Northward

by Lisztful

Summary:

In which Will and Hannibal make a home in the Faroe Islands with Abigail, all the dogs, and a handful of local knitting grandmothers.

Notes:

I thought, I'll watch Hannibal but I'll never write any fic. I thought, maybe just one fic. I thought, how about 25k of fluffy domestic porn for Christmas?

One quick cw: there is a brief mention of whale driving in the Faroe Islands about halfway through the fic. It is not described lengthily or in detail.

It was perhaps the first time Will had taken the path of least resistance in his life. He was a little surprised to still be alive, but not very. His time with Hannibal had already taken on a fated quality, and surviving a fall off a cliff into quite a few rocks seemed like just the thing to confirm it.

Afterward, Hannibal had dragged him out of the water and they’d lain bloodied and panting in a thicket of reeds. Hannibal was the first to start laughing, a ragged, joyful sound. Will joined in after a moment.

“Do you see?” Hannibal asked him. He was a mess: clothes ruined, face terribly bruised from their fall, hair tousled seemingly beyond repair. He was incandescent. Will wanted to drag him back onto the rocks and do something devastating like kiss him right there. Maybe he could get his fingers into Hannibal’s hair, pull a little. He would have liked to see the doctor’s back arch into the touch, or hear him make a noise. Far more than that; he wanted to crawl inside Hannibal, two hearts beating together as one. It was a good thing he was too battered to move, or Will might have actually tried.

“No point fighting it,” Will said, and laughed again. Hannibal flopped an arm out and clasped WIll’s shoulder.

“Must I ask you again?” he said. There were tears in his eyes, and his fingernails were ragged.

“Yes,” Will said, rolling over on his side with a groan. “But I think you’ll like the answer.”

Hannibal turned too, so they were facing. He was leaking blood from a nasty cut near his collarbone as well as the wound on his side, his shirt badly torn enough to display swaths of his chest. “Run away with me.” He said it softly, but without any hesitation. His eyes were luminous.

“Yes,” Will said, “Obviously yes.” He shifted closer on the sharp rocks, wincing. There didn’t seem much point in holding back, now.

Hannibal tasted of blood and saltwater when Will kissed him, his lips fantastically soft. It was just one kiss, reasonably chaste. Will was too exhausted, too wrung out and aching and dizzy for anything else. Hannibal’s eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Hannibal let his head tip back afterward, eyes opening slowly. “Will,” he said quietly. His hand shifted on Will’s shoulder, thumb at the base of his throat. “Do you wish to bring Abigail?”

So that was that. Will had always figured that Hannibal probably knew Abigail was alive. She’d been in Italy, Hannibal had been too. She’d gone along with Jack’s request to place her into witness protection after that, but it was more about the chance to have a normal life than about any belief that Hannibal couldn’t find her. Will had sent carefully worded postcards as often as he was allowed, and had spent years trying to be grateful for even that.

“Can she come?” Will asked, genuinely curious.

Hannibal frowned at him, which was fairly hilarious in his given state. Will had rarely seen him look disgruntled. “She is our family,” Hannibal said, as though it was obvious. “Yes.”

“Well,” Will said. He dropped his head into the muddy reeds, shaking his sopping hair out of his eyes. “Great. That’s good, then.”

Most of the logistics, Will soon learned, were still in place. They had been, since the last time Hannibal had asked Will to run. Abigail had helped choose the location, asking for an unusual language to learn and a place where she could be in nature. Hannibal had chosen the Faroe Islands, had secured a house and land and cover identities. They had evidently spent their evenings together learning Danish, the secondary language spoken on the islands. “We thought we would all learn Faroese together,” Hannibal had told Will, and Will had tried not to thrill at the idea.

Hannibal handled everything, after that. Will was content to let him, figuring he himself had machinated quite enough for one lifetime, and Hannibal was infinitely better suited to it. Retrieving Abigail, asking her to join them, leaving the country: Hannibal guided them through it all. Will changed Hannibal’s bandages and sat beside him as Hannibal set all the proceedings into motion, savoring each breath he took in Hannibal’s proximity. Hannibal seemed to like it, too.

They hadn’t kissed again, after the first time. Will wasn’t sure if Hannibal wanted to, if it was something he was even capable of really wanting. Will wanted to taste him again, badly, but time had taken on a funny, stretched-out quality, and he was content to wait. They were running away together. Surely there would be plenty of time to figure out the nuances of whatever they were to each other. Surely it would be more than he’d dreamed of, even if they didn’t kiss again. God, he really hoped they would kiss again, though it felt dangerous to wish for. He thought about it often during those final days in America, and more still throughout their journey, curled up beside Hannibal on a series of progressively smaller and smaller airplanes and connecting hops.

There was a car waiting for them at the airport in Sørvágur. Hannibal produced a set of keys and ushered them in, fiddling with the satnav. Will settled into the passenger seat, glancing over his shoulder at Abigail curled up and already dozing in the back. She’d slept through most of the flights, but it seemed like ordinary young person sleeping, not something borne out of any new trauma. She’d been delighted about the plan, about the adventure. She’d hugged them both when they came for her, like they were family.

Will drifted, meandering somewhere between sleep and waking. There was something very pleasing about the way Hannibal drove, his hand steady as he shifted gears. Will luxuriated in it, his gaze catching on Hannibal’s knuckles, his recently neatened fingernails. He looked so solid, so sturdy. Will resisted the very palpable urge to lace his own fingers through Hannibal’s, to feel the texture and weight of phalanges twisted all together. He thought about it a moment and then did it anyway. Who cared, their definition of friendship was already well over the boundaries of polite society.

Hannibal glanced over at him, lips curving. Will shrugged, looked away. He closed his eyes again, leaving it to Hannibal to decide whether or not he wanted to make anything of it. Hannibal huffed out a breath, softly amused. He didn’t move his hand. Will didn’t either.

Will emerged from a doze as they slowed on a curve, following signs for Tjørnuvík. The road was narrow, cut into a hillside and following the curve of a small inlet. At its apex, a tiny village clustered around a black sand beach, beautifully wild and stark. Past the village, the road curved out along the opposite side of the inlet, cutting around the edge of the island. Hannibal drove with easy confidence, navigating the curving road. Perhaps another half kilometer past the village, he turned inland onto a narrow, private lane, following it up to the crest of the hill.

The house and a jumble of small outbuildings sat on a small plateau at the very top of the rise, centered on a flat stretch of field. It overlooked Tjørnuvík, but from enough of a distance that Will could ramble with a dog or two running free at his heels in privacy. There weren’t any other homes close enough for trouble, which was just as Will liked it. It was their own small wilderness, their own tiny kingdom. It was theirs.

He liked the house itself, too. It was a broad, tidy, cheerful thing, a thick stone foundation capped with neat wooden walls painted a shining black. Large windows trimmed in red caught and reflected the sunlight, bright beneath a tidy sod roof. Low stone retaining walls ringed the field about the house, carving out gently winding paths edged by heather and occasional patches of marsh marigolds.

Inside, Hannibal had clearly set his hand to some modernizing efforts, but he had allowed the farmhouse charm to linger, and Will was heartily glad for it. Thick, ancient-looking beams traversed the ceilings, and the floors were all wide, knotted planks, worn silky smooth with age. Most of the ground level was open and airy, the gleaming kitchen giving way to a huge dining table and then a comfortable sitting room with a sunken lounge area and a piano in the corner. Squashy couches, surprisingly comfortable looking, sat angled together conspiratorially, while shelves of books hugged most of the walls. There was a hearth, already kicking out a steady warmth, and a little bathroom with the tiniest shower stall Will had ever seen. There was a small home office with printer and workstation, and a cozy bedroom opposite the bath, cheerily outfitted with a quilt bedecked bed, a desk, and a comfortable armchair.

“For, you, Abigail,” Hannibal said softly. Abigail hugged him, still wide-eyed and sleepy. Will watched it with a faint feeling of joyful disbelief, the way they were already so easy with each other. It wasn’t jealousy; it was something more akin to pride. He shook his head as Abigail peeled off to investigate her new room, lingering for a moment before following Hannibal up the staircase.

Upstairs, the space opened up into a loft, a wide-beamed central spine cutting down the length of the room. Hannibal opened the door to another bathroom, this one with a claw-footed bathtub. The rest of the loft made up a large bedroom, the bed tucked under the highest point of the eaves. Built-in cupboards flanked each side of the room, and where the eaves dipped cozily low, there was a neat row of dog beds, each tastefully upholstered. Will glanced back at Hannibal.

“There is not a great deal of additional space,” Hannibal said, as though that was at all what Will was thinking. It was patently false, also; the room was very spacious. “We could consider a dividing wall, if you wished for additional privacy. According to our cover story, we are married, but we could discreetly see about a second bed.”

“Shut up,” Will said, waving a hand at him. “We don’t need a wall. The dog beds, Hannibal.”

“Ah,” Hannibal said. “Yes, that one took quite an extraordinary series of bribes.”

“What did?” Will asked, carefully. He was trying desperately not to let himself feel hope. He already had so much, here.

“Abigail,” Hannibal called, pitching his voice to carry down the stairs. “Please open the door at the back of the kitchen.”

“You didn’t,” Will breathed. He heard a latch click, followed by a commotion of nails on hardwood as wuffling, thumping creatures milled about in delighted confusion. Winston was the first up the stairs, though the rest of the pack wasn’t far behind. Will ended up sprawled on one of the dog beds, laughing delightedly as he tried to pet them all at once. Hannibal was watching him quietly, one hand outstretched atop the bed.

“It seemed the greatest impediment to your being happy here,” Hannibal said, after some time. “Besides Abigail.”

“And besides you,” Will said absently, letting his head loll. “You’re really okay with a house full of mutts?”

Hannibal let out a sigh, a gentle thing. He settled onto the edge of the bed, elegantly folding one leg over the other. Will couldn’t figure out how he made his body behave that way, when Will could scarcely ever keep his own limbs from sprawling out in three or four different directions at once.

“I find that I am willing to compromise in a number of areas, should it secure your happiness,” Hannibal said, finally. “I would prefer they not advance to the furniture.”

“Deal,” Will said firmly.

“The pantry ought to be stocked,” Hannibal said, after a breath. “I’ll see to dinner.”

“Right,” Will said, clearing his throat. “Perhaps a walk down the path, once we’ve eaten?”

