Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“We could disappear now. Tonight.”

Will sets his glass back on the table because if he doesn’t he’s going to drop it, and just looks at Hannibal, uncomprehending.

“Feed your dogs, leave a note for Alana. And never see her or Jack again.” The faintest of smiles quirks his lips. “Almost polite.”

Will forces a smile in response, because he can feel the hysteria bubbling beneath his skin. “Then this would be our last supper.”

Hannibal looks away to survey the table. “Of this life. I served lamb.”

He can’t stop fiddling with the stem of his wine glass, can’t bring himself to look Hannibal in the eye. If he does, the whole sordid plan will spill out of him. Instead he frowns at the lavish display in front of him. “Sacrificial.”

Hannibal draws a breath next to him, impossibly heavy and entirely uncharacteristic, and looks at Will again. On anybody else, Will would call the expression on his face imploring. “I don’t need a sacrifice.” At that, Will’s breath catches in his throat, and he finally meets Hannibal’s eyes. He still looks so impossibly earnest. “Do you?”

The seconds tick by as they look at each other, the candle light painting flickering shapes on Hannibal’s face, and Will draws his hands into his lap, tearing his gaze away from Hannibal’s for a moment. Deep breath. “Where would we go?”

He looks up again to see Hannibal smile, wider and more genuine than he has ever seen him do. It’s incredibly frightening, all teeth. Like Will is dinner. He realises with a mixture of horror and amusement that his cock throbs between his legs at that smile, and he laughs softly.

Hannibal reaches across the table, placing his hand on Will’s. “Have you ever been to Paris?”

Will shakes his head. “Never had the money when I was young, didn’t have the time when I had the money.”

Hannibal is drawing little circles on the back of Will’s hand with his thumb, which is really fucking distracting. He smiles slyly. “There are many stray dogs in Paris.”

Will laughs because that is just so patently ridiculous. He turns his hand over so their palms touch and cocks his head to the side. “Am I right in assuming you’ve already arranged everything?”

Hannibal nods, just once, and so it’s settled.

Will Graham is running away with the Chesapeake Ripper.

Will offers to clear the table and wash the dishes while Hannibal packs, even though he thinks it’s stupid as everything’s just going to end up in some FBI warehouse anyway, but Hannibal insists.

“It’s important how one presents oneself to the world, dear Will,” and damned if Will’s heart doesn’t give an odd little flutter at being addressed in this fashion, “and it wouldn’t do to have pictures of my dirty dishes floating around.”

Will laughs in disbelief and shakes his head, making a shooing motion at Hannibal. “You’re the one who wanted to run away with me, so get a move on.”

Hannibal doesn’t, of course. Instead he steps forward, into Will’s space until they’re breathing the same air, and gently places his hand on Will’s neck. Will is almost certain that he’s staring, looking rather like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. Hannibal’s fingers curl around his neck, long and pleasantly warm, and Will thinks how little effort it would take him to just snap his neck. The thought is both terrifying and vaguely arousing. Hannibal leans forward another fraction of an inch now, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Will finds himself transfixed by the sight. “So impatient. I wonder. Which other situations are you going to be impatient in?” And with that, he releases Will, turns around and leaves the room.

Will continues to stand there – like an idiot – for almost thirty seconds, fighting with the righteous indignation at being called impatient when he’s been the most patient person in the world when it comes to Hannibal’s bullshit, and more importantly with the awkward boner he’s developed. Finally, he turns and tackles the dishes which of course need to be washed by hand because the lacquer is too fucking delicate for the dishwasher.

Hannibal takes his sweet time, so much so that, by the time he has carried all of his suitcases and bags into the hallway, Will has cleaned, dried and put away everything and has taken out the trash (because God forbid the FBI find a smelly house). He is wiping down the counter when Hannibal returns, and looks up at him, one eyebrow raised. “Is your highness done yet?”

Hannibal honest to God smirks at him. “The correct form of address would actually be ‘my Lord’.”

Will stares at him, then drops the sponge he was using into the sink. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

He’s behind Will all of a sudden, caging him with his arms against the counter. His breath is hot against Will’s neck, and Will can’t suppress the shiver that runs down his back when Hannibal’s lips brush against his ear when he speaks. “So I’ve been told.” They stay like that for a moment that feels much longer than it actually is, before Hannibal steps back, taking Will’s hand and pulling him around to face him. His eyes seem almost black in the dim light, and Will’s throat works as he swallows, his hands twitching. Hannibal’s voice is serious, his face unreadable. “Are you certain that this is what you want?”

Will studies his face, the elegant lines of his cheekbones, the dip of his cupid’s bow, and he raises his free hand to cup Hannibal’s cheek. “Yes.”

