Chapter Text
What possesses him, Hannibal is uncertain.
It has been a long time since they’ve kept secrets from each other, too close for them to stay, too close to even want to keep any. And yet Hannibal leaves Will alone in the early mornings, time and again, and disappears.
His excuses range from walking the beach, to needing the space to think, to tending to the grapes and yet none are true. And he can see, daily, as the false truths weigh on Will and add to the slouch of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. How day in and day out his smile gets sanded smaller and smaller still, when he accepts the words with one.
It’s been two weeks, and Hannibal returns early. Early enough that Will is still in bed, no smell of coffee in the house, no sign of movement at all. He hesitates, considers, before closing the door. He detours to the bathroom, returns. Across the open plan house he can see Will shift in bed, a distinct hardness to his movements suggesting they’re conscious, wakeful.
Perhaps it’s for the best that they are.
When Hannibal settles on the bed, Will doesn’t turn to him.
“You’re the one man I could never lie to and have it believed.” Hannibal murmurs, a fondness to his tone that isn’t enough to relax the tension in Will’s form. He gets silence. No questions as to why, no excuses or pleas for it to end. Nothing. Will has long since resigned himself to something happening, something unsavory destroying the tenuous balance they had finally built. It’s a pity, truly, that Hannibal has never managed to revert that paranoia to hopefulness and yet.
“It makes you near-impossible to surprise.” he adds gently, adjusting his position and setting something on the bed that immediately makes its way, with wavering steps and clumsy feet, to the man lying resolutely on his side, before sticking a wet, curious nose behind his ear.
Weeks passed without explanation, forces to pretend that nothing was happening at all, without a consoling touch given or received when Hannibal returned those mornings, and so Will twitches, jerks sharply at the unexpected sensation.
He knows this, though. He knows the snuffling sound against his ear and the warm earthy smell and the damp nose that buries in his hair and a sigh, short and breathless, escapes him.
"Hannibal," Will breathes, a warning and a question and an apology and a demand.
Slowly, he pushes up to sit, and finds his lap occupied by a small puppy. Brindled fur and a black muzzle, big dark eyes and an eager tail that wags so hard it carries half of her with it.
Nostalgia, forcefully forgotten memories, snare Will's breath in his chest and stop it cold. Years and years, since he'd last seen his own dogs. Years and years since he'd decided that, like so many other things, was at an end.
A self-inflicted cruelty to exclude himself from those things that might make him happy, knowing that at the time, the thing that had made him most happy in his life was gone from him.
"Hannibal? I don't - " Stammering, useless words, as Will extends a hand, fingers out, to let the puppy sniff them. She doesn't seem to care, and Will draws another deep breath when she puts her paws against his chest, to lick his bearded cheek.
If he’s honest, Hannibal doesn’t know either.
He had found her bundled in a towel on the side of the road, obviously the last of an unwanted litter that had either not been taken or had not escaped quickly enough. She hadn’t responded to him for the first few moments, too hungry, too cold to bother. But she grew used to his hand, grew used to taking small morsels of meat from his fingers when he offered it.
He had intended, in truth, to leave her to herself once she was strong enough to walk. He had not anticipated that she would follow him when she could.
He sits closer, leans just enough to press warm lips to Will’s temple, just under the messy curls that he’s let grow longer here, uncaring, before breathing him in.
“She’s certainly yours, with tenacity.” he tells him, “And we have the space.”
A reassurance, an invitation. Something old in a new place. Routines that begin somewhere.
Strays are common enough in Saint Lucia, but Will had never seemed to pay them mind. Ignoring them, in fact, or faking it until he passed them by to push away all the little hopes and old memories they brought out in him.
Unavoidable, now, with a whine and a wagging tail and clumsy paws in his lap.
Will ducks his head to hide the smile, bittersweet, that curves his lips.
He brings up both hands, to scratch behind her ears, to run the length of her - well-fed, with soft fur. She responds eagerly, all energy and movement, and Will lets her climb against him and turns his cheek into her fur and breathes her in and it’s Wolf Trap, again, a quiet morning shared together with a happy, easy warmth of dogs nearby and Hannibal sitting close against his thigh and Will rubs a hand at his eye, a quick gesture, embarrassed by the sudden rush of everything, all at once.
“She’s had a bath,” Will observes, finally looking up at Hannibal.
The feeling that snares in him when their eyes meet is like an arrow between the ribs, sharp and raw and so absolutely welcome in the sweetness of this particular pain rather than the betrayal for which Will had resigned himself so readily.
"A difficult thing to give her, when you resolutely resigned yourself to bed last week." Hannibal murmurs, lips tilting in amusement, before he draws Will closer, for one brief moment away from the new squirming thing, and kisses him once.
"She seems to have no problem with cars," he adds, standing from the bed to wander to the kitchen and begin breakfast. Something he is certain Will will not care for, and the dog certainly would.
