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Hannibal settles in at his desk. He steeples his fingers, watching Will pace over his fingertips. A low smile twitches into place, anticipation uncurling between his ribs.
Will is nervous. Discovering why he's nervous is like unwrapping an exceptional Christmas gift.
Will runs a shaky hand over the pewter stag’s antlers, his eyes unfocused. He heaves out a slow breath but says nothing.
“Something’s upset you,” Hannibal offers.
The words have Will’s hand twitching away from the statue. He tosses a look at Hannibal, catching his gaze before yanking his eyes away again.
“What makes you say that?” he says, sarcastic. His mouth slants into a diagonal smile, hands disappearing into his pockets. He turns to face Hannibal in earnest, hips open and angled towards him.
Hannibal drags his eyes from Will’s belt somewhat slower than he intends.
“Would it help you to tell me why?” Hannibal lowers his hands, crossing a leg over his knee. “Or am I the cause?”
Will raises his head to look at him, smile shifting level and genuine. “No, you’re not the cause, no more than— no.”
Eyebrows twitching up, Hannibal waits. He’s in no hurry for Will to explain. Fever long gone, the man's distress is still no less aromatic, spiced as it is with Will’s affection, his trust. Hannibal breathes deep.
“It’s— you’re going to laugh. Or strangle me.” Will pulls a foot back to face the wall instead, rocking faintly on his heels.
“Only if you wish me to. Do you have a preference between the two?”
Will looks at him again, smile caught somewhere between genuine amusement and chagrin. Belatedly, color splashes his cheeks. The reaction sends a thrill up Hannibal’s spine, tracing each vertebrae.
That Will now understands the depth of his quips is like a splash of cognac straight to his bloodstream. Hannibal leans forward as Will clears his throat.
“I’ve received an invitation.” Will's words come slow, inflection heightened and rhythmic. “For Christmas.”
Hannibal intended to have Will in his home on Christmas. He resists a swell of disappointment, telling himself to wait and see. “Oh?”
“From my brother.”
The statement falls heavy in the room. Hannibal blinks once.
“I suppose you must accept,” he says, eyes dropping to his hands now clasped in his lap. That he believed Will to be an only child need not be stated. The information, filling a gap he didn’t realize existed, rankles him, sets his blood hot. “Are the two of you close?”
Will laughs, brittle. “Hardly.”
He looks at Hannibal again as he says that, then does something of a double-take. His expression breaks at the edges, falling soft and open. Will holds his eyes for several beats longer than usual, perhaps as long as he can bear, before his gaze skitters away.
“I’m sorry, that I haven’t mentioned him before. I usually pretend he doesn’t exist.”
The offers that with that crooked smile, false and laced with pain, desperate to be convincing. One of Hannibal’s favorites.
“No apology necessary,” he says, despite the fact that the apology has in fact soothed some of the sting. He decides not to ask why they aren't close, banal question as it is, instead shifting his appointment book into proper place.
“Is that what has so distressed you about the invitation? That your relationship is poor?”
“Something like that,” Will says. He’s made his way over to the books, running his fingers over the spines. He selects one at random and leafs through the pages. Hannibal watches. “It’s more,” he closes the book with a snap, “that he’s completely awful.”
Hannibal chuckles, believing amusement to be the reaction Will was aiming for, as usual when things get personal. “Is that so?” Hannibal touches his scalpel, nudging it four degrees to the left. “Does your bother eat people?”
Will manages to laugh and wince at the same time. His hand runs over the back of his neck, his head, rough. Hannibal follows the movement, imagining the texture of the loose curls. “That would be an improvement in my book,” Will replies.
Hannibal can’t suppress a sharp intake of breath.
Will doesn’t notice and continues, “No. He’s the editor of a magazine. Perfectly… well adjusted.”
“Ah. Repulsive indeed.”
Will smiles, real, ducking his head. He shoves the book back into place and paces towards the window. “Married. Baby girl,” he adds, slightly bitter, distinctly wistful. His hand reaches for the drapes, running down the length of the cloth slowly as if to caress it.
