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The first step onto the back patio felt like an intrusion, somehow. It always did, when Will was like this.
Hannibal examined the curve of Will’s spine, hunched over his little work bench recently relocated outside for the summer.
I like the fresh air , Will had said. I’m moving it as soon as the temperature’s up.
Sounds of nature made their own sort of silence. Will didn’t react when he heard Hannibal’s foot on the patio, any instinct to flinch years gone from him. A muted, humming pleasure still traveled through Hannibal at the thought. He appreciated the back of Will’s head, hair still dark brown but with a slight gray tone and adorned with a few stray silver pieces to match Hannibal’s own. Though he couldn’t see it, Hannibal knew Will’s beard was the same, just a little scruffier than a stubble these days.
The moment passed and Hannibal approached the bench to get a better view of Will’s handiwork.
Will’s hand was steady as it repositioned a tuft of fur. This fly was a striking black and orange, similar to a few others he’d assembled previous.
“Breakfast is ready,” Hannibal murmured, ignoring that it was a bit late to designate anything as ‘breakfast’.
Will’s focus remained razor sharp on his craft as he replied. “The menu?”
“My own rendition of komplet lepinja, served with cured cuts. It’s Serbian.” Hannibal’s hand drifted gingerly to the sleeve of Will’s jacket and stroked a smooth line along the seam. “Would you care to join me?”
Will hummed, and for the first time, turned his neck to look up at Hannibal. His eyes mirrored the sky sublimely. “Two minutes.”
Hannibal smiled pleasantly and nodded, fingers skimming fabric until they reached the back of Will’s neck. The fly, from what Hannibal understood of the craft, was meticulously put together. “It’s coming along nicely,” he complimented.
Will exhaled a tiny laugh. “You say that about all of them.”
“I mean it every time.” Hannibal enjoyed seeing the lines appear beneath Will’s eyes at the sentiment.
Will acquired more hair from his material box and began tying a feather down to the bundle of materials. “I’m almost done; you can plate the food.”
Hannibal nodded, letting his index tease some of Will’s hair before he stepped back and returned to the kitchen.
Breakfast wound up a quiet affair. Hannibal scraped the dogs’ food from a pan into their bowls, then plated his and Will’s own meals as simply as appropriate for breakfast. When Will joined him they ate in silence, Hannibal appreciating the domesticity until Will finally said something.
“You’re staring again.”
Hannibal just lowered his gaze, unable to prevent himself from looking a bit bashful, and swallowed a rich bite. “Some habits cannot be broken.”
Will hummed and Hannibal didn’t miss the way his mouth twitched up slightly before he took another bite of food.
“Tastes good.”
“He does.”
***
Though no five-star establishment, Jack noted that this pub was in far better condition than most he’d been to in the States. The light and dark wooden accents provided a disarming, folksy charm and it was reasonably full, resulting in a steady hum of chatter all around him. Regardless, as long as the drinks were good enough, Jack couldn’t care less about the state of the place.
He opened a tab but committed to limiting himself; he’d arrived by train and he suspected he’d return to his hotel the same way, but the last thing he needed was a dizzy ride home. He posted himself at the far end of the bar and ordered a glass of whiskey from a brand he’d never heard of, letting his eyes lull over the various groups huddled around tables or sitting at the bar.
Four middle aged women laughed about something together, one of them nearly shedding tears at whatever it was. A young couple, maybe on a first or second date, looking fidgety and shy. The young woman had dropped a stick of gum on the floor by her feet. Four men meeting after work, maybe the loudest in the whole building, talking about something in Norwegian in unnecessarily booming tones. A lonely elder cradling his drink at the end of the bar, eyes resolutely pinned on his glass. And tucked away in the corner-
Jack glanced down at the drink in his hand, absurdly internally pleading it had been laced with something. But he was barely two sips in, he’d gotten a full night’s sleep, and he was wearing his glasses; there was an utter vacancy of employable excuses, no way to deny that he was seeing Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham sat comfortably at a table at the edge of the room.
Jack couldn’t even see Will’s face. But if the hauntingly familiar curly hair and medium build weren’t enough to confirm, the monster of a man across from him was.
Hannibal Lecter sat opposite Will, dressed down from his psychiatry days but utterly distinctive all the same. His face was composed of the same sharp planes, hardly touched by age. The only true indication time had passed was his hair, curling around the nape of his neck in a way Jack had never seen prior. His lips formed a gentle smile, cheeks looking hollow in the dim lights, shark-like eyes trained on Will. They were talking, like they were the most normal pair of men in the world.