"A very streetwise little partner for the shop."
Eggs today, he thinks, some salmon and spinach on the bread still fresh from the day before. The dog, he is certain, will find her belly quite full on top of the breakfast she's already been given.
Will watches Hannibal go, aching fondness he can’t put into words, for this man and this place that feels less like a dream and more like a reality every day that Hannibal remains, moving gently in the space they’re shaping for themselves, together now.
“I’d like to have seen that,” Will muses quietly, only then pulling his gaze away from Hannibal and looking back to the little creature romping around the bed.
“Hi,” Will says to her, drawing his knees up to his chest beneath the soft sheets, the day already warm despite how early it is. He holds a hand out to her again and she comes to it with absolute abandon, that funny little unsteady run that puppies do. She catches his fingers in her mouth, and he grasps around her muzzle, shaking her head just lightly before sprawling out from beneath the sheets, to lie on his stomach and watch her.
“What’s your name?” he asks her, and a smile curves across his lips. “You’re a local. Probably something French.”
He lays there for a moment more, sighing soft as she cuddles up beside him, and he reaches down to feel her fur beneath his hand and to scratch her ears and to breathe, for a moment, entirely lost in a feeling he hadn’t planned to ever experience again.
It feels like home and the thought is enough to finally pull him from bed. He gathers the wiggly puppy in his arms easily, holds her to his chest and lets her lick his face as he shuffles towards the kitchen, still speaking quietly to her, asking little questions along the way.
“How’d you find him?” Hannibal hears Will ask the puppy, blue eyes alighting on Hannibal with a gentle amusement. “You must have been pretty clever to convince him to take you with him.”
He sets her down, watching as she moves slow, hesitant at first in the openness of this space, but just as soon as a few cautionary sniffs are taken, she bounds openly through the house. Will watches, unable to focus entirely on making coffee, the first time he’s bothered to do so in a week, and feels his cheeks warm as he nears Hannibal, side-by-side at the counter.
“You found her?”
“I found a very ragged, very dirty towel,” Hannibal corrects, turning to Will and holding out a piece of salmon for him to take from his fingers, drawing against his bottom lip when he does. “And in my infinite need for order I made to remove it from the sidewalk near the house.”
Entirely true, a warm and familiarity of which settles comforting over Will. No more lies, no more omissions. Not in this space.
Behind them, the puppy continues exploring, comfortable now to slide herself into spaces too small to be accessed and out again, sticking her nose into open doors and pushing those open to explore within.
“I fed her,” he says carefully, checking the heat of the pan by wetting his fingers and flicking drops against the surface to watch it hiss, “And she stayed.”
He smiles, genuine, and turns back over his shoulder to watch the puppy stand on her back legs trying to reach the bed again, whining softly when the task proves impossible. He gently touches Will’s shoulder to stop him helping, and the puppy drops to the floor, backs up, and with a thorough wiggle of her entire back half, launches herself up.
It’s a scramble, but she manages, walking over to where Hannibal usually sleeps, used to his smell, and digging under the pillow joyfully, finding nothing. Within moments she’s on the floor again, trotting to them, sitting at Hannibal’s feet.
“And now she is entirely yours.” he says, as though nothing interrupted them, “And I will have nothing to do with her upbringing.”
There is a distinct smile in his tone, and one on Hannibal’s face. A white lie, almost transparent.
“So you say,” Will responds with amused doubt, peeling off a piece of the smoked fish and crouching. The puppy eats it without hesitation, sniffing after his fingers for more. “But you were always very good with them.” A pause to allow the memory to surface. “They liked you. Maggie loved you.”
He stands again, to check the coffee, brewing in drips.
“I have to bribe them.” A rueful smile, brief but bright. Hannibal has scarcely poured the eggs into the pan before Will tugs his shirt, a soft linen, beautiful but far removed from the stiff suits of Baltimore. He pulls himself closer to Hannibal, to press the length of his body against him and share a lingering kiss.
Always a distraction in the kitchen, happy to be one again as he loops his arms around Hannibal’s neck, tucking his face against his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “For not trusting. I didn’t know - I mean, I thought that,” he hesitates, stilling his stammer, and sighs. “I thought a lot of things.”
“It’s what your mind does,” Hannibal responds, soft, hands warm against Will’s back through the thin threadbare thing he wears to bed, when he wears anything.
“I had considered telling you.” he says honestly, turns his head to kiss the top of Will’s head, to nuzzle into the warmth of him and stay, watching the eggs with only marginal interest over Will’s shoulder.
At their feet, the puppy makes an impatient noise and leaves them alone, content to keep exploring the new space without them.
“But it has been a very long time since any surprise I presented you was a good one. I was hoping this would break an unfortunate habit, condition a better memory.”
The word is not used cruelly, here, ‘conditioning’. It is merely a term. There is no reason for manipulation for either of them, now, not here. Not since they had left the snow of Baltimore, the thick heat of Florida.