Will misses Abigail, away at Berkley, spending the holiday break with friends. That call from her had sent Will to Hannibal’s door at one o'clock in the morning.
“What will you do?” he asks.
“I’ll go. I’ll go because,” his hands move to his hips, chin tilting up. “I have no idea why. Familial obligation.” He says that phrase like a title, spun ironically, despite the longing etched into the vowels.
Hannibal swallows against the raw feeling sticking at the back of his throat. Will's answer wasn’t what he’d hoped. “Did he not ask you over for Christmas last year?”
“No.” Will’s tone is flat. “Or the year before that, or the one before that.” He punctuates with a hand rolled in the air.
Will has more to say, Hannibal can see it building, so he stays quiet.
“The only reason he’s asked is because Dad died this year. It probably wasn’t even his idea. It definitely wasn’t his idea. I could practically hear his wife’s hand through the phone. Rebecca. Becky,” he corrects with derision.
Hannibal won’t mention the death of Will’s father. The event had passed with a three sentence exchange between the two over dinner. Will had perhaps slightly more wine than usual, and that was the extent of his grief.
“Have you met Rebecca?”
“No. I haven’t talked to Luke in three years. Well, I hadn't, I mean, until this afternoon. I thought he’d lost my number. Hoped he had.”
“And now you’re obliged to spend Christmas with the happy family.” Hannibal pulls forth a piece of paper, lifting his pencil to the surface to a sketch. Nothing is forthcoming.
“Yes,” Will says. He’s approached the desk, knuckles sweeping gently over the surface. The pause is palpable. Hannibal looks up.
Will’s eyes are low, lidded, obscured by his bangs. Curls unstyled today, Hannibal notes. Will had been distraught enough to forget, or to loosen them with his hand through his hair.
“I was hoping,” Will starts. Pauses again. His lip catches between his teeth.
Hannibal stops breathing, waiting, for what he couldn’t say. Regardless, what’s coming is what had driven Will to the stag, to the books, to the drapes.
“I was hoping you would come with me. To Luke’s,” he looks up from under his eyelashes, perhaps conscious of the effect. “My brother's. For Christmas.”
The pencil spirals out of Hannibal’s slackened grip. Will watches it roll, catching it before it can fall from the desk. He hands it back with his eyes down.
Hannibal takes it, wets his lips. His Christmas plans had involved a bottle of 1977 Hine Grande and a particularly fine, balsamic-glazed flank for two.
Hannibal is nothing if not adaptable.
“I would be glad to accompany you, Will.”
Will breathes out, smile breaking like an unexpected sunrise as his gaze lifts. Hannibal is transfixed, silken hot satisfaction lifting the edges of his own mouth.
“Thank you," Will says. His hands come off the desk, reaching in an aborted gesture in Hannibal’s general direction. They find Will’s own stomach instead, yanking his collared shirt down, unnecessary. “I know it’s last minute. I wouldn’t ask, but,” he licks his lips.
Hannibal’s hand shifts forward on the desk absent calculation. He stills it at the edge of his paper.
“I need you with me,” Will finishes.
The admission is a whisper, and Hannibal nearly drops the pencil again.
“I’ll be with you, Will,” he manages, voice pitched low, eyes hard on Will’s face. Willing him to understand the depth, the truth of it.
“Ok. Ok,” Will nods, eyes bright before they flash away. “Good. Luke’s in New York. Is that ok? He offered to buy the train tickets, for me and… a friend. The bastard. Something about not wanting to burden a federal employee,” Will face crinkles inward briefly, eyes jumping from Hannibal to anywhere else.
“New York is perfectly fine.” Hannibal stands, unable to remain in the chair. He comes around the desk toward his friend. “Even if I have to buy tickets for everyone on the train.”
He’s inches from Will now. The man’s jaw rolls, tightening, muscle flexing in his cheek. His blue eyes skate over Hannibal’s tie, then slide into Hannibal’s hazel and hold.
“Thank you, Hannibal.” The use of his name pitches the sentiment sweeter, more potent where it settles in Hannibal’s chest. The older man nearly sways with it. “Can I trust you not to sauté anyone for a weekend?”