Hannibal regarded him for a moment, with that fathomless gaze of his. “Yes,” he said finally. “A walk for us all.”

**

The kitchen was a bright, modern space, kitted out with plentiful deep cabinets painted Scandinavian white. Stainless steel appliances gleamed, and a handful of pots and pans hung neatly suspended above a broad, stone-topped island. By the time Will descended the staircase with his roiling mass of dogs, it was to the sight of Abigail perched on a chair at the island, chatting idly with Hannibal.

Hannibal was, well it could only be described as bustling back and forth, tending to several pots on the stove and a sheet of pasta dough. It was rolled out on the far end of the island, inscribed into small rounds. He was filling the pasta portions in an easy, practiced way, twisting each filled disc into an intricate shape. Will drifted closer, watching.

“Cappelletti,” Hannibal said, gaze still trained on the pasta. He looked fantastically competent, his big hands forming the shapes with incredible delicacy. His sleeves were rolled up, and with his crisp apron and collared shirt, he could have been the centerfold for some kind of lifestyle magazine, Good Housekeeping or something.

“What does it mean?” Abigail asked. She had a dog-eared paperback in her lap, and she was wearing a cozy looking sweater the color of red wine.

Hannibal quirked a lip at that, just a touch but enough for Will to notice. “Little hats,” he said, enunciating in his crisp, formal way.

“Little hats,” Abigail said. She tried the Italian next, making Hannibal sound it out. He did, easy and patient. His hands never stilled, continuing their inexorable work. He had a bit of flour on his cheek, like he’d absentmindedly passed a hand over his face. It was almost painfully charming.

Will joined Hannibal at the island, reaching for a corkscrew. Hannibal freed a hand to pass Will a bottle of wine, and Will opened it, pouring glasses for the both of them. He considered Abigail for a moment, raising an eyebrow at Hannibal. Hannibal shrugged, lifting a shoulder.

“Do you want a bit?” Will asked Abigail. “You’re legal, here.” He made a conscious choice to act like that was a perfectly normal thing to say to one’s surrogate daughter, who was currently being fed by a couple of fugitives.

“It rounds out the flavor of the meal,” Hannibal offered, already back to forming pasta. Will could see from the tiny shift of his mouth that he was aware of the absurdity too, and probably amused by Will’s bid at normalcy.

“Okay,” Abigail said, sounding pleased. “Yes.”

Will poured for the three of them, taking a sip. Hannibal made a little noise, and almost without thinking, Will lifted the second glass to Hannibal’s lips. It felt at once shockingly casual and terribly intimate, watching Hannibal’s throat as he took and savored a sip. Will put the glass down a little too hard, ringing sharply against the countertop. Abigail didn’t seem to have noticed it, but Hannibal was watching him. He was forming the pasta shapes without even looking down at his hands, now.

Will looked away, clearing his throat. “I’ll, uh,” he started. “I’ll feed the dogs.”

“There are supplies in the pantry,” Hannibal said mildly, gesturing to a squat door beside the fridge. Will ducked into a small alcove and found all the necessary shelf-stable ingredients for his dog food recipe, neatly grouped together upon a shelf. There was ground meat in the fridge, tied up in wax paper and neatly labeled by the local butcher. The script was incomprehensible, unfortunately, but before he could even ask, Hannibal said, “Ground turkey.”

Will nodded. “Thanks.”

Having something to do helped tremendously. It felt almost surreally easy, moving around Hannibal in the kitchen. The air was fragrant with sage and browning butter, and Will found himself pausing to breathe it in, shifting back and forth around Hannibal to locate knives and cutting boards and pans. It felt so simple, so logical, Hannibal handing Will things before Will had the chance to ask for them, Will dropping a hand to Hannibal’s back as he squeezed past him to the cooktop. Abigail turned pages slowly, and the dogs looked on hopefully from the living room, where Hannibal had produced yet more dog-approved cushions. It felt like something Will should not have been allowed to have.

After they ate, Will insisted on bundling everyone up for the promised evening walk. Hannibal went along with it with an amused air, and Abigail took one look at Will’s pathetic, hopeful face and acquiesced. The dogs gamboled joyously about as they followed one of the little pathways, hugging the line of the cliff.

“It feels so wild here,” Abigail said quietly. She was looking out at the coastline, hands tucked snugly into the pockets of her woolen coat.

“Unspoiled,” Hannibal offered. He wore a wool coat too, and a scarf that probably felt softer than anything Will had ever owned. Will forced his hands into his pockets, away from the impulse to touch it. Hannibal glanced at him, eyes heavy-lidded, lips faintly curved. He drew off the scarf and draped it about Will’s neck, fingertips cool at his nape.

“How did--” Will started. “I don’t need this.”

Hannibal lifted a shoulder, an absurdly elegant gesture for someone so powerfully built. “It suits you,” he said. Now his face was configured into something dangerously close to a smirk. Will turned his face into the coastal wind, seeking plausible deniability for the heat staining his cheeks. The scarf really was ridiculously soft.

Back inside, Hannibal said, “Perhaps one more glass?” Will nodded, and Hannibal reached for the bottle, pouring for the two of them. Abigail watched, clearly working up to saying something. Will didn’t hurry her along.

“Um,” Abigail said finally. “Could Buster sleep in my room?”

Will had to curb the impulse to hug her. “Of course, as long as he doesn’t get agitated,” he said. “We can give it a try tonight.”

Abigail did hug him then, quick and awkward. Will tried not to hold her there too long, forcing himself to let her go. Hannibal was watching them quietly, sipping his wine.

Will wandered back into the kitchen as Abigail headed for the bathroom. Hannibal shifted to make room for him against the island, handing Will his wine. Will clinked their glasses together and took a sip, letting himself lean into Hannibal’s space. He was weary, and Hannibal was warm and solid and smelled deliciously familiar. Will sighed and drank his wine, and let the moment be a contented one.

Upstairs, Will contemplated the bed. It was a reasonable size, but it wasn’t enormous. There would be no huddling far from the heat of Hannibal’s body, no safe distance. Will found that he didn’t care. He was so tired, and the bed looked extraordinarily comfortable. The idea of Hannibal in proximity to all that was, if anything, too appealing. Will decided to save any worrying for the morning.

Hannibal emerged from the ensuite looking soft and just a little tousled. He must have washed his face, for his hair was damp at his forehead, curling just slightly. Will had had some pretty elaborate fantasies about what Hannibal might wear to bed, starting with nothing at all and ranging wildly in the directions of silk and brocades. The reality, at least for tonight, was rather simpler, though no less arresting for being flannel instead of silk. The room was chilly, dependent on ambient heat from the hearth below them, so Hannibal wore plaid bottoms and a soft looking, dark tee-shirt. His feet were bare, which was somehow more shocking than the idea that they were about to get into bed together. Will abandoned the room, throwing himself into the ensuite.

When he emerged, it was to the sight of Hannibal ensconced in the quilts, a book in his hand and a pair of glasses perched upon his nose. Hannibal glanced up, taking in the sight of Will in his usual briefs and light shirt. It seemed silly to pretend he was anything other than he was, and anyway, being himself had seemed to work for Hannibal thus far. Still, the walk to the empty side of the bed felt very distant, exposed as he was to Hannibal’s gaze.

“Do we need to talk about this tonight?” Hannibal asked. He was holding up the blankets for Will, and Will slid under them with a sigh. It was blessedly warm, and the weight of the quilts felt wonderful.

Will considered it. Hannibal was wearing his overly interested psychiatrist expression, which seemed too conspicuous to indulge. Besides, he wanted his wits about him if they were going to negotiate the boundaries of their relationship.

“I’m not a good sleeper,” Will replied, instead. He refused to let himself sound apologetic about it. “I’ll probably have nightmares.”

“I know how you sleep,” Hannibal said, as though it should have been obvious. Will tried very hard to find it creepy, but his meter seemed to be broken. “If you are suffering in the night, may I put my arms around you?”

“What?” Will glanced up at him, somewhat unwillingly. They were so close together now, under the blankets. Hannibal’s body was a wash of shadows, mellowed by the soft hue of his bedside lamp. “Why?” It came out too defensive, but there wasn’t anything to be done.

“The pressure can help,” Hannibal said. “I won’t do it unless you consent to it, but if you are in distress, I would like to try it.”

Will eyed him for a moment, but he was so tired of worrying about everything. He was even more tired of waking up in a cold sweat, of night after night of ruined sleep. “Fine,” he said, before he could overthink it.

“Fine,” Hannibal said. “Good. Will it bother you if I keep this light on a few moments longer?”

“No,” Will said, and found that he meant it. The light was low, and the bed was cozy and warm, the air pleasantly suffused with the clean scent of Hannibal’s soap. The dogs were sprawled upon their beds, Abigail and Buster safely tucked away downstairs. Will thought he would stay awake a little longer, just savoring the sounds of Hannibal turning pages as he read, of the dogs gently whuffling, of the wind shifting the trees outside their bedroom window. It was no good, though. He dropped off to sleep almost immediately.

He woke once in the night, a slice of moonlight bisecting the bed. Hannibal was tucked around him, arms firm around Will’s chest. It should’ve been intrusive, but the weight and warmth of Hannibal’s arms felt incredible, grounding Will, slowing his racing heart.

“Back to sleep,” Hannibal murmured, his breath ruffling Will’s hair. He tugged Will in even closer, making a quiet, sleepy noise against the nape of Will’s neck. It was the middle of the night, and the whole thing felt entirely surreal, so Will allowed himself to enjoy it, just a little. He even allowed himself to press back into the warm curl of Hannibal’s body, though he did very much hope that Hannibal was close enough to sleep to forget it. Time enough to fret about that in the morning.

“Sleep,” Hannibal repeated, slurred against Will’s skin. Will huffed at him, and acquiesced.

When Will woke again it was morning, and he was alone but for Winston. Hannibal’s side of the bed was neatly made, leaving no indication of how long he’d been gone. Will patted it for a moment, trying to decide how he felt about the nocturnal cuddling. It didn’t form itself into anything immediately useful, so Will put it aside and got up, digging out warm clothes and putting them on, pausing every now and then to scritch behind Winston’s ears.