Here they have the beach, they have open space and a record player that almost always clicks, rather than plays, the records they forget to change on it. They have motor oil and overly expensive meat. They have fish smoked at home, they have wine.
Another kiss, Hannibal’s hand up to cradle the back of Will’s head as he holds him, as they gently sway together for no other reason than because they can, because they get comfort from the motion.
Days and days since Will had touched Hannibal, since he let himself be touched, as the tension between them grew to a head and Will shut himself down in increments, gradually quieter, eating less, sleeping more, a hibernation for a winter in a place that should have none.
Gone now, in a meeting of minds and mouths and bodies that Will presses against Hannibal more insistently, laying praise and apology on him with hands that curl through his hair and little sounds that break between their kisses.
It is warm here, and beautiful. A quiet house that finds itself becoming a home, jazz playing soft to fill the air and accompany the sound of waves so near their door. Work enough to keep busy, space enough to stretch and move and feel the way the scars have settled into their skin and to not resist their pull, but to accept it. They have suffered for this, paid their way to this place and its comforts in blood and anguish.
Will glances towards the puppy, eagerly attacking one of the slippers Will has left in the middle of the floor, and then nuzzles fierce against Hannibal’s cheek again, to feel him near.
“I keep waiting for you to leave,” Will admits, softly, no accusation in his words but for the one leveled at himself, unable to stop from going to dark places at the slightest pressure. “I think about what I would do if you did.”
Will doesn’t explain this, and Hannibal says nothing in return, content to just hold Will against him as the kitchen fills with the warm smells of breakfast cooking. He knows he will perhaps never be able to convince Will of his permanence in his life, and he knows it’s entirely his fault that that doubt is there in the first place.
The most he can do is what he does, what they have been doing.
A slow rediscovery of the other, of the space they now share and how they can continue to do that.
“Where would I go?” he asks instead, an old repeated question that never gets an answer, nor needs one.
Another kiss, gentle, just under Will’s eye, and Hannibal gently steps around him to keep the eggs from burning, keeping them somehow beautifully circular the yolk in the center in a way that suggests years and years of practice.
“We’ll need to register her,” he says instead, tone lighter, smile back, “She’ll need a name. Anything you feel a dog would need - you know much better than me.”
He grins when he asks, “I suppose there is nothing that would convince you to not allow her to share the bed?” he doesn’t sound much disappointed by this revelation.
“Where else would she sleep?” Will responds, blinking wide-eyed with confusion, the feint of which fades quickly when he grins, turning away to pour coffee for them both.
Healed, as he finds himself so often, by his doctor. Soft words and softer touches to ease away the phantom pains that plague them both, a little less each day.
Will presses a mug into Hannibal’s hand, taking his with him as he heads back towards the bed where the puppy has worked herself beneath the sheets, a happy lump moving beneath them. He kicks his slippers from the middle of the floor as he goes.
“Have to teach her not to chew on things,” he remarks to himself, sipping the coffee and setting it aside to peer beneath the sheets, grinning suddenly at the bright puppy bark that greets him.
“Hello again.”
Will reaches beneath and scoops her out, cradling her against his chest again and settling back cross-legged on the bed. Quiet murmurs pressed against her fur, against her puppy ears, little conversations one-sided and content, to let the warmth settle in rather than the chill that had threatened them.
The music and the light, filtering through big windows and curtains shifting in the breeze, the house laid open without hidden rooms or secret spaces between them, and now this, another presence there already familiar despite having only just met.
“It feels like Wolf Trap,” Will says, softly.
Hannibal watches, over his shoulder when he’s not working on the food, and gives Will his space. He watches as the man’s hands splay over the warm creature who sits contented one moment and squirms the next. She’s not a particularly attractive dog, but Hannibal had not been able to leave her in that towel, there no way that they will be able to leave the puppy again.
He slices the bread, thick slices to set against the plates, a home-ground pesto spread on top before the salmon is folded against it, a careful twist to appear far more elaborate than it is. The egg on top, cracked pepper, dill to garnish.
It’s a showy breakfast, amusingly so, and Hannibal takes a long drink of coffee before taking up both plates on one hand, cutlery in the other as he snares his mug to deliver their food to its inevitable messy end within the animal currently kicking its little feet against Will’s stomach.
“She may need a brother.” he comments, setting down his mug next to Will’s to at least keep the hot liquid away from the danger of the dog, “To settle her energy.”
Genuine surprise registers on Will’s face, a slight smile hidden behind a thoughtful scratch of his beard. “I suppose that since her upbringing is entirely in my hands, then that’s up to me,” Will responds, pleased. "Maybe even two." A grin, seeing Hannibal's brow raise just so.
He scoots back across the bed to lean against the headboard, taking the plate from Hannibal with a murmur of thanks. The puppy squirms her way into Hannibal’s lap eagerly as soon as he settles on the edge of the bed, nosing after his food, and forcing him to lift the plate above her and away.