“I’ll manage,” Hannibal says, soothing a hand over Will’s collar, easing the folds into place. Irreverent of the consequences. As obvious a fondness as he can permit himself at the moment. Will's almost there, almost, but not quite.
“Ok,” Will says again, throat working. “I’ll call you with the details then.”
“Good.”
Hannibal’s hand falls back to his side. He remains otherwise still, caught in Will’s gravity. The younger man makes no move to distance himself, blinking up at Hannibal, breath shortening on each inhale.
A knock comes on the door. Neither man moves.
Several beats later, Hannibal swallows. “My patient.”
“Of course,” Will breathes. “Right.” He steps back, eyes dropping away. He pulls at his collar, disturbing the folds. “Sorry. I’ll call you.”
“Until then,” Hannibal says, watching Will snatch his wool jacket from the chaise, shrugging it on, rushed. The man’s elbow gets caught in a sleeve as he heads for the door. He wrenches his arm through, nearly pulling the doorknob off the patient exit in his haste. His shoulder knocks into Hannibal’s next patient and he mutters a harried apology before he's gone.
The woman watches Will go, tossing the doctor a bewildered look.
The man hardly notices. His eyes are already on the clock.
***
Will fidgets through the entire two hour train ride. After half hour, he produces a two ounce bottle of Jack Daniels from a pocket, draining it in one toss.
Hannibal drops his head forward, tilting it to look at Will beside him.
The man rotates his jaw, resisting Hannibal’s eyes for a moment before he’s pulled in. “I’m fine,” Will says, offering a twitchy smile. His eyes drop lower on Hannibal’s face, then skip back to his eyes.
He turns then toward the aisle. His elbow finds the armrest, chin rested on his fist, foot bouncing.
“If you fidget any more, I fear the seat may become dislodged,” Hannibal says.
Will laughs, sudden and unexpected. He looks back to Hannibal, eyes falling quickly, but his smile remains in place.
“Sorry. I guess I’m a little,” he breathes out, “unsettled.”
Hannibal’s hand lifts from his lap, of a mind to rest it on Will’s knee. He thinks better of it, rubbing brief friction into his own thigh instead. Will’s eyes track the movement.
“There’s no need to apologize. I know your feelings regarding,” he allows his eyes to wander up, “social interaction.”
Will winces, hand jerking up towards his curls. Hannibal intercepts with a hand around his wrist.
“Leave it,” Hannibal says, grip loose on Will’s sleeve, a stray forefinger brushing exposed skin. He directs Will’s hand back down. “You took the time to look your best.”
Will’s eyes, pinned to Hannibal’s hand around his wrist, jump to the man’s face. Color bleeds up Will’s neck to paint his cheeks. He pulls his hand away, but leaves his hair alone.
“It’s, I—” Will licks his lips, left hand twitching, fingers curling against each other.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” Hannibal says, quiet. “I didn’t mean to distress you.” Despite the truth of that, Hannibal can’t regret the blush still gracing Will’s features.
Will’s hand comes up to rub at his brow, eyes pulled closed, tight. “No. No, it’s the truth.” He drops his hand. “Did it work? Do I look functional?” He throws Hannibal a rogue smile, just the right amount of teeth. An attempt at irony, flattened under his earnest desire to know Hannibal’s opinion.
Hannibal smiles back, a soft thing. “No one would suspect that you harbor violent criminals.”
“Criminal. Singular. And you harbor yourself just fine.”
“As successfully as you harbor yourself.”
Will’s hand jumps a quarter inch from the armrest. He glances at Hannibal, then nods once. Uncrosses his legs.
Hannibal leans to the side, letting his shoulder bump against Will’s. He turns his head slightly to murmur low, conspiratorially, into Will’s ear. “You don't look functional. You look exceptional.”
Will’s knuckles fly to his lips, chin dropped low. Hannibal settles back in his chair, watching from his periphery as the color dusting Will’s cheekbones grows darker.
The younger man remains silent, still, after that. Hannibal turns to watch the scenery race behind the glass, relishing the warm, tight curl winding around his heart.
