, Hannibal removed the knives from the body, wiped them on a white cloth—soon stained red—and handed them back to Will. Together, they lifted the corpse and laid it straight across the carpet, rolling it up neatly.
As Will tied the man’s feet, he grimaced.
“You do realize we’re the only couple spending a Saturday morning like this?”
“Not really,” Hannibal answered, securing a firm knot at the other end of the rug. “We’re simply tending to the house. Every couple has their own routines.”
Will huffed and rolled his eyes.
With steady steps, they dragged the body across the veranda to the damp sand. The sea awaited silently, an eternal accomplice to secrets.
Hannibal paused, exhaling calmly, and looked at Will, who squinted against the morning light.
“Once we’re rid of him, we could stop by town. Pick out a new carpet.”
Will smirked faintly, without a trace of irony this time.
“And maybe get breakfast first. I’m hungry.”
“It shall be done,” Hannibal replied, with the serene certainty of a man who always keeps his promises.
Together they pushed the body into the sea, watching as it sank until it disappeared. The day was only just beginning.