“Not to be overbearing in my newfound responsibilities,” Will offers around a mouthful of toast, “but she’s young enough to learn how to sit really easily, especially with food as a reward.”
He sets his plate on the nightstand, tearing off another piece of fish. Sitting up on his knees, he presses just above her tail, lightly pushing her wiggly butt to the bed, and instructs her clearly to sit. She bounces right back up again to pursue the food in his hand and Will repeats this a few times, allowing Hannibal enough time to eat at least.
Finally, a minor breakthrough, as she hesitates before jumping up again, tail wriggling against the sheets.
“Good,” Will grins, feeding her the bit of salmon and scratching behind her ears, his own food forgotten again, coffee cooling unattended. He stretches, wedging his toes beneath Hannibal’s thigh. “You never had to bribe them. They always just listened to you.”
"Only because you had trained them first." Hannibal replies gently, watching the puppy climb over Will again. "They trusted you. You trusted me."
Proxy.
As though on cue, the dog climbs over to Hannibal now, nosing towards the smell of his breakfast, paw gentle against his hand as though to goad him to share. Will watches, curious, amused, finally taking his own breakfast and chewing slowly.
Hannibal regards the small animal until she slows with her pawing. Then she sits on her own, a graceless plonk, and tilts her head. Without a word, Hannibal passes a piece of his breakfast.
"Perhaps it's patience." He says softly, "you have it infinitely. They feel it, understand."
The puppy whines, stands, paws again, and Will scoops her up, turns her to rub her tummy until she squirms and stretches. Hannibal smiles, watches, before running a hand through Will's hair.
"Eat." He murmurs.
It's rare enough that Wolf Trap is mentioned at all between them. A particularly deep wound that's never quite healed for either, despite the years that have passed. The memories of squeaky floorboards and silent snowy mornings, of shared warmth and the first feelings that perhaps there might be a future for them both.
There is again, now, such a possibility, despite all the blood they had to draw to find it. Slowly, the wound has started to stitch together again, the stinging pain of it fading day by day.
"Remember the staring contests with Maggie?" Will asks, knowing there's not a memory of that place, that very brief time that they don't both hold tightly to. "When I couldn't sleep, sometimes, I would watch her inch closer to you on the bed, trying to get as near as she could without waking you up."
"I always assumed she did and you let her stay anyway. Let her think she was being sneaky about it."
Will slides closer to Hannibal across the bed. Settling against his back, leaning into him with an arm around him, hand splayed across his stomach, toying absently beneath the buttons to feel bare skin, soft curls of hair beneath his fingertips. He keeps his other hand on the puppy who wiggles along on her back, curling his hand against her stomach and smiling to see her paws twitch in happy abandon.
"It'll be nice to have her around the shop," he murmurs, lips brushing warm against Hannibal's back. "Take her out on the boat when I go fishing. She can keep you company in the garden."
Will presses a kiss to the back of Hannibal's neck, eyes closed.
A new life growing steadily from the ashes of the old.
Will pulls his plate closer to eat slowly, as pleased even now that it's cool as he was when it was warm. A murmur of thanks again, of how good it is, never missing a chance to compliment Hannibal's talent in this. The puppy takes the opportunity to lazily roll to her feet again, finding a spot to plop down alongside Hannibal's leg. Will imagines Hannibal, humming with dismay at finding a heap of towel to remove from where it landed near the trees that line their walkway. Finding then within it a squirmy puppy, eyes meeting for a lengthy regard before lifting her carefully, momentarily mindless as to the dirt and fussing over her with gentle admonishments.
The pull Will feels in his chest tightens so hard it nearly hurts.
"You have a doctor's compassion," Will remarks, fondly, "for finding things that need care, and helping them. Feeding them. Giving them a chance they wouldn't have had before."
"I'm glad you found her," he considers, and adds, rueful, "I'm glad you found me."
Hannibal turns his head, just enough to rest his cheek against Will's hair, gentle, warm, close.
"Just as she did," he says softly, "so you were put unavoidably in my path. And I cannot thank you enough for not letting me veer off it."
Both inexplicable, beautiful creatures that Hannibal had never expected to need in his life, want there. Yet here they were both were, pressed up against him. Soft and trusting despite the blows life has dealt, the scars it left.
He wants to spend all day here, the doors open to the garden for the dog to explore, letting in warm air that smells of the ocean and the sweetness of fruit. He wants to lay Will bare and kiss his skin, breathe in the warmth and reality of him, feel his fingers splay in his hair, feel his breath hitch...
"Do you have a job to finish?" He asks gently, mild suggestion in the tone but it's enough.
A slight smile, one that Will doesn’t turn away or hide this time, as has become habit. He sets his plate aside again and wraps both arms around Hannibal now, mouth pressed against his shoulder, absorbed in the feeling of soft fabric and warm skin beneath his lips.