***
Hannibal rings the doorbell, finding Will victim to a momentary paralysis. His blue eyes have gone distant, fading, glued to a fake poinsettia folded into the wreath. He’s no doubt wading into the river.
“This will be more successful with you present,” Hannibal says gently. Before he can question the impulse, he knocks a gloved hand into one of Will’s, threading their fingers together.
Will starts, slamming back into the moment. His head drops to stare at their joined hands. Hannibal gives his hand a squeeze.
The door opens and Will’s head snaps up like someone witnessing a traffic accident. Hannibal turns serenely towards the doorway, smile in place. He has time only for the brief impression of red hair before it’s in motion.
“Oh my god, look at you!” the woman, no doubt Rebecca, shrieks. She rushes forward, throwing her arms around Will.
The man’s eyes go wide, horrified. He reels back slightly from the momentum, Hannibal’s arm pulled with, still in Will’s grip, now ironclad.
Rebecca pulls away, hands on Will’s shoulders briefly before she releases him. “I’m so sorry. It’s just so good to meet you, Will. God, you look just like him, it’s insane. I’m Rebecca.” She extends her hand.
Will’s eyes glance to Hannibal. Something feral, residing behind Hannibal’s ribs, purrs at the sought approval. His Will, so balanced as of late, is temporarily adrift. Afraid again to be seen, because these people are his family.
The doctor gives a small nod, and Will extends his free hand to shake Rebecca’s.
“It’s, uh, good to meet you, too,” he says, nodding repeatedly, eyes on her fashionable boots. His head dips, free hand waving between Rebecca and Hannibal. “This is Doctor Hannibal Lecter.”
Rebecca’s eyes, still fascinated, break from Will’s face to find Hannibal. She spots their joined hands and her smile grows.
“It’s a pleasure, Dr. Lecter. Rebecca Brandon. Becky." She offers her hand.
Refusing to extract his fingers from Will’s grip, Hannibal blithely takes her hand in his left, lifting it to his lips. “The pleasure is mine. Thank you for hosting us." He releases her fingers. “And please, call me Hannibal.”
Rebecca chuckles. “Aren’t you charming! We’re just so glad you could both make it. After all this time, Will.” She eyes Hannibal’s coat, momentarily distracted. “Is that Hugo Boss?”
“It is,” Hannibal replies. “I see you appreciate fashion.”
She laughs again, tucking a loose strand of red behind her ear. “I am, with careful moderation. Recovering addict,” she stage whispers. “Now come on in, it’s freezing. Luke’s pulling the roast out of the oven.”
She steps back to let them inside. Hannibal moves forward, pulling Will past the threshold. Hannibal’s fingers have gone numb in his grip.
“Luke! Will’s here!” Rebecca calls down the hallway, opening the closet door. “Let me take your coats, you two.”
Will is standing stock still, staring at the framed family photos next to the staircase. He gives no indication of having heard. Rebecca blinks at them, hand extended, smile very slowly wilting.
“Allow me,” Hannibal says. Emboldened by Will’s complicity thus far, he steps into his space. He raises their twined hands to brush the man’s chin, the action screened from Rebecca by Hannibal’s broad back.
“Will, you need to let go of me so that Rebecca can hang our coats,” he says, quiet.
Will blinks rapidly, looking from the photographs to Hannibal, faintly surprised, mortification chasing fast on its heels. “Right, yeah, of course,” he says, shaking his fingers loose from Hannibal’s and clearing his throat. “Sorry. Thanks.”
He tears off his gloves, stuffing them into his pockets, looking everywhere but at the two people around him.
Hannibal only smiles, stepping around to lift the coat from Will’s shoulders, just as he has a hundred times before. He hands it to Rebecca before removing his own.
The smell of fresh beef and rosemary drifts to Hannibal with the sound of footsteps, somehow familiar and foreign at once. He turns to the hallway.
He finds Will looking back at him. Or rather, it’s someone who looks like a carbon copy, different only in the details. And the small differences are stark, vivid, offensive to Hannibal in a way that stuns him. His mouth falls open just a fraction.