The thoughts seemed determined to intrude all the same, though it was more a rehashing of recent events than any useful sort of analysis. It wasn’t exactly that Will minded the idea of it. He was still pathetically hopeful whenever Hannibal leaned in close, though thus far nothing had ever come of it. Maybe that was exactly why it bothered him so much, not knowing exactly what Hannibal wanted, or was capable of wanting. It was hateful, not having an entry-point into Hannibal’s thoughts on the matter. Will sighed and dragged himself out of the bedroom, forcibly breaking the thought spiral.

Downstairs, Abigail was curled up on the couch with a tablet and a steaming mug of tea, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. Buster was asleep on her feet, snoring at a shocking decibel.

“Morning,” Abigail said, yawning at him. “Hannibal made you some coffee.”

“How thoughtful,” Will said. He wasn’t sure if he was going for ironic or not. “How’d Buster do?”

“Slept like a log,” Abigail said. She paused, folding forward to run a hand over Buster’s head. “Thanks.”

Will couldn’t resist leaning over the back of the couch and hugging her, then. Abigail bore it with as much dignity as possible, which was to say not much. They both cleared their throats afterward, looking awkwardly past one another.

“Where’d Hannibal get to?” Will asked, which had the benefit of being the first thing that popped into his mind, and also the thing he really wanted to know. “And the rest of the dogs?”

“All outside,” Abigail said. “It’s cold out! The dogs seem happy, though.”

“Thanks,” Will said. He crossed into the kitchen, where there was indeed a steaming mug of coffee, prepared just how Will liked it. He shrugged into his coat and stepped out through the kitchen door with Winston, the coffee mug cradled between his palms.

The rest of the dogs were indeed outside, capering around the grassy field. Will watched them for a moment, sipping at his coffee, before turning his gaze in search of Hannibal.

He wasn’t difficult to find. Hannibal stood on the bluff, gazing out over the water. The wind was fierce up here, unprotected, and Hannibal’s hair was wild, streaming in the wind. He looked like something out of a novel. He was clad in a pale fisherman’s gansey, perfectly fitted to his broad shoulders. His thousand yard stare was deployed to pleasing effect, his lips parted as he breathed in the sharp sea air. He hardly seemed real.

“Will,” Hannibal called. He put a hand out, and Will clambered up to join him.

“It’s freezing up here,” Will said, teeth clacking together. He shifted close, letting Hannibal take the brunt of the wind. Hannibal edged even closer, cabled wool brushing against Will’s sleeve.

“It is,” Hannibal allowed, not sounding bothered about it. “I find it particularly exhilarating.”

Will shook his head, laughing. He couldn’t have said why: joy, maybe. The feeling was unfamiliar in the extreme.

“Don’t fall off,” Will said, unable to resist it.

“I would rather not,” Hannibal said. “Of course, if you choose it, I will always follow.” He was watching Will carefully, head tilted.

Will met his gaze, even made eye contact. “Nah,” he said, after a beat. “Been there, done that.”

Hannibal smirked, but there was something of relief in his eyes, just for a moment. “Quite,” he said.

“Anyway,” Will said. “There are more interesting ways to fall. Think it’s time to try something new.” He dropped a hand to Hannibal’s shoulder. “What were you looking at?”

Hannibal quirked a brow, but let it rest. “Down there,” he said, pointing. “There’s a path to the water. It’s our own cove, protected. Good fishing, or so I’m led to believe.”

“I’ll catch something this week,” Will promised. “Come have another coffee, you’ll freeze out here.”

“It’s bracing,” Hannibal said, but he followed Will in, anyway, and let Will pour him a cup of coffee. His nose had gone a little pink, and Will had to physically restrain himself from reaching out to touch Hannibal’s chill skin.

Hannibal started on eggs and bacon while Will fed the dogs. Abigail joined them at the island, summoned by the plate of buttered toast that Will had just set down within reach. Will stole a sip of Hannibal’s coffee and handed it back to him, and Hannibal flattened a hand to Will’s waist as he passed behind Will with the hot pan, shifting close behind him. It was easily the best morning Will had ever spent.

That afternoon, Will followed Hannibal out behind the house, where an expansive greenhouse butted up against a few small outbuildings. “It isn’t an ideal climate for gardening,” Hannibal was saying. “But I find I am relishing the challenge.”

“Of course you are,” Will said, smirking at him. Hannibal’s outfit was probably supposed to be casual, though it still featured a collared shirt and about four too many fashionable layers.

Hannibal quirked a smile at him, rolling up his sleeves. “I sourced fishing equipment for you, but you’ll have to order anything I was not aware of. I am no expert, of course. You can peruse my findings if you wish.”

Will shook his head, laughing. “You’re thoughtful,” he said, wonderingly. He made his way to the nearest shed and ducked through the low doorway, yanking on a conveniently located pull chain to turn on the lights.

It was surprisingly spacious inside, low-ceilinged but long. The space was loosely divided, gardening supplies neatly ensconced in one corner while the other was home to a quite familiar assortment of tackle. There was a reasonable assortment of tools too, enough to keep the house in good repair.

Will busied himself with sorting through the supplies, letting his mind wander. It would be a new type of fishing, not the warm stream to which he had so often returned. Something in him was singing for it, though, for the brisk cold air and the slow rock of a small boat. There was something beautifully exciting about approaching a pastime so well-trod but from a different angle, seeing where the similarities might begin and end. Will thought of Hannibal’s hands pressed into the earth, nurturing life. He thought of himself, coming off the water with a slippery catch, handing it off to Hannibal to gut and prepare. They could unite their acquisitions into a single meal, fish and herbs and vegetables, and use them to feed their daughter. God. What a thing to long for, and to be able to have.

**

It took almost a week for the jetlag to pass. Will was still recovering from his old injuries, and Hannibal had taken quite a bit more damage. He didn’t show it often, but he was sometimes delicate in his movements, especially first thing in the morning, or levering himself up off the couches in the lounge. Will watched him carefully, unsure whether Hannibal could or would tell him about anything going wrong. He seemed so indifferent to his own body sometimes, though he made up for it in pure sensuality the rest of the time. It was hard to know exactly what he felt. Will insisted on checking his bandages, though Hannibal was happy to point out that of the two of them, he knew far more about doctoring than Will. Will ignored it.

Abigail adjusted quickly, seeming content to spend her afternoons reading and wrestling with the dogs. They’d spoken with her about how to safely use the internet, so she occasionally brought out the tablet or laptop that they’d outfitted with proper vpn’s. Usually, though, she preferred more analog pastimes. She walked outside with Will in the evenings, and Hannibal always joined them too, matching his stride to Will’s. Afterward, there was tea by the hearth, and early nights of reading in bed. It all seemed like it should have been maddening, unbearably tedious, but Will had never felt so content in his life. Maybe it was what they all needed, after the innumerable upheavals of the last few years.

Tjørnuvík was home to only perhaps 75 people, scarcely large enough to boast a single cafe. Hannibal declared that they would have to decamp to Torshavn for their culture, so they piled into the car on Saturday night, bound for a jazz bar. Will wasn’t particularly partial to crowds, or to bars, but he’d conceded it would be good for Abigail to encounter other young people, and Hannibal had admitted to a desire for live music. Will thought this might be what marital compromise felt like, which was absolutely terrifying. He put in a bit of effort too, taming his hair and putting on collared shirt, sweater, and blazer. It was worth it for the tiny double-take that Hannibal did, when Will made his way downstairs.

“I do like you in glasses,” Hannibal said gravely, watching him descend. “But your eyes are quite arresting without them.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Will said, because none of the alternatives were fit for Abigail’s hearing. Hannibal just huffed a laugh though, sounding somehow even more pleased.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. He put a hand on Abigail’s shoulder, ushering her out the door. “Come along, family.”

It probably should have been embarrassing, the way that Will reacted just like Abigail did to that. Probably, it should have been.

The bar was blessedly small, dimly lit and cozy. The music was the right volume, loud enough to drown out any banalities around them but not so loud that Will couldn’t think. Hannibal situated them at a table before striking out in search of the bar, returning with a cider for Abigail and a pair of beers. Will thought he could probably die happy after watching Hannibal take a pull off of his bottle, his throat so long and pale. Hannibal caught his eye, caught him looking, and went a little smug in that infuriating way of his, eyes narrowing triumphantly. Will rolled his eyes and took a swig of his own drink, letting it be a slow one. He tipped his head back just a little. He couldn’t possibly be tipsy on half a sip, but he felt drunk already, offering himself up to Hannibal like a spiny, poisoned gift. He hated how good it made him feel, to have Hannibal’s eyes fixed upon his mouth.

“You still act like newlyweds,” Abigail said, leaning in to speak into Will’s ear.

“We are newlyweds,” Will said, mouth twisting sardonically.

“Well yeah,” Abigail said, “Technically. But you’ve been together for ages, right?”

“Together?” Will repeated. He had absolutely no idea how to answer that.

Hannibal saved him from it, fortunately. He stood up gracefully, stepping around the table. He drew his chair between them, gently separating Abigail from Will’s side.

“I am feeling jealous,” Hannibal proclaimed. “I would like to be next to the both of you.”

Will rolled his eyes, but Hannibal was warm beside him, and Abigail looked so pleased about it that it was hard to mind. This was Hannibal being helpful, anyway.

Hannibal draped an arm across Will’s shoulders, drawing Will into his side. Will went with it, though part of him felt a contrarian’s impulse to deny Hannibal. His instincts were always at war with themselves, lately.

Hannibal sighed contentedly, reaching for his beer with his free hand. He crossed one leg over the other, his heel brushing with maddening gentleness against Will’s calf. Hannibal’s hand was cupped around Will’s shoulder, and his thumb drifted back and forth, hypnotically slow. It felt like a live wire, fizzing against Will’s skin. He took a shaky sip of his drink, shuddering out a breath. Hannibal caught it, head cocking slightly. His thumb didn’t still.

There must have been jazz, that night. Will didn’t hear it at all.

**

The next morning, Will woke Abigail and ushered her into warm clothes and waders. The tides were right and it was perfect sailing weather, the wind crisp and consistent. Will fed the dogs and Abigail waved at Hannibal, who sent them off with thermoses of coffee, passing a hand over Abigail’s head while Will juggled his armload of tackle. Hannibal was still in pajamas, uncharacteristically informal for him, and it made Will’s heart clench in his chest. He wanted badly for Hannibal to touch him, too, but Hannibal just watched him go, sipping quietly at his coffee.