It’s been days and days since they’ve been so close, separated by walls Will started to erect with unexpected speed, walls that now must come down again. He’s eager to do so, to feel contentment settle in rather than contempt, and the implication in the question is easily understood.
“Not until the end of the weekend,” he responds, affecting a tone of casual disinterest, “I suppose I could go work on it now, though.” Another grin, faint, as the mild bluff is responded to with a note of disapproval, and Will turns his cheek against Hannibal’s shoulder to watch the puppy twitch in sudden sleep beside them.
“She needs a name.” Will’s hands spread across Hannibal’s chest, finding buttons there and slowly working them undone. “Something from one of your operas, maybe.”
"Mm," a soft sound, pleased, though Hannibal makes no suggestions as to a name yet. He allows Will's fingers to work the buttons open, but gently touches his thigh to keep him sitting and still as he gathers their plates to take to the kitchen to wash later. The puppy wakes, rolls into the warm space Hannibal had occupied before he stood, and barks, tail going so fast it blurs in the air, and Will gathers her to him.
This was real, this was here. So much more than the physical; the wriggling puppy, the gentle sounds from the kitchen as Hannibal does everything to ready for the dishes to be cleaned. It's the promise of permanence, the promise of understanding and patience that Will may have but that Hannibal has more of. It's security.
Will sets the little creature to the floor and she scampers off to find Hannibal, who gives her a gentle stroke behind the ears and unlocks the glass garden door to let her free. Their private garden is fenced on all sides, one gate leading through to the more wild brush and ferns before spreading in a clearing where the beach lies. Shared but mostly their own as well. She can't go far.
When Hannibal returns, he leans in to kiss Will without a word, one hand against his face in a gentle caress, the other pressed to the bed for balance.
A little sound of surprise as Hannibal leans over Will, and he finds himself pushing back further onto the bed to tug Hannibal atop him. Untidy sheets and the smell of puppy and coffee and the ocean all around them, Will’s arms wrap loose around Hannibal’s neck and he grins, nose brushing Hannibal’s.
“You’ve always been full of surprises,” he murmurs, wry, before relenting with another kiss. “This is a good one.”
An easy movement to roll until they’re on their sides, entangled, legs twining together and arms surrounding their other and bodies meeting in unhurried contact, a need to confirm, to feel, to know that they are here together now, a need that’s yet to abate even months after they arrived.
“Now every time you’re secretive, I’ll assume you’re bringing home another one,” he grins, catching his lower lip between his teeth. “You’re setting a bad precedent.”
Hannibal smiles with his eyes, the telltale crinkling in the corners that speaks volumes even when his expression otherwise remains stoic.
"Perhaps you're not wrong." He tells him, keeping his eyes on Will’s as the other skims warm hands over Hannibal’s chest, over his collarbone, his neck, his jaw. A gentle swallow moves his throat and Will’s fingers seek there too, tracing the rise and bump of his adam's apple.
It's an exploration, another commitment to memory. In the months they've shared, together, now, Hannibal has noticed Will does this once every few weeks, as though to convince himself that Hannibal is still here, to convince himself that he himself is. Grounded in the moment not hallucinating through warm tendrils of whiskey and pain.
When Hannibal leans closer, Will lets him, eyes closing and lips parting in soft permission.
This.
Them.
Now.
Hannibal makes a soft sound in his throat and presses closer, fingers between the soft sleep-warmed strands of Will’s hair.
Almost kissing again but not quite, not yet, as Will completes his affirmations with eyes closed and lip caught between his teeth again. His fingers fan across Hannibal’s mouth, always a source of fascination for him, whether in horror or in worship. He traces the rise and fall of his lips, the curves that he knows better than his own, now, the teeth just past them. Finally he sucks in a hard little breath at the feeling of Hannibal’s tongue pressing against his fingertips, just enough to make Will’s cheeks flood with color.
Now, now Will kisses him, finding again whatever it is he looks for in those moments, chasing his fingers with his mouth and driving closer still, until there’s no space between them, nothing but a few pieces of clothing and flesh and bone to separate their hearts, each increasing in time, every movement synced as Will runs his hands through Hannibal’s hair to unsettle it and Hannibal’s fingers twist into Will’s shaggy curls. A breeze rustles the curtains and Will sighs, eyes scarcely open, foreheads pressed together, hips as well in a gentle shove.
“Anything?” Will asks softly. Half-conversations continued from years past, as fresh in their memories as if it were moments before.
"Always," the word is soft between them, breathed, felt more than heard, but it's there, it's enough for them. Hannibal catches the gentle oh that falls from Will’s lips, swallows it, enjoys it, presses the same word back to him in brief brushes of lips.
He shrugs out of his shirt when Will’s hands slide up to remove it, uncaring where it ends up as long as he can press close against Will again, feel the way his heart speeds beneath him.