They take Will’s car for the drive to Wolf Trap, even though it visibly pains Hannibal to leave the Bentley behind. Will snorts a laugh as he lifts the last of the suitcases into the trunk. “Quit pouting. That thing is way too conspicuous.”

They don’t talk much on the drive. Will is too lost in thought, still marvelling at his decision. He had been ready, no, committed to sending Hannibal to jail. Intellectually, he knows that’s where he belongs. He eats people. He killed Abigail. He almost killed Will, through the hands (or claws, as it were) of Matthew Brown.

But the longer Will thinks about it, the clearer it becomes that he never really had much of a choice in this. It was always going to be the two of them, until one or both of them was dead, consequences and collateral damage be damned. This seems like a better alternative. Not that they’ve reached the end of the line yet.

Will lets the car roll to a stop in front of his house, and inside the dogs immediately start barking. Something twinges painfully in his chest at the sound, and he draws a shuddering breath before getting out of the car. Hannibal follows a moment later, and together they climb onto the porch.

“I know how hard this must be for you.”

Will shakes his head. “I know they’ll be in good hands.” He unlocks the door and the whole pack comes swarming out, snuffling and wagging their tails before running off into the yard to pee. Will watches, acutely aware that Hannibal is watching him. After a minute, Will asks, “Why didn’t you want to kill Jack?”

Hannibal leans against the banister, smiling softly. “As hard as it may be for you to believe, I do consider him my friend. I would not have been happy to kill him.”

Will laughs in disbelief. “He wants to see you in jail. With the list of things they want to pin on you, you know that means the needle.”

Hannibal nods. “Still.”

They continue to watch the dogs a moment longer, until finally Will turns and walks into the house.

Preparing the dog food takes longer than packing. His house holds few items of sentimental value, and his clothes are nothing he can’t get in any department store anywhere in the world. The one thing he can’t leave behind is his parents’ wedding picture. They look so ridiculously happy.

Will has spent many hours staring at this picture, at his mother, trying to figure out what she was like. What music did she listen to? What was her favourite colour? Chocolate or vanilla? His father was never much help, quite the opposite. Talking about her usually led to sullen silences, or Will getting dropped off with whatever neighbour would look after him.

Will spent a lot of time at some neighbour’s house or another.

He tucks the picture into his suitcase, a sense of melancholy descending on him, and he walks back outside where the dogs have finished eating under Hannibal’s supervision and now lie around the porch in varying degrees of sleepiness.

Will sinks into the deck chair next to Hannibal’s and accepts the coffee mug the other hands him. “Thanks.” He takes a sip before nodding at the dogs. “Half an hour, then they’ll have to go again.” His fingers tighten around the mug. “Then we can leave.”

Hannibal nods in acknowledgement, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a passport. “I took the liberty of having this made for you.”

Will takes the passport and flicks it open. “Seriously? John Milton?” Hannibal shrugs with a small smile, a graceful roll of his right shoulder, and Will has to laugh again. “You really are a pretentious bastard.” Hannibal smiles lop-sidedly, and it looks so charming that Will has to look away or blush to his roots.

They sit in silence, sipping their coffee (with Hannibal not complaining even once about how horrible it is) until the dogs rise again one after the other and amble into the yard to do their business. Will takes that as his cue to get up as well. He walks back into the house and finds a pen and paper, and sits down at his kitchen table.

He stares at the blank page in front of him for a good three minutes. How is he supposed to tell Alana what he’s doing? Why he’s doing it?

If he tells her the truth, there are really only three ways in which she’s going to react. One, simply not believe him. At all. Two, think he’s sick again. Or three, blame everything on Hannibal.

Not that she would be entirely incorrect.

Then again, Will is definitely over people thinking he has no agency of his own.

In the end, he only writes a short note that he has to go away for a while and needs her to look after his pack. ‘Don’t come looking for me, Alana. Please. I’ll be back for them.’ That’s probably a bold-faced lie but it helps put his mind at rest at least.

Hannibal is where Will left him, the coffee mug still in his hand. “We should probably wash those before we leave.”

“Worried about how people will see you?” That insufferable smile again.

“No.” Will takes the mug from him and walks back into the house. “But when they find two used mugs here, guess what they’re going to think.”

Hannibal leans against the kitchen doorway, watching him as Will cleans the mugs. “They’re going to think it either way, Will.”

When Will is done, he whistles, and the dogs come bounding into the house a moment later. He sinks to his knees in the middle of his kitchen, burying his fingers in fur, letting them lick his face, and now the tears come as he says his goodbyes. Hannibal watches silently, and when Will finally gets to his feet, he wordlessly puts an arm around his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. It’s oddly touching in its awkwardness.