The pads of Jack’s fingers had gone pale from gripping his glass in an unconscious state of distress. He was awoken only by the hair-raising flicker of Hannibal’s eyes toward him: barely there and deadly.
Jack heard his own heartbeat, strangely racing more out of disbelief than anything else. Two months after Jack had retired (not without encouragement from his superiors), he’d read the headlines: FBI DECLARES THE CHESAPEAKE RIPPER DEAD . And despite the fact that Bedelia Du Maurier was very much one-legged, she’d resolutely kept her story void of any cannibals, and the FBI’s finest had apparently found all other evidence to indicate that Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham were no more. Jack tried to believe them, for his own peace of mind.
It didn’t really work.
And here he was, being proven right. Before he could truly, properly react, Hannibal Lecter was standing up, offering Will some sort of excuse, one hand pressed near-affectionately on his shoulder before stalking toward Jack.
Jack glanced at the only exit and devised the quickest route out, should he need to use it. After another moment of consideration, he wasn’t sure why he even bothered.
Hannibal didn’t take a seat, rather choosing to lean against the bar next to Jack so he was looming over him, arm poised obnoxiously eloquently. Jack tried to behave normally, to not cause a scene, still unsure what the next few minutes would look like.
Hannibal made no movements, staring off at the crowd. Jack did the same, taking a sip of whiskey and leaning his elbows against the counter. He supposed he had to make the first move.
“You’re meant to be dead.”
Hannibal kept his gaze straight ahead. “Don’t tell me you believed that, Jack; I’ll be terribly disappointed in you.”
“I didn’t,” Jack replied, daring a glance over. “I couldn’t.”
Hannibal hummed in acknowledgement. “Have you come to arrest me?”
Jack saw no point in pretenses. “I’m not FBI anymore.”
Finally, Hannibal spared him a look. “Then I must ask why you’re here.”
Jack shrugged, taking another drink, feeling a little more secure, then promptly cursing himself for allowing such a thing. “Leisure.”
“So this is merely coincidence?”
“If you can believe it.”
A long moment passed, and Jack could only conclude Hannibal had no intention of continuing the conversation first. Woefully, Jack knowingly took the bait, unable to deter his desire for answers.
“If I’m honest, I half-thought one of you would have killed the other by now.” Jack examined how Hannibal’s eyes remained on Will’s back now.
Hannibal smiled ever so gently, but kept his voice level. “If you’ll recall, we tried for years. You were there.” He seemed to think for a moment, not letting his objective tone falter despite the words. “The only option after failing so many times was to come together.”
A part of Jack wanted to ask what he meant; if they killed together now, one unit, one force. What meat was in their fridge. A larger part of him didn’t want the answer for fear he already knew it. He didn’t ask.
Instead, his gaze was pulled to Will magnetically. He examined him, unmistakable even from the backs of his shoulders, head dipped to read a book. Jack felt white, molten shame fill his sternum and gut—the same he’d felt in court, at Will and Molly’s house, at the cliff as he stood over the Dragon’s mangled body.
He looked at Will Graham, his biggest mistake, and was reminded with great certainty that despite his own strides for righteousness, he wasn’t a good person and likely never would be.
In that case, there was only one question that really mattered.
“Is he happy?”
Hannibal’s expression turned as surprised as it ever did, which was hardly at all, but Jack could tell, even after all this time. Hannibal and Jack, staring at the back of Will Graham’s head like it was the only thing keeping either of them afloat. Jack thought maybe it was.
With unprecedented softness, Hannibal said, “He is happier than I believe he has ever been.”
The raw tenderness of it made Jack falter. He looked at Hannibal directly, who did not look back. Jack took him in fully now, pressed brown slacks hemmed just below the ankle and the sleeves of his thin sweater rolled up the elbows. Jack caught sight of Hannibal’s hand, too, adorned with a simple shining band on the fourth finger. It was somehow both a shock and not surprising in the slightest.
Jack kept his eyes on Hannibal’s hand. “Sorry I missed the ceremony.”
Hannibal smiled a little at that. “I assure you, Jack, it wouldn’t have been to your tastes regardless.”