“Will,” the look-alike says, smile somewhat forced, though not from a lack of welcome. His hands turn in a dishtowel, evidently still drying them.
“Luke,” Will replies from slightly behind Hannibal, gripping his elbow.
“It’s good to see you,” Luke says, obvious British accent clipping the words.
Neither man makes any moves to approach or touch the other.
Theories over the accent crowd Hannibal’s mind at once, mystified, angry, that someone exists so like his Will and yet so absurdly different. The irony has him wetting his lips. At once, he understands Will’s desire to act as though Luke doesn’t exist. Whatever hurt had remained at the omission is instantly mended.
“You must be Doctor Lecter,” Luke continues, turning to Hannibal. He tosses the towel over his shoulder. “Will said you’d be coming. Luke Brandon.”
The last name sparks a rain of additional queries, crowding for Hannibal’s attention. He shakes the offered hand. Luke’s are fractionally larger than Will’s, matching his slightly greater height. Hannibal has to force himself to hold the grip.
“A pleasure to meet you, Luke. I was just thanking Rebecca for the invitation.”
Luke waves away the thanks, gesturing for them to follow to the kitchen. “We’re glad to have you both. The invite was overdue, honestly,” he sounds a shade embarrassed. “But we have the house now, so the timing’s right. I was relieved to hear Will had someone to bring.”
The implication sets Hannibal’s teeth to his tongue. He doesn’t need to see Will’s flinch. Hannibal reaches back for the younger man’s hand, finds his bare skin cold and slightly chapped.
He rubs a thumb over Will’s knuckles, glad that all at once he can do this, that he has an excuse to touch. Will’s breath shudders. After a moment, he gives Hannibal’s fingers a gentle squeeze.
“Fortunate for me that I am the chosen someone,” Hannibal says, warm, anger banked by the feel of Will’s skin against his own.
Luke glances at him, almost as if to check for a joke. Hannibal maintains his serene smile.
“Well, make yourselves comfortable. Dinner’s just about ready.”
Rebecca has disappeared upstairs. Hannibal surveys the kitchen, small, but clean and well equipped. Christmas music tinkles faintly from a stereo set in the corner. “You have a beautiful home,” he observes, pitching it genuine. Luke smiles, thanks him.
A seasoned roast sits cooling on the counter top, various pots and bowls filled with standard holiday fare. Framed magazine covers hang on the walls. “Yours?” Hannibal gestures at the covers, watching as Luke busies himself with a dish of casserole. At ease in all the ways that Will is not. “Will mentioned you’re an editor.”
“Yes,” Luke says. “Started it a year ago. That was our debut cover. Have you seen it in Baltimore?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Hannibal admits with no remorse. “I tend to limit my reading to academic journals.”
“I’ve seen those French cooking periodicals on your desk,” Will drawls, unexpected, smirk directed at Hannibal.
“That is a subscription I’ve had since before you finished high school.”
“It’s still a magazine,” Will mutters. His eyes jump to Luke as if he’s just remembered. Luke, in turn, is looking at Will as if he’s just done a spectacular trick.
Luke chuckles suddenly, unfreezing to set dishes on the table. “Well, keep an eye out for it in the grocery line, Dr. Lecter.”
Will is tracing patterns into the back of Hannibal’s hand, eyes on the countertop. Luke looks to him again, before returning his attention to Hannibal.
“So, you know I’m editor of a magazine no one’s heard of yet. I got Will to tell me he’s still with the FBI. How about you? Where’d Will manage to meet someone with a pulse?”
“I’m a psychiatrist,” Hannibal says, looking at Will, catching his attention. “I specialize in the criminally insane, and consult with the FBI. We met on a case.”
“Impressive,” Luke says, leaning on the counter. He sounds genuine. “I suppose nothing spells romance like a dead body?” He laughs.
Luke has no concept of exactly how correct he is.
“So how long have you two been together then?” Luke directs the question at his twin, trying to get him to talk again.
Will looks at him, eyes wide. He opens his mouth, denial on his lips, but Rebecca interrupts, returning to the kitchen cooing at the toddler in her arms.