Will had spied the Dufour from up on the bluff, neatly docked and waiting for them. He’d taken Abigail out sailing often enough before Florence, though the final trip he’d sailed alone. She knew her way around the rigging now, and it was easy to walk her through the differences in this new model. Within thirty minutes they were cutting through the water, and Will killed the engine, letting the sails billow and fill.

It was a gorgeous day for sailing, and so Will put the Dufour through its paces, savoring the way it gently heeled. Abigail was beside him, bright with exhilaration, and back on shore Will could see the dogs capering, small but distinct. He wondered if Hannibal was up on the bluff, watching them. Will hoped that he was.

It was almost a shame to drop anchor with such perfect winds, but Will had promised Hannibal fresh fish for dinner, and Hannibal was already preparing the side dishes. Will helped Abigail with her line, and that was just as sweet as the sailing, it turned out. He would take her fly-fishing soon, on the nearest river. The thought was almost too powerful, too wonderful to bear.

The sun was dipping low on the horizon by the time they docked, triumphantly bearing a brace of halibut. The island was farther north than Will had ever lived, and it filled him with a kind of terrified wonder, how early the autumn nights came here. He found that he liked it; it felt cozy, a warm blanket of night that tucked them all into their home together.

Inside, Abigail dropped her waders on the porch and wandered off to wash up. Will stopped transfixed in the doorway, because Hannibal had the tupperware of prepared dog food out and was feeding the pack. They were all sitting up adoringly, watching Hannibal place the bowls before them. They were lined up tidily, the bowls perfectly positioned. Hannibal required presentation even for dog food, it appeared. Hannibal released them with a noise and a hand gesture, and the dogs dove at their food, wiggling happily. Will stepped into the kitchen, shaking his head.

“You’re training the dogs,” he said, wonderingly.

“Conditioning is a fascinating area of study,” Hannibal said. He had crossed the room to the sink and was washing his hands fastidiously, drying them upon a dishcloth. He glanced at Will, neatly replacing the cloth on its hook. “It is practical, also.”

“Uh huh,” Will said. The room was too warm, full to bursting with everything he wanted to do to Hannibal. It was unbearable.

“And was your quest successful?” Hannibal asked. He was wearing a waistcoat, and it couldn’t have been for anyone except Will, god. His crisp button down was neatly tucked into his trousers, his sleeves rolled up over his forearms. He looked too good to be real.

“Oh,” Will said stupidly. “Yes.” He ducked back outside, retrieving the halibut. Hannibal made an approving noise and reached out. Will crossed the room.

“Will you join me?” Hannibal asked. “I would like to cook together.”

“Yes,” Will choked out. His throat felt tight. “I just--” he flapped a hand. “Let me change.”

“Of course.” Hannibal nodded at him, waving him off. He had something in the oven, and he bent to check on it, leaving Will to stare helplessly at the curve of his body. He shook himself and escaped to the bedroom, breath coming fast.

Will allowed himself a few minutes to recover, changing into a sweater and a fresh pair of trousers. It was silly to dress up for no reason, but Hannibal had done it. Why not rise to the occasion?

Back downstairs, Will moved easily around Hannibal in his woolen socks, eyes catching on Hannibal’s own bare feet. It was still shocking, these tiny intimacies that Hannibal was allowing him to witness. It felt like a terribly precious gift.

“Pan seared, do you think?” Hannibal asked. He handed over a knife and they set to gutting the fish together, arms brushing now and then as they worked at the kitchen island.

“Yes,” Will said, and let himself lean into Hannibal’s hip, just a little. Hannibal returned the pressure, fingers stilling on the cutting board.

“Good,” Hannibal said softly, probably about the fish. “Something simple, let it be itself.”

“Yes,” Will said again, inanely. Apparently it was the only word he knew now.

They ate the halibut with small root vegetables, roasted into glowing gems in the oven. There was honey cake for dessert, and thin slivers of a smooth Scandinavian cheese that tasted of caramel. Afterward, they sat at the cleared dining table with flashcards, and painstakingly sounded their way through sentences in Faroese.

The next morning, Will stumbled downstairs for coffee and found Hannibal seated at the piano. He was clearly meandering, learning the weight and action of the keys.

“No harpsichord?” Will said, joining him. There had been hot coffee on the island again, so he was predisposed toward liking Hannibal.

“Rather more difficult to discreetly purchase,” Hannibal said, sounding regretful. “This is serviceable, but I do miss it.”

“Huh,” Will said, and wandered off to the office. It didn’t take long to source the plans and print them out, sipping his coffee as he scrolled. He read over them a few times, circling the salient details, then brought them back to the piano, where Hannibal was still playing with an exploratory air.

“Most of the supplies are easy to find,” Will said, dropping the plans onto the keyboard. “Can you get me the plectra?”

Hannibal glanced up at him, surprise writ large across his features. It was a particularly good look for him, Will thought.

Hannibal stared at him silently for a moment. Finally, he said. “You are offering to do this?”

Will rolled his shoulders, letting himself have a moment to feel smug. “I’m good with woodworking,” he said. “I’ll build you a harpsichord. We’ll do it right, make it a nice one.”

“Will,” Hannibal started, throat working. He paused, started again. “I confess I am overcome.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Will said cheerfully. “I’m going for a walk-- do you want to come?”

“I--” Hannibal said. “Yes, I’d like that.” He stood, stacking the plans very carefully upon the top of the piano. It really was delicious, to see him so flustered. Will would have to keep doing it.

After that, on days when Will didn’t sail or fish they added a morning walk to the nascent daily routine. In the evenings Abigail joined them, but the mornings were for walking with Hannibal, the dogs wandering freely around them, the air crisp upon Will’s face. It seemed to be doing Hannibal good, helping with the recovery that he still refused to mention to Will. Will watched him carefully, mindful of Hannibal’s gait.

They sometimes ventured down to the edge of Tjørnuvík, though they kept far from the road. It felt better, following the sheep paths and picking their way down the hills. Safer for the dogs, too. They walked until Will felt warm and loose, muscles awakening. He was careful not to let Hannibal push too far. If Hannibal had noticed, he was keeping his own counsel about it.

After the morning walk, the days were for fishing and woodworking, Hannibal in his greenhouse or at the piano or the kitchen counter, or very occasionally reading a book by the hearth. Abigail read beside him, or fished with Will, or sometimes followed Hannibal around asking him questions about cooking. Hannibal gave her regular piano lessons, and they spoke Danish for an hour a day.

In the evenings, they all ate together, and afterward there was Faroese study. Some nights Hannibal suffered to sit with Will and Abigail in the lounge, watching them watch a movie or an incomprehensible European game show. Other nights they all lay covered up in warm blankets and read their books, or worked on whatever small handcrafts or projects were currently relevant or interesting. Then there was the bed, and the warmth of Hannibal very near in the night.

Three times a week on their morning walks, Will and Hannibal crossed paths with a small group of old women, picking their way across the fields. They knit as they walked, an extraordinary sight. Their hands were all moving rapidly, but they didn’t need to look at them, or at the sheep path. It had the air of a routine perfected over decades.

On the fourth such meeting, Hannibal held a hand up to Will, and walked over to join them. The women clustered about him immediately, friendly and curious. There were four of them, not one standing higher than Hannibal’s chest. They looked entirely formidable, all the same.

They were a little too distant for Will to make out what they were saying. It was probably in Danish, since Hannibal likely didn’t yet know enough Faroese for conversation. It went on for some time, Hannibal ducking his head to make friendly eye contact, his posture deliberately open and disarming. Will was content to watch it from afar, unhurried. Winston came near and shoved his head into Will’s hand, and Will scratched behind his ears. Hannibal pointed in his direction and the women waved at him. Will waved back.

“Well?” Will said, afterward. Hannibal liked making him ask for things, and Will’s patience for playing along hadn’t yet been depleted for the day. There was something insanely pleasing about the way it made Hannibal smirk.

“Befriending the locals,” Hannibal said, like that was a totally normal thing for him to be doing.

“Yeah,” Will said. “Why?”

Hannibal offered him a perfectly blank expression that he probably thought looked innocent. Will refused to be endeared to it.

“They do interesting things with whale meat,” Hannibal said. “I asked if they would teach me their recipes.”

Will couldn’t help laughing. “Of course you did,” he said, shaking his head wonderingly. “And were any of them rude?”

Hannibal gave him a scandalized look. “Certainly not,” he said. “They had exquisite manners. They’ve invited Abigail for tea.”

Will had to look away; his grin was too embarrassing. “Ah,” he said, carefully toneless. Hannibal probably saw past it, anyway. “Next time, ask if they know someone who can teach me about maintaining the sod roof.”

“Certainly,” Hannibal said. Will had no idea what to make of his expression.

They told Abigail about it, during breakfast.

“They want to teach you to knit,” Hannibal said, pushing more toast in Abigail’s direction. “It’s up to you. It would be a good opportunity to practice the language, though.” He paused, considering. “And to acquire four to five grandmothers, I suspect.”

“Okay,” Abigail said. She sounded pleased. “I’d like that.”

“Very well,” Hannibal said. “We can walk you over on Wednesday. They meet in the village. Prepare yourself to eat lots of cake.”

Will watched them together, absently stirring his oatmeal. Hannibal was slicing an apple, passing every other sliver to Will or Abigail and eating his own with characteristic grace.

“Would you like something else?” Hannibal asked, watching the passage of Will’s spoon. “I could make you a poached egg.”

“No,” Will said. “No, this is perfect.”

Tuesday found Will and Abigail stretched out on the boat, enjoying an uncharacteristically warm and sunny day. When Abigail spoke, it was with her eyes closed, brow furrowed into the sun.

“Should I be too old to like hanging out with you guys?” Abigail asked. Her tone was very careful. “Is it a sign that something’s wrong with me?”

Will rolled over to face her. “No,” he said firmly. “What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing, exactly,” Abigail said. “It seems like I should want to be a grownup, but all I want is what we’re doing right now. Just spend time together. Learn things. But most people my age would want to go be on their own, wouldn’t they?”

Will considered it. “Some might. Hannibal would say that’s an American-centric worldview.” He stretched, working the tension out of his shoulders. “But you also didn’t get to have the childhood that a lot of people get to have. Neither did I. Neither did Hannibal, for that matter. Maybe we’re all just figuring out what makes us happy.” He paused, glancing at Abigail. “And just so you know, only you get to decide what feels right for you. Not the rest of the world. Not even me or Hannibal. Okay?”