Jack knew it to be true. He imagined a bloody wedding night, entailing an animalistic chase or trap, knives and teeth buried deep, limbs sawed from the body to be stored for honeymoon dinners. No audience or priest or pews, but a religious affair for the two of them nonetheless. The FBI would tremble at the thought.
Hannibal craned his head toward Jack, posture relaxed. Deceptively relaxed, Jack wasn’t sure. He never was.
“Are you gonna kill me?” Jack asked, meeting his eyes.
Hannibal looked back to Will with what could now only be classified as adoration. “I’ll leave that up to Will. You are his monster, as he is yours.”
Jack tipped back his glass once more. “Why hasn’t he joined us?”
“We were having a lovely evening. I did not wish to sour it for him with news of your arrival before gauging your intentions here.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in running.”
Hannibal’s smile at Will widened broadly, rarely-seen sharp teeth glinting in the low lights. “I suppose not.”
Jack had never seen Hannibal like this, he realized. Emotional, however guarded he kept it. At ease. Vulnerable. It felt unbelievable, and yet.
Hannibal finally turned back toward Jack. “Lovely to see you, Jack, but my dear Will is probably wondering where I’ve gone off to. Perhaps dinner tonight.”
“Perhaps,” Jack echoed, the insinuation clearer to him now than the previous ones had ever been.
Without further exchange, Hannibal left, returning to his table. Jack watched the way Will looked up at him from his book, smiling, and the way Hannibal lifted Will’s hand gently and placed a kiss to the knuckles (certainly at least in part for show). Watched how Hannibal mumbled something into Will’s hand and Will’s eyes widened and his head finally turned all the way, eyes searching the crowd until they found Jack.
Jack met Will’s aghast stare, heart thundering again at meeting the eyes of the creature.
Unable to hold the contact for longer than a few seconds, Jack turned away, called the bartender over, and closed his tab after only one drink.
He didn’t look back after that. As he stepped outside and headed back the way he came, he vaguely wondered if he’d even make it to the train station.
***
Hannibal approached the couch, handing Will his drink, which he gratefully accepted. Hannibal took a seat beside him, close enough that their elbows brushed when one of them took a sip.
“I am curious,” Hannibal said, face assuming its usual trained neutrality, “why you relented from such a temptation.”
Will sunk further into the couch, sighing out in mild exasperation. He’d known Hannibal would ask. He always did.
“Doesn’t exactly fit my MO, does it?”
Hannibal hummed. “Doesn’t it?”
“Bad things to bad people, Hannibal. Not people I just don’t like.”
Hannibal tried his best to maintain an impartial air, but Will knew better by now. He knew Hannibal was itching to understand, because that was all he’d ever wanted. To understand Will the best he could.
“Even after all Jack Crawford has cost you, you still consider him good,” Hannibal observed, his own opinion glaringly clear, as if he was one to talk on good people.
Will lifted his glass to his lips. “He tries to be.”
“Trying does not necessarily indicate success.”
“Lack of success in being good doesn’t necessarily indicate being bad,” Will said, jaw clenching a little. The stress of the day’s happenings was getting to him more than he’d like to admit. “I know you don’t agree, but I’ve made my decision. Sorry if you don’t like it.”
At that, Hannibal went entirely still beside him. After a few seconds, Will spared him a glance, and found Hannibal to look terribly earnest.
“You mistake my difference of opinion for disapproval,” he said. “Whatever paradigm of morality you dictate yourself with, I find marvelous, however it may differ from my own.” He looked at Will intently. “You are spectacular in your vengeance and in your mercy, Will.”
Will softened, somehow still caught off guard by Hannibal’s treacly romanticism even after years of endurance.
Instead of saying something back, Will pressed his shoulder into Hannibal’s side, earning him a one-armed embrace as he rested his head on Hannibal’s collarbone. Hannibal, the animal that he was, nosed Will’s hair passively in reply. It felt like an understanding.
One of the dogs sighed dramatically from the floor, but the night was silent otherwise. They opted to maintain the silence, drinking wine in droplets from the other’s lips, warm from where they were pressed together. When Will eventually did start to shiver, Hannibal took his empty glass from him and offered a hand up. Will accepted, accompanying Hannibal down the short hall.
“You’re really not mad?” Will mumbled, more from drowsiness than timidity.
“Of course not. Uncle Jack will live on, but I have an extensive list of other game, however less tempting than he.”
Will huffed a laugh, opening the bedroom door and stepping through. “God bless your Rolodex.”
Hannibal followed him inside.