Teeth clacking together, Will looks at the baby girl, eyes bright but leery. The child is dressed impeccably, hair dark with copper undertones. She has Rebecca’s eyes.
Hannibal finds himself inexplicably relieved.
“This is Tiffany,” Rebecca announces, approaching Will. “Say hello to your Uncle Will, Tiffy.”
Without further adieu, she passes the child to Will, who adopts the distinct expression of a startled deer. The man releases Hannibal’s hand to take her, holding her at a slight distance.
“Hi, Tiffany,” he says, soft, uncomfortable. He looks to Hannibal, pleading. The doctor fights the smile threatening to break across his features, amusement gripping him by the neck.
“Dada?” Tiffany asks, reaching for Will’s face. Will has stubble where Luke does not, and that fact evidently does not go without her notice. She turns her head to look at Luke, then back at Will, confused.
Her parents laugh, but Will’s discomfort only grows. Hannibal takes pity on him, lifting the girl from his rigid grasp.
“Hello, Tiffy,” Hannibal says, settling the child against his hip. “What a wonderful sweater. Is that a penguin?” He tickles Tiffany at the question, and the child giggles, grabbing at her penguin sweater, instantly charmed.
Hannibal looks up to find Will’s eyes on him, sharp, lost. Hannibal is reminded of a night, so long ago now, when Will had watched him, seated in an ambulance, hands elbow deep in a man’s body.
He hands Tiffany back to Rebecca wordlessly, not breaking eye contact with Will. Rebecca is still talking. The words wash over Hannibal, go unheard, his defenses down.
He approaches Will, takes his hand between both of his own. His eyes track up the seam of Will’s button-down, his neck, finally finding Will’s blue gaze, drowning in it.
“My god, you two are adorable,” Rebecca bursts out, voice crashing back into Hannibal’s awareness. He looks at her, offers an apologetic smile, lowering their hands.
Will licks his lips, again about to protest the misunderstanding, if it can be considered one. Hannibal is beginning to doubt that perception isn’t the burgeoning reality. The realization, the possibility, sends a spike of mint, lemon zest, sriracha, straight through his pulse.
Brazen with it, he raises their hands, presses a soft kiss into Will’s knuckles.
Let them believe it.
He says it through the action, through his eyes, confident that Will will understand.
The man nods minutely, blush flashing into existence, disappearing just as quickly. Something shifts behind his eyes, and Hannibal knows the games have begun. Will’s confidence slides back into place.
“Sorry,” he says to Rebecca, “I never know when I’ll have to shake him off like a leech.”
She laughs, looking at Luke with something of a smug expression, eyebrows raised. Luke is fluffing a salad blindly, looking at his twin. Lettuce has splashed over the sides of the bowl without his notice. He looks down, abruptly stops, and chuckles, self-deprecating.
Hannibal is amazed that someone wearing Will's face can be so incredibly commonplace.
“Let’s all take a seat, I’m done throwing food around,” Luke tells them, taking the salad to the table. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do. I haven’t even gotten you drinks, hang on.”
Hannibal pulls out a chair for Will, taking the seat next to him.
“This all looks wonderful,” he lies. He makes an obvious show of admiring the centerpiece, candles and poinsettia, white and gold garland spiraled in knots. One glance at Will tells him exactly what the man thinks of it.
Not enough animal skulls.
***
Hannibal settles against the narrow guest bed, pulling the comforter up.
Dinner had passed without advent, comfortable enough. Will had participated, wearing his human suit with only occasional clutches at the seams. He’s already in bed, now dressed in a thin t-shirt and a pair of his brother’s sweatpants.
Hannibal drops his head to look at the side of Will’s face.
“I don’t know why you haven’t wanted him in your life.” Rebecca had said, audible through the door, private conversation caught on Hannibal’s way back from the bathroom. “He’s awkward at first, yes, but he’s harmless. He’s actually kind of funny.”
“You should have seen him as a kid. Downright spooky. Just the way he’d look at you. He was always spacing out, jumping at loud noises. Crying over roadkill. Some days he wouldn’t even talk to anybody.”