He directs his kisses lower, down over Will’s jaw, under his chin, relishing in the soft bend of his body, still slim, though softer now. He kisses his neck, brings his lips together at the apex of a collarbone, hands ahead of his mouth, down to grasp the hem of Will’s shirt and tug it up.
A hand splays against the scar, years old now but still sensitive, still enough to have Will suck in his stomach.
Kiss me there.
Hannibal swallows, shifts up just enough to peel the shirt from Will, toss it away.
Will reminds himself to breathe, pushing his hair back out of his face as he lays back, to watch Hannibal press kisses, open-mouthed, tender, against his chest. He lingers, as ever, over his heart, smiling slightly against Will’s skin when he feels it move faster still.
Shivering, goosebumps along sun-browned skin, Will catches one of Hannibal’s hands as it moves up across his chest now. He pulls it to his mouth, lets fingers tug soft against his lips, and presses a kiss to Hannibal’s palm, keeping his hand there with both his own wrapped gently around it.
A noise, always the same restrained mixture of desire for what’s to come and discomfort with what is, when Hannibal grazes a kiss along his scar. An act he goes out of his way to repeat each time they’re together, an apology without end, as he presses his mouth gently from one side to the other. Will squirms a little, fidgets and twists but does not dislodge him, instead pushing his fingers through Hannibal’s hair to tangle there, blushing fierce.
He kisses the scars striping Will’s arms and face in much the same way, when he’s near enough to them to do so, seeking forgiveness long ago given, and to show Will through actions that have always meant so much more than words how beautiful he still considers him to be.
Will sighs, arching his hips upward as Hannibal tugs gently at the waistband of his thin cotton boxers, and a sudden worry catches him, stilling both their motions.
“Do you think she’s okay out there?” he asks, glancing towards the door to the garden.
Hannibal stops, lips parted and feeling the heat of Will’s skin against them, before he sighs, feels Will shiver with the sensation of cool air against the thin skin under his navel. Then he turns his head, looking where Will is, hearing nothing but the sound of morning birds and a gentle scratching of a small canine figuring out she can shift dirt with her paws.
When he turns back, his lips finally meet skin, feel Will shiver beneath them.
Hannibal pulls the boxers lower.
“I suppose,” he muses, the tone Will associates with pretentious dinner parties filling his mouth to spill over trembling skin, “I could go and check. Bring her back in. Set her loose on the house. On you.”
He kisses the curve near Will’s groin.
“Like this.” he kisses lower.
Will arches up onto his shoulders, grinning despite his moment of reservation and looping a leg up over Hannibal’s shoulder.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” he responds, an eager noise unfurling from him to split his words before he can finish. “You stay here. There. Stay there. But, lower.”
The bloom of scarlet across his cheeks spreads lower, to his chest, his shoulders, breath a little heavier now. Will tastes winter on his tongue when their eyes meet across the length of his body, the sweet crispness of snow far from the biting bitter cold whose howling winds seem less fierce each day. A happy memory, this, obscuring the years since by pulling another bend from Will’s back, as Hannibal lingers precariously close and waits, amused, to watch Will squirm in anticipation.
“Please?” He drapes an arm over his face and laughs behind it. “Don’t make me beg.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” comes the innocent reply, Hannibal finally peeling the boxers off of Will and tossing them over the edge of the bed. “This morning.” he adds, tone dark, pleased, eyes up to watch Will’s own widen just enough, before taking him into his mouth.
Will is always most pliant when Hannibal presses his mouth against him. When he can taste the subtle undertones of everything that Will is, from the exhaustion of sleepless nights to the coffee smell that lingers on him, to the tacky oil and natural earth, to the salt of the ocean just past their garden.
Now, Will tastes like warmth, like home, leg curling over Hannibal’s shoulder as he groans in pleasure and settles on the bed, hands alternatively bunching sheets and sliding up over Hannibal’s shoulder to his hair to tug there.
Hannibal remembers when Will was more open to pleasure, when his voice would be allowed free, loud and clear and perfect in the cool rooms of Baltimore, or soft and helpless, near-sobbing in the pillows at Wolf Trap. Hannibal loves Will’s voice, the way it turns words, the way it manipulates them beautifully.
Will twitches against Hannibal’s tongue and he takes his time pulling off, allowing his teeth, just gently, to graze the head as he pulls back further still, curls his hands under Will’s hips and lifts them to bring his lips to his hole instead.
The record playing before has since clicked to a stop, unnoticed some time ago, and the only sounds now that fill the space are breathless pants, the sound of birds in the trees that surround them, the waves steady and consistent as heartbeats soft against the shore. Will’s moan breaks the quiet, a high, pleased sound shaking free as he curls his leg tighter over Hannibal’s shoulder, meets it with the other.
Raised up nearly onto his shoulders, an elegant curve still found effortlessly beneath Hannibal’s touch, his mouth, his astute awareness of how best to leave Will breathless.