“Huh,” Abigail was nodding. “I guess it didn’t occur to me that I was allowed to decide for myself.” She looked at him, sweetly hopeful. “We’re a family, right?”

Will forced himself to keep the eye contact, to speak without a hint of tremor. “As long as that’s what you want,” he said. “We’ll never pressure you, but yes. For us, you are family.”

“Good,” Abigail said. She sounded relieved, satisfied. “Good. That’s what I want.” She thought for a moment, eyebrows raised.

“What is it?” Will asked.

“Oh,” Abigail snickered. “I was just trying to picture calling Hannibal dad or something. Can you imagine his face?”

“Jesus.” Will was laughing too. “Papa? Father?”

Abigail ducked her head to his shoulder, shaking with mirth. “No, he’d probably want something European.”

“Good God,” Will said. He dropped an arm to her shoulder, held her while they both laughed. “I think maybe stick to Hannibal, for all of our sakes.”

“Yeah,” Abigail said. Another giggle slipped out, and then they were both laughing again. They stayed there for a long time, curled close and gently rocked by the tides.

On Wednesday, Abigail joined them for the morning walk, and this time they all trooped down to meet the roving knitters. Hannibal introduced them all in what sounded to Will like irritatingly competent Danish. Abigail spoke a little, too, haltingly. The women knew a bit of English too, enough that they’d be able to get by. They drew Abigail into their huddle, and Will stood by Hannibal’s side and watched until they disappeared into the village below.

“Come on,” Will said, shouldering Hannibal gently. “Back home.”

Hannibal glanced at him, expression unreadable. They returned to the house.

Inside there was more coffee, and Hannibal puttered around watering the small pots of herbs that kept appearing around the kitchen. Will was content to sit at the table and watch him, trimming and splicing some worn lines he’d pulled out of one of the lockers on the Defour. It was familiar, mindless labor, easy enough to work on by feel while tracking Hannibal’s progress around the kitchen.

Hannibal finished his ministrations with the plants, and moved on to prepping something that, Will thought hopefully, looked a lot like bread dough. There was something extremely arresting about Hannibal with his sleeves rolled up, hands plunged into the floury bowl. Will might have bet on him being very fastidious about cooking, very clean, but of course Hannibal also loved the visceral. Today he was mixing the dough with his hands, working it with a practiced air. The planes of his forearms shifted, all powerful lean muscle and easy competence. Will’s mouth was very dry.

“Will,” Hannibal said, some time later. He had covered the bread dough and set it on the counter to rise. Will’s tools lay forgotten on the island; he’d been transfixed.

“Will,” Hannibal said again. “Are you alright?”

Will cleared his throat. “Fine,” he said. Before he could think better of it, he asked. “Are you busy?”

Hannibal tilted his head. He was leaned over on the island, forearms flat on the countertop. The top button of his shirt had come undone, or maybe he had opened it himself, just to torment Will. The effect was difficult for Will to look away from.

“I have no plans of consequence,” Hannibal said. “Did you have something in mind?”

Will forced himself to look away, down at his own hands. “No,” He said. “I mean.” He shook his head, hating himself. “Would you play the piano?”

Hannibal made a soft noise, sounding pleased. “I would be delighted,” he said. “Anything in particular?”

“No,” Will said. “Just something you like.”

“Like,” Hannibal repeated, as though it was a foreign concept. “Very well.” He unfurled himself from the kitchen island, making for the lounge. His leonine grace was in full effect, even in such an un-extraordinary circumstance. Will shook his head fondly at it, hoping Hannibal wouldn’t somehow notice. Impossible to say, he seemed to have eyes pointed in every direction, where Will was concerned.

Hannibal settled himself at the piano, paging through a stack of sheet music. He seemed ignorant of Will’s gaze, or at least had decided not to comment on it. After a moment, he chose something and fastidiously folded it open, setting his hands to the keys. Will trailed him to the piano and glanced over his shoulder. Bartok, Romanian folk dances. Will had heard Hannibal play snatches of them before, sweetness tinged with dissonance.

Hannibal paused, hands still upon the keys. “If I must use a piano,” he said. “I prefer music written to take advantage of it.”

“If you must,” Will echoed, unable to resist. There was something delicious in being able to needle Hannibal like this, knowing others might not survive it.

Hannibal huffed at him, but there was no anger in it. He turned the page, began to play again. Will watched him for a moment before giving in. He lowered himself to the carpet and leaned back against the bench, head brushing Hannibal’s thigh. He had gotten very bad at resisting these impulses, lately.

Hannibal’s legs went taut and then, very carefully, relaxed. At the next page turn, he drew a hand gently over Will’s head. Will closed his eyes, and listened to the music.

He woke some hours later, lungs full up with the smell of Hannibal, face pillowed upon Hannibal’s lap. He had a vague recollection of Hannibal waking him; he must have dozed off by the piano. Somehow they had ended up on the couch, Hannibal tucked into one corner with Will curled up atop him. It was mortifying, especially once Will blearily realized that Abigail had woken them.

“You two are cute,” Abigail said, smirking at them. She was in the doorway, the dogs milling happily about her. She looked very pleased with herself.

Hannibal ran a hand over his face, the other over Will’s head. It was a treasure to see him like this, drowsy from an unexpected nap. His shirt had gone all rumpled, and his hair was uncharacteristically tousled, giving him a boyish air.

“I ought to have tended to the bread,” Hannibal said, sounding perplexed.

“Seems like you both needed the nap,” Abigail said, still sounding very pleased. “Stay put, I can handle the bread if you tell me what to do.”

“I can--,” Hannibal began, shifting. Will pressed an arm over his thighs, stilling him.

“She wants to help,” he said softly. “Let her.”

Hannibal subsided, brow faintly quirked. “Of course,” he said. Will didn’t know if it was for him or for Abigail. Maybe Hannibal didn’t either.

“Uncover the mixing bowl,” Hannibal said, and talked Abigail through kneading and re-covering the dough. Hannibal’s hand had come back down to rest on Will’s head, and he was carding through Will’s hair, absently. Will leaned into the touch. He felt like a cat, momentarily quelled into purring. He could scratch Hannibal later, maybe.

They stayed on the couch for another hour or so. Abigail practiced the piano, Hannibal making soft noises of approval from the couch. Will luxuriated in all of it, in the touch and feel of Hannibal at his side, in the nearness of Abigail and the pride in Hannibal’s eyes. Afterward, Abigail sprawled out on the second couch, Harley curling up at her feet.

“Tell us about your day,” Hannibal said. Will sat up with a groan, his shoulder protesting. Hannibal lifted his arm, natural as breathing, and made room for Will at his side. Will decanted into the available space, letting himself ooze against Hannibal’s shoulder. It was surreal, but he was going with it.

Abigail told them about her day. She sounded pleased. She’d been the focus of the ladies’ attention, and they had indeed stuffed her with such diverse local delicacies as dried fish and sweet oat cake. She showed them the lumpen, homely start of a scarf, a ball of homespun wool unspooling away from a pair of carved wooden knitting needles.

“Did you learn any new words?” Hannibal asked. He smelled fantastically good, his usual cologne overlaid with detergent and the faintest hint of clean sweat. Will was probably pretty far gone, if he was enjoying even that. He thought very seriously about pulling away, relocating some sense of self as distinct from Hannibal. It didn’t seem worth the effort, though, and Will was really very comfortable. He relaxed against Hannibal’s shoulder and listened to Abigail, breathing it all in. There was time enough to pull away, maybe tomorrow.

Hannibal made something with an exotic name for dinner, which seemed to translate into lamb stew. They dipped the fresh bread in it, spread with fantastic local butter that Abigail had brought back from the village. After the dishes and the evening walk they returned to the kitchen for biscuits and cocoa. The dogs were running out their energy in the yard, making delighted noises as they rustled the heather.

“Hannibal,” Abigail said. She looked very cozy, her cheeks still pink from the walk, both hands wrapped around her mug. “Do you know how to dance?”

Hannibal put down his cocoa. It was a relief, because the sight of the murderer with his frothy mug was a kind of beautiful cognitive dissonance that might have actually killed Will if it had gone on for too long. He wondered if Hannibal knew that.

“That very much depends on the type of dance,” Hannibal said mildly. “I am not classically trained.” Will rolled his eyes, and Hannibal reached out and stole the biscuit out of Will’s hand, so pettily childish that Will’s heart gave a squeeze in his chest.

“I can, however,” Hannibal said, “Dance a passable waltz.” He took a firm bite out of the biscuit, handing it back to Will imprinted with his teeth. Will made a valiant effort to curb his shudder.

“Passable,” Will mimicked, seeking equilibrium. Hannibal looked like he might try to snatch the biscuit back, so Will shoved it in his mouth, half choking on crumbs. Hannibal watched him with a superior air, patting him once on the back.

“Can you show me how?” Abigail asked. She was getting a little less shy about asking for things, which warmed Will’s heart tremendously. He wandered over to the couch with his cocoa, settling into the cushions as Hannibal held out his arms for Abigail.

“Certainly,” Hannibal said. “If you could provide some music.”

Abigail fussed with the speakers and her phone, putting on a soft, modern-sounding waltz. Hannibal cocked a head at it but said nothing about the choice. Abigail took his hands, and Hannibal moved her through the basic sequence, counting quietly.

Will watched them dance, slow and stilted at first but rapidly improving. Abigail picked up the rhythm quickly, eyes bright as she gazed up at Hannibal. Hannibal looked back at her; he was letting her see his emotions, pitching them at a decibel she could hear. He was grinning at her, even, smile lines softening the chiseled coldness of his features. They looked so happy, so easy with each other. Will could feel it too, the tight-knit closeness of family. It had settled around the room.

“Your turn,” Abigail said, some time later. She was pointing at Will, cheeks flushed.

“I don’t dance,” Will said, which seemed like an entirely unnecessary thing to have to clarify about himself. He was still slouched into the sofa cushions, watching the shifting planes of Hannibal’s face.

“You’re married,” Abigail said, like it was an ace up her sleeve. “That’s what married people do.”

“Don’t pressure our Will,” Hannibal said gently. It was a patently ridiculous thing to hear from the absolute king of pressuring Will, but Hannibal sounded sincere enough. “He does not have to dance, if he doesn’t want to.”

Will wondered if it was by design, activating the contrary side of Will’s nature. Probably not, because when he levered himself up off the couch, Hannibal looked as surprised as Will was feeling. He watched Will thoughtfully, something pleased in the tilt of his head.