Hannibal turns on his side towards Will.
Will glances at him, slow sigh escaping his lips. “Thanks. For today,” he says to the ceiling.
Hannibal simply nods, pillowcase crinkling. Waits.
“We got separated early, me and Luke. Dad lost custody after we turned nine. Neglect,” he explains, the word twisted out. “We entered the foster system. Luke was adopted by a British family, Dad consented. I stayed put for a while. I don’t know what I was waiting for.” The words waver and dance, quiet in the dark. “Eventually I ran away, found Dad. Every time child protective services would catch on, I’d hide out, and Dad would say he hadn’t seen me.”
Hannibal’s hand slides slowly across the cotton between them, fingers reaching to brush Will’s arm.
Will laughs, sudden, watery. He looks at Hannibal, crooked grin in place. “Have I wounded your professional pride? By not telling you before? That’s like a treasure trove of psychological damage.”
“No,” Hannibal says. “No, my professional pride has nothing to do with it.”
“I remember once, they showed up while I was in the bathroom. I snuck out the window, pants halfway down. I nearly brained myself on the fire escape. Slipped on the ice.”
Hannibal smiles, a sad thing, unseen.
“Luke was in London. Probably taking tennis lessons. Drinking tea in a dayroom with his new mom,” Will says, no inflection. He turns over roughly, his back to Hannibal.
Several moments pass them by in silence.
“I’ve always found tea rather bland.”
Will laughs, quiet, broken, his head tucking against his pillow. “Me too.”
Hannibal looks at his dark curls, loose against the pale pillowcase. “Will you have nightmares tonight?”
Enough time passes that Hannibal stops expecting an answer. He’s beginning to nod off, Will’s voice catching him on the way down.
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“I see.” A beat later, Hannibal scoots forward on the bed, winding an arm across Will’s chest, pulling him in. He breathes in Will’s scent, presses closer. “Is this alright?”
“Yeah.” The answer is rough, barely audible.
“Good. Sleep well, Will.”
“Yeah. Night, Hannibal.”
***
Christmas morning is blinding, sun humiliating the excuse for window curtains. Hannibal blinks, lifting his head, ashen locks pressed into odd angles. He finds Will still asleep, draped nearly diagonal across the bed, knee thrown over Hannibal’s thigh.
Hannibal’s eyes sting for a different reason, warmth flooding his chest. A merry Christmas it is indeed.
He sweeps a hand through Will’s hair, extricating himself from the sheets and Will’s limbs. The younger man stirs.
“Good morning,” Hannibal says over his shoulder, rising, back popping.
Will groans in his direction, turning over, pulling the blanket over his head.
“Merry Christmas to you as well,” Hannibal deadpans, amused. “I’ll use the bathroom first in that case.”
He takes his change of clothes with him, heads straight downstairs after showering. He finds Rebecca already in the kitchen, feeding Tiffany and nursing a cup of coffee.
“Merry Christmas,” she greets, happy, a little bleary-eyed. “Coffee’s on the counter.”
“Thank you, you as well.” He selects a mug from the counter. Red, printed with an obnoxious rendering of Santa Clause. He doubts the coffee itself will be better than the mug, but proceeds regardless. Regrets it instantly. Seattle’s Best.
“You two sleep ok?” Rebecca asks. She maneuvers a spoon of mashed vegetables towards a reluctant Tiffany.
“Yes, very well, thank you. I don’t think Will’s up yet.”
“Luke isn’t either. Must be related,” she laughs.
Hannibal indulges her with a smile. He leans against the counter top, watching Rebecca with the child. The woman is transparent, utterly mundane, but polite and kind. Hannibal has allowed worse.
“Is it as weird for you as it is for me? To see them both?” she asks.
“Profoundly so,” Hannibal admits over the top of the mug. He doesn’t mention that he was unaware Luke existed a week ago, much less that he was Will’s identical twin. “The two are very different.”
Rebecca nods, setting down the spoon. “They are. It’s weird.” She pauses. “What’s Will like? When it’s just you two?”