And as his breath leaves him, in gasps beneath the broad stroke of Hannibal’s tongue, in whimpers weak and aching when he sucks and kisses his skin, so also leave the phantom pains, the scars, the blood, the years wasted until they’re as they were once, young and fierce again, lost entirely to the other - their other, the only one that has ever fulfilled them each so entirely.
“Please,” Will begs, now, of his own volition, for Hannibal to keep going, to give him more, harder, to stop, to let the rush of sensation ease away again. For everything, anything, always. His fingers curl around Hannibal’s jaw, bending to reach, to feel the movement there and his eyes roll closed with a low groan, before even this is not enough.
He tugs, coaxing Hannibal back up, letting his legs move to slide and wrap around his hips instead. Will settles beneath him, into a rolling, eager rhythm, gasping as his length brushes Hannibal’s own.
“Yours,” he promises, kissing slow and adoring along Hannibal’s neck, thrilling as the older man sighs against his cheek.
Hannibal smiles, slow, turns his lips to brush Will’s face, the hair soft, now, in a permanent shadow Will refuses to shave and Hannibal secretly adores.
“Mine,” he agrees, pleased, warm, a hand coming down to replace the slow, shallow stroking of his tongue just to feel Will shudder from the sensation against him. “Mine to hold and cherish and surprise,”
He pulls back, just far enough to reach for the nightstand, for the small tube of lubricant there.
“Mine to tease and make dinner for,”
He warms the liquid before sliding two fingers into Will, relishing the gasp, kissing his throat to feel it vibrate there when it becomes a moan.
“Mine to entirely give myself over to,” he breathes, kissing lower, spreading Will’s legs wider as he sinks against him.
“And yours entirely to own.”
Will’s sudden grin is parted by a gasp when Hannibal presses against him. A slow push to part him open, bodies working together in languid shifts and settlings. Sliding an arm across his eyes again, Will laughs, heart pounding. Hannibal catches his wrist and presses kisses to the scars there, before gently pressing it to the sheets above Will’s head, to catch the light in his eyes and see the unrestrained smile strip the years from him and to hear him laugh before he ducks his head against Hannibal’s shoulder.
A shyness, reemergent, and one that Hannibal hopes to ease away from Will again with enough time. An infinite patience for such a thing, renewed each time he hears that sound added to the gentle melodies of their home together.
“Mine to listen to music with, to help with in the garden,” Will breathes, sliding his arms beneath Hannibal’s to hold him close, to feel his weight heavy and familiar above, the soft hair against his chest and the steady heartbeat moving ever slightly faster. “Mine to tell you how beautiful your cooking is,” he sighs, kissing just beneath Hannibal’s jaw. “And you are.”
Another little laugh, another tuck against Hannibal’s neck, mouth pressing warm. “Mine to make messes for.”
“To trust,” he adds, words hitching as Hannibal moves inside of him, followed by a faint grin. “I’m working on it.”
"I'm patient." Hannibal murmurs, smiling, nuzzling against Will’s neck.
He pulls his fingers free, presses a very soft kiss to Will's lips and strips his own pants off, away. Will looks beautiful beneath him, spread and languid and flushed. He looks relaxed, smile widening at the scrutiny, moving to turn away.
Hannibal makes a soft noise and kisses against his temple.
"Trust me," he urges, gentle, waiting for Will to look at him again, "look at me."
Will’s brows draw in, the slightest pull of dismay passing over him like a shadow before he can stop it. A ruddy blush hot beneath his beard, grown long but not enough still to hide what he would like, and after a few heartbeats pass he turns his face back towards Hannibal.
He tries to drape his arm across his face again, a new habit, but stops himself before Hannibal can. Curling his hands together above his head, tension in the corners of his eyes, he makes himself, finally, meet Hannibal’s eyes for longer than a glance. It forces him to draw a quiet breath, the exposure of the position, of this openness.
“Hannibal,” he breathes, unsure of what to say to finish the sentence, working his lip between his teeth again instead.
"Beautiful," a murmur, a reassurance, before Will is given brief reprieve as Hannibal presses another kiss just under Will's eye, over his cheek, to his jaw.
Hannibal shifts, enough to press against Will to hold just there. When he presses in it's slow, a careful push as one hand comes up to cup Will’s face, their foreheads together, the other up to curl with Will’s fingers.
"Will," an answer, a prayer, it's hard to tell and it barely matters. Not when they're this close, Will’s body curving up against Hannibal, his legs up to hold them together, lips parted on gentle gasps of pleasure.
He holds his breath as Hannibal presses into him, lips parted silent and head pressing back against the bed, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, legs sliding fast up around Hannibal’s hips to ease the sweet familiar stretch that gathers at the base of his spine and finally forces a low moan from him, fingers tightening where they’re laced with Hannibal’s and chest heaving in quick little pants.