Will pulls out his phone as they pass through the living room and pulls up Alana’s number. “I’ll leave this here.” Hannibal stops in the doorway, one eyebrow cocked, and Will presses the ‘dial’ button before placing the phone on his bed. “I won’t need it any more.”

Hannibal insists on driving, saying there is one last thing he needs to take care of, and Will is happy to let him take the wheel. He’s emotionally exhausted and finds himself drifting off after a while.

Hannibal gently shakes him awake two hours later. “We have arrived at our destination.”

Their destination, it turns out, is a house on a cliff, a 1970s monstrosity made of glass and concrete that Will would have thought much too crass for Hannibal’s taste. Then again, this is a man who shamelessly wears three piece suits made entirely of tartan and combines them with paisley ties, so taste is obviously something with a broad definition in the world of Hannibal Lecter.

Hannibal leads him into the house, watching him curiously, and Will can’t help but fidget under his gaze. “So what exactly are we doing here?”

He smiles enigmatically. “I need to pick something up.” He motions at the no doubt terribly expensive couch. “If you would wait here.” He disappears down a hallway and Will sinks down on the couch, drumming his fingers on his thighs. Knowing Hannibal, it’s probably some ridiculous piece of art or a bottle of wine or something.

A few minutes later, he hears footsteps in the hallway again but this time it sound like there’s two people and Will frowns. Hannibal steps into the living room and then to the side and…

Will’s eyes widen, and it feels like someone pulled the rug out from under his feet.

“A-Abigail?”

Because there she is, whole and healthy and alive, and Will staggers to his feet. Abigail meets him halfway and they fall into each other’s arms, and Will doesn’t know if the tears on his face are his own or hers.

“How?”

Hannibal smiles. “I promised you a teacup, didn’t I?”

Abigail laughs and holds out her arm to him. “You and your metaphors.”

Hannibal steps into their circle, gently winding his arms around them, and Will can’t stop himself from clinging to him like a lifeline. He collapses to his knees between them, sobbing now, and they kneel with him, holding him between them. Hannibal is murmuring what sounds like encouragement into his ear, in a language Will doesn’t understand, and Abigail is squeezing him as though she’s afraid he’ll vanish into thin air.

It takes him minutes to regain his composure, and he accepts the handkerchief Hannibal offers him, blowing his nose noisily. Abigail squeezes him once more before letting go. “You alright?”

Will looks from her to Hannibal, and smiles. “I believe I will be.”

They drive to New York where they abandon Will’s car and take the train to JFK International. Hannibal hands them their tickets, and Will barks a laugh. “You were pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you?”

Hannibal smiles softly. “I was sure of you, dear Will.”

And there goes that little flutter in Will’s stomach again, and he has to look out of the window.

They walk into the airport seperately, though they never lose sight of each other. Abigail buys a ridiculous bean bag puppy in a duty free shop and waggles it in Will’s direction, and he ducks his head and grins into his $9 Starbucks coffee. Hannibal had looked downright scandalised when he saw Will walk up to the store, and Will had to beat down the impulse to stick out his tongue at him.

Watching Hannibal waltz through security is hilarious and also slightly frustrating because no one should be able to look so poised and elegant without his shoes or belt but of course Hannibal manages to do just that. Will on the other hand hops around on one foot as he struggles out of his shoes, finally straightening with his cheeks slightly flushed. He can hear Abigail snickering in her spot a few places down the line of people and shoots her a nasty glare, something that only makes her giggle harder.

They keep their distance until they’re on the plane, two seats by the window and one across the aisle, and Abigail insists on taking that one, giving Will a meaningful look when Hannibal’s back is turned. Will sits, stiffly, half expecting the plane to be swarmed by FBI agents but of course nothing happens. They fasten their seatbelts and the plane takes off, and Will realises he’s not at all surprised when Hannibal covers his hand with his own, again drawing circles on the back of it with his thumb. He looks over to find Hannibal watching him with a fondness that makes his heart stutter, and he smiles softly. Hannibal squeezes his hand.

“Thank you, Will.”

“For what?”

“Choosing me over your obligations to Jack Crawford.”

Will feels guilty about that all over again but only for a second. If he had gone through with the plan, he wouldn’t have seen Abigail again, or even known she was alive.

Hannibal looks down at their entwined hands. “I know you didn’t kill Freddie Lounds.”

Will startles at that, his eyes widening. Then he smiles softly. “Guess that makes two of us then who took credit for a death that didn’t actually occur.” He nods in Abigail’s direction, and Hannibal actually chuckles at that.

“I’m glad you chose as you did. With or without Miss Lounds’ demise.”

They look at each other for a long moment, and Will smiles. “Yeah. Me too.”