“She’s right,” Will said sardonically. “That’s what married people do, Hannibal. Why, you don’t want to dance with me?”

Hannibal ducked his head once. It was a subtle thing, but obvious to Will, the way his throat worked. “Of course I do,” Hannibal said. “If you wish it.”

Abigail slipped away to fiddle with her phone, and then Lou Reed was crooning at them, the music terribly slow. Will realized, abruptly, that Abigail was the master manipulator here, not Hannibal. He didn’t care at all.

Will stepped forward, into Hannibal’s space. He had no idea what he was doing; he only knew that he wanted to be closer, to be as close as it was possible to be. Hannibal sucked in a breath and gazed down at Will, hands coming up to bracket Will’s waist. “Not the right time signature for waltzing,” Hannibal said. His voice sounded rubbed raw, delicate.

“Shut up and dance with me,” Will whispered. He twined his arms around Hannibal’s neck, letting his forehead drop to Hannibal’s shoulder. He could feel Hannibal breathing him in.

“All you have to do is ask,” Hannibal said, and wrapped his arms around Will for real.

Will was distantly aware of Abigail turning the music up, but it seemed largely meaningless when he was pressed to Hannibal’s body, swaying into his touch. Hannibal was breathing hard, as though he’d just run up the stairs. He had one big hand splayed over Will’s shoulder blade, and the warmth of it was delicious. Will shoved himself back into Hannibal’s touch, willing him to press harder, to draw Will in more tightly. It was the first time he’d sought out Hannibal’s embrace himself, he realized. Always before it had been Hannibal putting hands on his body, on his face. Maybe that was why Hannibal was acting so shocked and careful about it, so helplessly gentle. Will sucked in lungfuls of air, suddenly desperate to breathe Hannibal in. Maybe insight would be borne on his breaths, maybe the clarity they both needed.

Hannibal did pull Will closer, then. He was still clasping the wing of Will’s shoulder blade firmly, but his other hand came up to catch in Will’s hair, cupping at his head. Will relaxed in Hannibal’s grasp, tucking his nose to the delicate skin of Hannibal’s throat. He was so close, it would have been trivial to fix his mouth to Hannibal’s neck. Will would have liked to leave a mark, proof that Hannibal had let him in there.

The song ended. Will made a regretful noise that was utterly beyond his conscious control, drawing slowly back. Hannibal’s hands caught at him once, maybe instinctively, before they fell away. Will felt dizzied, like he was awakening from an unexpected sleep. He was buzzing, circuits overloading. Hannibal turned away, hands whispering over Will’s shirt. He disappeared into the darkened kitchen, with what anyone with a death wish might have referred to as an undignified haste. Will’s limbs felt immovable, his head thick. He was stupefied, still full up with the sensation of Hannibal held so close to his body.

He heard the clink of a whiskey glass, Hannibal pouring out scotch in the kitchen. The air felt suddenly colder, the room too large without Hannibal in it.

Abigail cleared her throat. She was wearing the haunted expression of someone whose brilliant idea had escaped its original confines and taken on a life of its own. Served her right, Will thought, a little meanly.

“So uh,” Abigail said. “Yeah, I’m going to bed. Good luck with that.”

“Thanks,” Will said wryly. “Goodnight, kid.”

“Goodnight, Abigail,” Hannibal called. He was still shrouded in darkness, standing against the kitchen island.

Will shook his head and followed him there, stealing the whiskey by touch. He lifted it to his lips, sipping slowly. It was peaty and rich, thick as smoke. He placed the glass back in Hannibal’s hand, leaning against the island. He had never known Hannibal to avoid a difficult conversation, or even to acknowledge that a conversation should be difficult. They were in unfamiliar waters, now.

Hannibal handed the glass back, his fingertips brushing Will’s. Will drained it, largely to irritate Hannibal. He couldn’t resist pushing. He thought that Hannibal probably liked it when Will pushed, too.

Will set the empty glass back in Hannibal’s palm, stretching. “I’m going for a walk,” he said, brushing past Hannibal in the direction of the kitchen door. “See you in bed,” he added, a parting shot. He left Hannibal there, in the dark.

Will came to bed late, hair damp from the shower. He’d wandered in the dark to the point of near exhaustion, mind working ceaselessly. It felt like they were standing upon another ledge, only this time they didn’t know whether to push or pull. Will still hadn’t decided what he ought to be doing about it. The vigorous walk had been more a plea for mercy than anything else, a hope that he might be able to creep into bed and fall into an exhausted sleep. It was probably too much to hope for, but Will was getting very good at the hope thing, lately.

The bedroom was already dark, when Will eased open the door. Will crept in as quietly as he could, finding his bedside table largely by feel. He lifted the covers as gingerly as possible, sliding quietly into bed. Hannibal was lying on his side, facing away from Will. It was impossible to say whether he was asleep-- his chest was rising and falling slowly, and Hannibal was always a quiet sleeper, nothing like Will.

Some time later, Will realized that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He’d been staring at the line of Hannibal’s shoulder, at the fall of his pale hair upon his pillow. It was absurd that this man could contain everything that Will knew him to be, and yet he could also be here, so human and defenseless. He was a man, living and breathing. Will could wrap his arms around Hannibal and feel the hair on his forearms, the softness at his navel, everything that anchored Hannibal to embodied reality. He could nose against the dewy sheen of sweat at Hannibal’s neck, lick at the hot salt essence of him, take him in. God, Will wanted to know every bit of him. He wanted Hannibal so badly.

“You are thinking very loudly,” Hannibal said. He rolled over to face Will, moonlight turning his face ethereally pale.

Will dropped his head into the pillow, groaning. He’d been leaning closer to Hannibal’s side of the bed, fingers clenching.

“I know,” Will said, because why bother dissembling?

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hannibal asked. His voice was sleep tinged, huskier than usual. Will wanted to hear it directly against his lips. He wanted to lick the sound out of Hannibal’s mouth. He wanted--- oh, he wanted everything.

“No,” Will said, sighing. “Yes.”

“What is it you are afraid I will do?” Hannibal asked, mildly. “We have already left the known world behind.”

Will gritted his teeth. This seemed likely to come out whether he wanted it to or not. Telling Hannibal at least circumvented any truly questionable methods he might be driven to use for extracting it, should Will deny him.

“I’m worried you don’t want what I want,” Will said, finally. “I’m worried you’ll do it for me, but not because it’s what you want. I only want it if it’s what you actually want too.”

Hannibal made a noise deep in his throat, his hands sliding on the bedsheets with a soft rustle. “You didn’t kiss me again, after the first time.”

His voice was impossible to read, even and remote.

“You didn’t kiss me after the first time,” Will countered. “Since when have you abstained from things you found enjoyable?” He let out a sharp breath, rubbing at his eyes. “If this is all you want from me, it’s enough. I don’t want you to think it isn’t. I’m happy here. I’m happier than I knew I was capable of being.”

“I am glad for that,” Hannibal said slowly. “You are mistaken as to my motivations, though. I thought perhaps you regretted the kiss. I did not wish to frighten you away.”

“I’m not easily frightened away,” Will shot back. “You should know that better than anyone. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You are indeed,” Hannibal acknowledged. “Yet I hope you can forgive me for finding this a particularly fragile element. I did not wish to handle it clumsily, something so precious.”

Will groaned, hating the words even as he spoke them. “Don’t call me a teacup, Hannibal. Do you want to handle it? Do you think about it?” he asked. He could feel his whole body bowing toward Hannibal, desperately.

“Will,” Hannibal said quietly. He sounded very sure. “Please understand that currently, I think of little else.”

“Show me,” Will said helplessly. It was horrible, how pleading it sounded. “Show me what you want.”

“Will,” Hannibal said again, sounding a little frayed. God, his name on Hannibal’s lips. “Will, come here.” He was reaching out, his hands grasping at Will’s. Will went along with it, shifting into Hannibal’s space. His breaths were coming fast and shallow, and his hands were shaking a little, coming to rest on Hannibal’s shoulders. Hannibal brought up a hand and cupped Will’s jaw, suffusing him with warmth. It seemed to happen surreally slowly, Hannibal leaning in and kissing him.

Hannibal was kissing him, Will thought, a little hysterically. It seemed impossible, but Hannibal was kissing him, and he was doing it tenderly. The kiss was sweet and slow as pooling honey, a gentle overture. Hannibal was showing him, but he was also asking a question, leaving Will the freedom to decide. Will let himself go boneless, shuddering in Hannibal’s arms. He felt pinioned, splayed open for Hannibal’s touch, for his mouth. He was transfixed by the shivery-sweet passage of Hannibal’s tongue, sliding against his own. It was as much an answer as he knew how to give, opening himself up to Hannibal.

Hannibal seemed to understand, if his reaction was anything to go by. He drew Will closer, hands big and warm on his shoulders, his hips. He ushered Will up over him, until Will was splayed over Hannibal’s body, feeling the warmth of him everywhere. Will drew his arms around Hannibal’s neck and kissed him, harder.

“Do you see?” Hannibal asked, into his mouth. He was hardening against Will’s thigh, and making no effort to hide it. “I want everything. I want to feel you on my palate, Will,” He sighed it into Will’s mouth, like a prayer. “I want you inside me. I want to watch you take your pleasure with me.” He kissed Will again, hard, something approaching desperate. “I want it all.” He paused, dipping to mouth along Will’s jaw, fingers twisting into Will’s hair. “Are you frightened away yet?”

“God,” Will said helplessly, against his mouth. “No, I’m not frightened. Ah--” He groaned into the pressure of Hannibal’s thigh, suddenly pushing just right against his cock. He was so hard, abruptly, straining with it. It still seemed impossible to believe this was happening. “I want it, Hannibal. Ah--” He squeezed his eyes shut, clinging to his last shards of self control. “I’m going to give you all of it.”

“Will,” Hannibal said helplessly, and so Will had to kiss him again, thoroughly. He had to drag his thigh up mercilessly, catching against the underside of Hannibal’s thick cock. They were still in their pajamas, the brush of fabric almost painful against Will’s erection. Even through their clothing Hannibal was hot and vital beneath him, panting into his mouth.

Will felt molten, a sword reforged. He would drink Hannibal’s sighs like fine wine, would savor every moment of Hannibal writhing against him in the night. He would do it all because Hannibal needed it, needed him. God. Will needed it too.