Hannibal stays there for breaths and breaths, to allow both to feel rejoined, both to feel whole again, eyes meeting from so near that Will brushes his nose in a gentle nuzzle against Hannibal’s own. A sleepy grin, pleased enough already.
“I’ll have to trust you on that.”
Kissing the amusement from the twist in Hannibal’s lips as he begins to move, as unhurried as before, to feel every inch of each other aching slow in a beautiful torment that begins to pull more sounds from Will. Youthful little noises, grinning gasps and shuddering sighs, whimpers when Hannibal adjusts his angle to drag slow over Will’s prostate, causing his fingers to clutch tight again and his free arm to cling across Hannibal’s shoulders.
“Just like that,” Will sighs trembling, close enough to finish already after so long without contact, resisting to feel that coiling pleasure twist deeper, longer, to take and give all he can. “Please, just - don’t stop.”
Little murmurs, nonsensical and whispered rough against Hannibal’s mouth, hints of the voice that used to sob and moan and whimper so easily perhaps stirring again. With time. With patience.
Hannibal keeps pushing, slow, languid thrusts, matching Will’s gentle pants with soft sighs against him. He feels perfect, alive and breathing, roiling and twisting and seeking more beneath him.
He doesn't stop. Keeps Will held in this state of near euphoria, holding him back but not forcing him to hold. He murmurs words back, murmurs things just as nonsensical, and just as meaningful between them.
Perfect, mine, Will, please, yes, stay still for me, just for me, just a moment longer, oh...
He can feel his own pleasure coiling, turning within him as well. He presses close, lips parted on low, helpless noises of need against Will’s skin.
"Come on, Will."
“Yes,” Will breathes, always yes, always as his arms sink deeper around Hannibal and he feels his body curve and release and he gasps, moaning, yes.
Warmth spilling between them, sudden and unexpected, surprised enough that Hannibal’s soft coaxing words can tug it from him so gently that Will grins, wide and unabashed. He doesn’t hide it this time, squeezing Hannibal’s hand still pressed against his own, pushing his other back through Hannibal’s hair to watch the gentle slackening of his mouth, eyes kept open just enough to see Will beneath him as that coiling unfurls with a rough sigh.
A stillness between them, but for pounding pulses and quickened breaths, until Hannibal starts to move and Will keeps him close.
“Don’t go yet,” he whispers, to lay beneath him for a moment more, beneath the comfort of his weight and warmth and sweat and sighing breaths between kisses, pressed to Will’s temple, his cheek, across a scar, his mouth then, a gentle thing soft, sweet.
“Love you,” murmurs Will, sleepy and pleased, flushed and trembling.
Hannibal pauses, the words so known yet never spoken, they taste warm from Will’s lips, an unusual new flavor to lick and savor from him. How many times was this implied between them, how often understood.
Hannibal nuzzles against him, just as close, just as warm together.
"I love you." He responds, voice low and gentle, the words soft in French. Every word meant, pressed to Will’s skin to his lips... The kiss lingers, not deep but so soft it feels like electricity between them.
Hannibal smiles.
"In every language you can pull from me."
Will wriggles a little, content, warmed by the words, to finally feel them spoken, and the soft smile splits into a quick grin.
“All forty of them?”
A quiet hum of agreement, amused, as Hannibal catches his mouth in another kiss.
“Even Japanese?”
“Even Japanese,” Hannibal responds, and though the words that follow are unknown to Will, the fondness with which they are spoken is not.
Theirs has always been a language of tone more than words, of feel rather than definition, and there was uncertainty, pain, in those moments in which one or the other tried to take a literal meaning rather than the spirit of the thing itself.
Comfortable now to communicate in half-spoken or unknown languages, finding warmth beyond the words themselves, as Hannibal continues to whisper soft against him. He returns each one, in English or in Creole, grin brightening each time until he finally declares, self-effacing as ever, “I’ll have to start practicing more.”
Will pushes a hand back through Hannibal’s hair, as they shift to lie side-by-side instead, and he doesn’t duck away from the close attention, doesn’t tuck his head against Hannibal to hide his face. Forces himself to stay still, stay here, with Hannibal.
He chews his lip, hesitant, and finally asks, “She can sleep in the bed, right?”
A laugh, brief and bright and pleased, and Hannibal presses his forehead to Will’s. Outside there is still no sound of displeasure from the pup, content as she is to explore on her own.
"I shan't fight the inevitable." He tells him, soft, resigned and far from unhappy with it.
He settles his hands against Will's hair, his face, strokes there, soft.
"My Will."
As though no time between them was lost at all, within this moment. A new place, but without the pressures of Baltimore or Wolf Trap. A new home, with no need for anything but truth between them. Years disappear in a heartbeat, rendered irrelevant by the feel of Hannibal’s hand pressed against Will’s cheek, the turn of Will’s mouth in a devout kiss against Hannibal’s palm.
For a moment, Will imagines that snow is falling soft against the windowsill, and there is no one in the world but them.
Only us.
“Always.”