Hannibal remembers Will, hands tacky with blood, panting over the body of Randall Tier. Eyes proud, defiant, pleased with the gift Hannibal had given him.
“Alive. Like a flame, too hot to touch, but one you can’t help reaching towards.”
Rebecca smiles, shakes her head. “You’re good together. I think you’re good for him. If I can trust anything my husband says.”
“Not everyone understands Will Graham. The fact is merely their loss.”
Rebecca’s smile forms into something more of a smirk, before it fades. “I’m just sorry that… that Luke hasn’t tried more, for Will.”
Hannibal intends to respond, words forming crisp on his tongue, but stops. Steps on the stairs herald the arrival of Luke, Will trailing just behind.
Luke presses a kiss into his wife’s forehead, then his daughter’s. “Merry Christmas, loves. Morning, Hannibal.”
“Good morning, Luke.” Hannibal extends a hand towards Will, reeling the man in to pull him to his side. The only necessary greeting.
Will greets Rebecca in turn, eyes low. He sticks close to Hannibal through a standing breakfast of pancakes, drains Hannibal’s rejected coffee.
The remainder of the morning passes sedately. Hannibal and Will watch from the sofa, knees pressed together, as the Brandons exchange a few gifts. Luke surprises Will with a tackle box. The unexpected gesture causes Will to give Luke a painfully awkward hug, the effort no less genuine. Rebecca looks as though she might cry.
Around lunch time, the football game turned on, Will disappears towards the kitchen. Hannibal follows a minute later, citing a need for water.
He finds Will at the sink, knuckles pressed into the marble countertop, eyes on the window. Hannibal comes up to stand beside him.
“Sorry. I’m fine,” Will says to the glass. “Just needed a minute.”
“I know.”
Will turns towards him, eyes on the collar of Hannibal’s red sweater. Hannibal mirrors the movement to face him.
“You always do, don’t you,” Will says.
“Not always. Not when it comes to you.”
Will looks up, eyes finding Hannibal’s. His tongue swipes over his lower lip, glancing down at Hannibal’s mouth, back up again to his eyes. Hannibal feels fingers, hesitant, shaking slightly, tangle in the front of his sweater.
Heat and numbness flood Hannibal’s limbs, rushing out from his lungs. Gravity centers itself on Will. Hannibal’s mouth cracks open, breathes deep, scenting the air. He takes a half step closer, pulled by Will’s grip on the fabric.
Hannibal closes the distance between them slowly, fractionally, breathing in Will’s rapid exhales. He looks into Will’s eyes, wide open, and kisses him.
Will’s lips are soft, warm, slightly chapped. His hands twitch in Hannibal’s sweater, fisting the material, pulling him closer. Hannibal is instantly drunk on the sensation, eyes sliding shut. His hands come up to hold Will’s jaw in his palms, gently, reverently.
His tongue brushes Will’s upper lip, tasting the sharp breath chased from Will, his mouth falling open. Hannibal hums, pulse pounding, and pulls back, presses another kiss to Will’s lips, another over his cheekbone. Levels his forehead against Will’s. His eyes flutter open.
Will’s remain closed, breath coming fast. His curls tickle Hannibal’s brow, hands still pulling knots into the man’s sweater, keeping him close. No doubt ruining the cashmere. The thought doesn’t bother Hannibal.
He’d set the sweater on fire if it pleased Will.
“Are you,” he pulls in air, licks his lips, “again prepared to face the Brandons’ nauseating domestic bliss?”
“I’m definitely prepared for something,” Will sighs, finally releasing his grip on Hannibal. His eyes flash open, dark and alight.
Hannibal looks at Will, the color high in his cheeks, lips moist, and feels a cocktail of possession and satisfaction flood his system. He resists the temptation to pull the man back in.
“Later,” Hannibal promises, predatory, canines exposed in a smile. He steps away, leaves Will grasping at air.
Heading back to the living room, the doctor thinks of the mistletoe, freshly clipped and tucked into a fridge drawer, waiting at home in Baltimore.
He hadn’t even needed it.