The urge to eliminate the layers between them was powerful, but Will resisted. It felt right like this, in the darkness and in their clothes. There would be time for baring themselves later. For now, Will luxuriated in the too-rough pressure, the catch of his briefs against his erection as he ground against Hannibal. Hannibal was taking it beautifully, letting out sharp little breaths at the contact. His hips were working, and Will allowed himself the indulgence of pressing down on them, stilling Hannibal with his forearm.

“I’ll take care of you,” Will found himself saying. “I’ll give you what you need.” He had no idea where the words were coming from, but he knew that he meant it. Hannibal knew it too, if his moan was any indication. It seemed like it probably was.

“I will not last much longer,” Hannibal gasped out. He was dropping frantic kisses on Will’s lips, his cheeks, his chin. It was unbearable, to feel such sweetness from such a man.

“Good,” Will said, heated from within by the thought. “Good, come for me like this. Give in to it, Hannibal.”

“I would find your own pleasure very motivating,” Hannibal managed. He sounded wrecked now, breathing hard. His chest was heaving, and why hadn’t Will expected him to be like this? Of course he was sensuous, just as he was when enjoying a good wine or a sumptuous dessert. Of course he luxuriated in carnal pleasures, too. Of course. He was perfect.

“Don’t worry,” Will panted, thrusting harder. He could feel the heat of Hannibal’s erection even through both their layers. He couldn’t wait to feel it against his skin, in his hands, in his mouth. “I’m close too.” He laughed helplessly, full of joy and want and incredulity. “Of course we’re symbiotic like this, too. Each of us needs the other to feel it.”

“Interdependent,” Hannibal said, hips stuttering. He was coming, his whole body going tense with it. “Conjoined,” He choked out, spasming. Will was abruptly coming too, drinking the words out of Hannibal’s mouth, squeezing bruises into his arms. How could he not, at that?

The return to coherence was a slow, languid thing. Will stayed stretched out on top of Hannibal for a long time, mouthing absently at Hannibal’s throat as the aftershocks worked their way through him. He felt cored out, deliciously sated. He felt like he wanted to do it again, in a lot of different ways. He also felt very worried on behalf of society.

Hannibal, for his part, was behaving much like he’d taken a blow to the head. It filled Will with a savage pleasure, seeing him reduced to incoherence. His lips were still parted, his eyes blown wide. He kept looking at Will in a shocked, helpless manner, hands moving feverishly up and down Will’s back. It took him several tries before he was able to speak.

“That,” Hannibal said, finally. “That was--”

“I know,” Will said.

“I’ve never felt--” Hannibal started again. His brow was just slightly furrowed. Will ran his fingers over it, sliding his hand through Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal leaned into the touch sweetly enough that Will felt inspired to dig his fingers into Hannibal’s scalp, massaging firmly. Hannibal curled into his touch, making a low noise against Will’s neck.

“Finish your sentence,” Will said, gently chiding. He tugged a little at Hannibal’s hair, delighted at the way Hannibal arched up into his touch.

Hannibal huffed out a laugh, offering Will a bewildered, wondering expression. “I am not certain how to do so.”

Will tightened his fingers, angling up Hannibal’s head. He kissed Hannibal, slow and deep. A shudder ran through both of their bodies, reverberating through Will’s chest. Will kissed him again, again.

I didn’t know you’d be like this,” Will admitted, some time later. He’d rolled off of Hannibal to get them a damp cloth, and was now sprawled out with his head pillowed on Hannibal’s arm. “A flaw in my ability to perceive you. To perceive myself, maybe.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “How do you mean?” He was wearing clean boxer briefs but nothing else, and Will had his fingers just under the waistband, idly stroking over Hannibal’s skin.

“I didn’t know you’d be this--” Will shook his head, tried for safer words, gave up on them. It was late in the night, which felt like the right time for difficult truths. “I didn’t know you could be so tender. I didn’t know if you could care.”

“I assure you, Will, I am capable of feeling emotions,” Hannibal said. He didn’t sound offended. “I will admit that I do not feel so freely as many do. But when I feel, it is with a depth of emotion that would frighten most.”

“I’m still not afraid of you,” Will said, and found that he meant it.

“Nor ought you to be,” Hannibal said. He did sound rather pleased, now. “I hope you know that I would burn the world down for you.” He paused, closed his eyes for a moment. “More critically, I have come to realize that I would refrain from doing so, should you require it.”

“Hannibal,” Will said, leaning forward. His hands were on Hannibal’s face, cupping his jaw. “We’d burn it down together.”

The noise Hannibal made into their kiss was one that Will intended to remember for a very long time.

For once, Hannibal was still in bed when Will woke in the morning. Rain sounded heavily upon the sod roof, runnels of water kaleidoscoping the wan morning light from the window. Hannibal was awake, looking extraordinarily tousled. He didn’t even try to pretend that he hadn’t been watching Will sleep.

“How long have you been awake?” Will asked. He stretched, rolling a little closer to Hannibal.

Hannibal lifted a shoulder, throwing his collarbone into sharp relief. “Perhaps an hour,” he said, after a moment.

“I’m not that interesting,” Will said dryly. Something in him was very thrilled, seeing Hannibal like this. He’d half expected Hannibal to be up and fully dressed, teeth brushed and hair freshly styled. It was a gift to see him stripped of his layers, as easy and open as Hannibal knew how to be.

“I assure you, you are,” Hannibal said, which was very predictable but still made Will’s breath come a little faster.

“Shut up,” Will said. He leaned in and kissed Hannibal, morning breath and all. Hannibal didn’t object on either of their behalfs, more credit to him. It was a good kiss, good enough that Will was feeling extremely regretful, even as he pulled away.

“We have to talk about this,” Will said.

“You will have to make up your mind,” Hannibal said. It took Will a moment to understand, but when he did, he rolled his eyes.

“We have to talk is often regarded as an ominous conversation-starter,” Hannibal pointed out. He still sounded mild, careful.

“Let’s buck tradition,” Will said.

“I would be delighted,” Hannibal said. “Perhaps over coffee. We should feed the dogs, also.”

“Yeah, okay,” Will said. He wondered if this was a dodge on Hannibal’s part, but it wasn’t like he could avoid it forever.

It wasn’t a dodge, after all. After jostling each other companionably as they brushed their teeth, Will fed the dogs while Hannibal made coffee and toast. Hannibal left a plate for Abigail on the island, and they brought the rest back upstairs on a tray, settling onto the bed.

“I didn’t take you for the breakfast in bed type,” Will said.

“I thought you would appreciate more privacy for this conversation,” Hannibal said. “Also you are wrong, I do enjoy breakfast in bed.”

“Noted,” Will said. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Hannibal repeated. Most people wouldn’t have noticed, the way he was subtly imitating Will’s tone, but Will wasn’t most people. He smirked at Hannibal.

“Are you having any regrets?” Hannibal asked. Leave it to him to dive right in.

“No,” Will said, and was surprised at his own force. “You-- are you?”

“No,” Hannibal said, just as firmly. “I am as far from regret as a person can be.”

“Well,” Will said, huffing out a sigh. “That’s good, then.”

“I suspect you wished to discuss more than just that,” Hannibal said. It was in his therapist voice, but in this case it was probably the right question to ask anyway, so Will allowed it.

“This isn’t a populous place,” Will said. He swallowed. “If too many people go missing, it’ll be noticed.”

“Ah,” Hannibal said. “You are asking whether I can control myself.”

Will fixed him with a glare. “I already know you can. I’m asking whether or not you want to.”

Hannibal cocked his head. “Do you want to?”

“Control myself?” Will asked bitterly. “No. But I like our life. I want to keep it.”

Hannibal cocked his head. “Will,” he said slowly. “Do you know anything of the politics of this place?”

Will thought about it for a moment. “Conservative, I’d expect. Very religious.”

“Quite right,” Hannibal said. “These people are close to God. They cling to old ways.” He paused, reaching out to take Will’s hand. “I hope we will soon attend the driving of the whales; it is often regarded as savage, needlessly brutal. I think it is the purest expression of humanity, of God’s gifts.”

Hannibal paused again, wetting his lips. “It is said that when the whales are spotted in the bay, people stream out to the water with weapons of old, still wearing their business suits or church attire. The bay turns red with blood, during that great slaughter.”

“Why?” Will whispered.

“It is the natural order of their society,” Hannibal said. He cupped a hand around Will’s chin, tender as could be. “Each household depends upon the whale for sustenance; it is parceled out to everyone on the island. There is no shame in the act; it feeds its people.”

“Closer to God,” Will said softly, thinking on it.

“Yes,” Hannibal replied. He kissed Will once, chastely. They were still delicately holding hands. “Of course, it does bring along with it some objectionable views about the definition of marriage.”

“Ah,” Will said, chuckling. “You find homophobia rude.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal said. “And I imagine you find it unjust.”

“And illogical,” Will said. “Yes.”

“I do not intend to hide our bond,” Hannibal said. “Please do not ask it of me. If those around us wish to act with honor, I can assure you they will be perfectly safe. But if they come for us--”

“If they come for us they’ll find both of us ready for them,” Will said. His blood felt very hot in his veins. “You’ve been letting people see it. At the bar, in the village.”

Hannibal gave a small nod of acknowledgement. “The village women were perfectly reasonable. They’ve lost too many young people to immigration. We’ve brought our daughter back to this place that so many people have left. They like that. And they respect that we’ll commit to the old ways.”

“The recipes,” Will said.

“Yes,” Hannibal said, “And Abigail’s willingness to learn their knitting. If anyone comes, I do not believe it will be because of them.”

“And if anyone does come?” Will bent his head to Hannibal’s cheek, kissing him there very gently.

“I assure you I will be discreet,” Hannibal said. “I like this life also. I do intend to keep it.”

“This life,” Will repeated, against Hannibal’s cheek.

“This family,” Hannibal said. “This home. You.”

Will shoved the breakfast tray aside. The last of his coffee sloshed dangerously in his cup, toast crusts skittering across the tray. He was in Hannibal’s lap in an instant, his hand on Hannibal’s jaw. Hannibal opened for him like he was born to do it, fitting their mouths together.

It was a devastating kiss, sloppier than Will had ever imagined Hannibal could be. His head was thick with it, the scent of Hannibal, the feel of his tongue. He was alive with the sensation of Hannibal. Everything about it was intoxicating: the brush of the hair on his chest, the delicate underside of his chin, the fine lines about his eyes. Will thought he would die, not being able to touch it all at once.

Will was abruptly aware of the great injustice that was Hannibal in clothing. Easy enough to fix, when he was only wearing a robe and those mouthwateringly tight briefs. Will yanked the robe down over Hannibal’s shoulders, grappling with Hannibal’s waistband. He got their underwear twisted out of the way, lined up their erections. Hannibal was gasping against his mouth, arching into Will’s hand.

“I intend to keep you,” Will said fiercely.

“You have me,” Hannibal panted out.

“Yes,” Will hissed, stroking them hard. It was just on the edge of too much, a delicious glut of sensation. Hannibal was bucking up into his hand, eyes fixed upon Will’s. Will pitched forward, hand still working. He pressed his mouth to Hannibal’s neck, bit down hard enough to bruise. Hannibal let out a shocked, helpless groan and came between them. Will licked over the bite mark, viciously satisfied, and followed Hannibal over the edge.

“That’s going to be rather difficult to hide,” Hannibal said afterward. He was smoothing down a very soft looking v-necked sweater, beautifully fitted to his body. “Perhaps that was your intention.” Hannibal was touching the bruise at his throat.

“You give me too much credit for foresight,” Will said. He was already halfway across the room, though, replacing Hannibal’s hand with his own. He traced the mark very gently, fascinated with the way it made Hannibal’s lips part. Will placed his mouth over his own tooth-marks, and delicately kissed Hannibal’s throat. “I do like seeing it on you, though.”

“Evidence that your affections have an impact on me,” Hannibal said. He was back in psychiatrist mode, which should have been irritating.

Will huffed a laugh. “Yeah, maybe,” he said. “But I already got that, when you were screaming my name.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow at him. Will was still tucked in close, mouthing at his neck. “I would not characterize it as screaming.”

God, Hannibal joking would never fail to delight Will. He tilted his head up, lips pressed to Hannibal’s ear. “You will,” he said softly. “Just wait until I’m inside you.”

They didn’t make it downstairs for another hour, after that.

**

The rain continued throughout the afternoon. Hannibal made some sort of complicated twisty pastry, an hours long process that involved much collaboration with Abigail. Will ducked out to the shed and brought in some bits from the harpsichord project, laying down a sheet of newspaper and settling into some detail work at the table. He couldn’t resist brushing by Hannibal now and then, under the guise of more coffee. He felt like a teenager, lovesick and distracted.

The bruise was livid upon Hannibal’s neck, obscenely stark. Hannibal didn’t seem to mind. Abigail probably did, though she was either too kind or too horrified to mention it. Will couldn’t help touching it, whenever Abigail wasn’t watching. He’d never particularly wanted to mark anyone up before, but there was something unbearably good about the proof that he’d managed to move Hannibal, to make Hannibal feel that. It was overwhelming, the rush it gave him.

After dinner and an extremely cursory dog outing in the ongoing rain, Hannibal suggested a movie. It wasn’t typical for him; he would watch the occasional filmed opera, but was otherwise largely uninterested in television except insofar as it gave him the chance to stare at Will and Abigail. Will didn’t mind it; they were all getting what they wanted.

Tonight, however, Hannibal led the way to the couch. Abigail picked something artsy and Will handed out chews to the dogs. It should have felt mindless, banal. Instead, there was Hannibal with his jewel-bright bruise, his cashmere sweater and clean deep scent. There was Abigail, Zoe asleep on her toes. It didn’t feel banal at all, it felt profound.

A silent, pantomimed negotiation ended with Hannibal tucked up against Will’s chest. He was heavy, wonderfully so. It had the soporific effect of a weighted blanket, made even better by the feel of his slow breathing against Will’s sternum. His hair was tremendously soft and fine, brushing Will’s throat. Will wanted to stay there forever, capture the moment in amber.

Hannibal fell asleep halfway through the movie. His lips were parted against Will’s shirt, his brow gently furrowed. Will stroked a slow hand through his hair and watched him, the movie long forgotten. Something fragile was twisting inside his chest. His heart, it was his heart.

**

On their next morning walk, the knitting grandmothers delivered an invitation. Will had gotten around to asking about the sod roof, and Hannibal had already requested the recipes. After some consideration and time spent with Abigail, the grandmothers informed them today that both would be granted at the weekend. Also, there would be luncheon. They weren’t supposed to bring anything, although Will already knew that Hannibal would do it regardless. Hannibal accepted the invitation with great delight.

“How should a Faroese housewife dress?” Will mused, on their walk back. Abigail was off to the village with the grandmothers, her lengthening scarf in tow.

“Binary thinking is beneath you, Will,” Hannibal said, but he was smirking anyway. “And you have seen me in an apron, already.”

“I’d like to see you in only the apron,” Will said, patently ridiculous but also entirely true. It seemed better and better, the more he thought about it.

“Perhaps if you are very good,” Hannibal said, musingly.

“You don’t want me to be good,” Will said. “Try again.”

“Too true,” Hannibal amended. “Perhaps if you earn it, then.”

“Earn it,” Will repeated, barking out a laugh. “There’s not a second I spend thinking of anything other than you. How would you like me to earn it?”

Hannibal considered him, his expression entirely blank. “Clean the hearth,” he said, after a moment. “Help me with the gardening.”

“Huh,” Will said. They were almost back at the house now, their arms brushing companionably as they walked. “I really thought you were going to say something sexier.”

“You called me a housewife,” Hannibal pointed out. “Perhaps I am,” he enunciated the words, as American as he could get, “leaning in.” He did lean in then, punctuating the point. He kissed Will once, pulling away before Will could do anything about it. “And you always find me sexy.”

Will cleaned the hearth, and helped Hannibal with the gardening. He really couldn’t argue with any of the logic. Hannibal sucked him off in the greenhouse afterward, Will’s fingers digging into the potting soil. God, he really was sexy all the time.

They ate a cold lunch together, salami and cheeses with bits of fresh bread. Will felt like a teenager, the thrum of desire already heating his blood again. Hannibal hadn’t had an orgasm that afternoon, not yet. It seemed like a crime, which was an absurd thing to think given that they were both actual criminals now. It was no less true, for its absurdity.

Hannibal was eating with his hands, carefully curating each bite. He pressed a finished creation into Will’s palm now and then, a perfectly balanced morsel. Will savored each one, flavored with Hannibal’s regard. Hannibal was back in his usual uniform of tidy button-down and well tailored trousers, though he’d stripped off the waistcoat while they were gardening. His shirt was crisp, a pale blue check that made his skin particularly tawny. His collar was covering the bruise, a polite gesture toward the knitting grannies.

Will reached out, loosing the top button of Hannibal’s shirt. Hannibal made a soft noise but let him, displaying his neck to Will’s questing fingers. He made another noise, sharp with want, when Will found the bruise by touch.

Will’s blood was fizzing. He felt hot with desire again, with the need to undress Hannibal, to take him apart once more. He thought about the logistics, fingers still splayed over the bruise. He could tackle Hannibal right here, at the table. Hannibal would look very good splayed out on the tabletop, or against the island. His skin would be beautiful against the stone countertop. Maybe too cold, though. The couches were nearby, Will could back him up against one of those, or push him down on one of them, maybe. The shower was probably too small, but they could try--

“Whatever you are thinking,” Hannibal said, interrupting his reverie, “The lubricant is upstairs.”

“Fuck,” Will said. “You’re right, you’re very smart.”

“I have said many more intellectual things,” Hannibal said. Will ignored it, grabbing Hannibal by the hand. He dragged Hannibal up to the bedroom, stumbling on the stairs. They were a bundle of limbs, already twisted together, making out like total idiots who couldn’t wait five seconds to be near each other again. Will finally angled them through the bedroom doorway, hand tight in Hannibal’s hair. He pushed Hannibal down on the bed; Hannibal bounced on the mattress once, managing to look both entirely serene and very, very turned on. Will shook his head and swallowed a laugh. He worked Hannibal’s shirt off, then flattened a hand on Hannibal’s chest, ushering him down against the bed. Hannibal maneuvered obligingly for him, lifting his hips to shimmy out of his trousers. He was so powerfully built, it made Will’s mouth water.

“Did you have any plans for this afternoon?” Will asked, already eyeing Hannibal’s erection. He was thick, gorgeously formed, already a little damp at the tip.

“I am amenable to this plan, however it should proceed,” Hannibal said. He was watching Will avariciously, hands twisted in the bedsheets. Will hadn’t even done anything but breathe on him, yet.

“Here’s the plan,” Will said. He gazed up at Hannibal, taking off his glasses. It made Hannibal’s face go a bit blurry, but Will knew that Hannibal would like the effect, his own eyes wide and bare. Hannibal shifted against him, his cock jumping. Will bit back his smirk.

“I am very anxious to hear it,” Hannibal managed. His voice had gone low and gravelly.

“First,” Will said, “I taste you. “Then I’m going to open you up and fuck you. Any complaints?”

“None whatsoever,” Hannibal said, in a tone that was probably supposed to be gracious. It came across more like hunger, which Will rather liked. He ducked in close and licked the head of Hannibal’s cock, tasting him. He must have managed to go completely insane, because the flavor of Hannibal on his tongue was incomparably delicious, perfectly sharp and salty. Hannibal groaned, and Will let him in.

Will had never been fond of overly florid prose, but the thick, all-consuming weight of Hannibal upon his tongue felt like nothing short of salvation, worthy of all the overwrought poetry in the world. Will wanted to worship him, to cosset and keep him. He wanted to wring terrible, wonderful noises from Hannibal’s lips. He wanted Hannibal’s orgasms; he wanted to be responsible for them, to see and keep them. He wanted to make Hannibal scream.

He was already making noise. Hannibal was groaning, head thrown back into the pillow. His hips were still, not shoving his way into Will’s mouth, letting Will control the pace entirely. His thighs were trembling with the effort to contain himself, his face contorted.

Will pulled off for a moment, mouthing delicately at the head of Hannibal’s cock. “Sweetheart,” he said. His voice sounded wrecked; he loved that Hannibal could hear it. “You’re holding out on me.”

“I--” Hannibal said. His hips were moving now, tiny, helpless hitches. “I wouldn’t wish to be impolite.”

Will barked out a laugh, sharp and delighted. “Impolite,” he repeated, shaking his head. He mouthed it along the length of Hannibal’s straining cock, humming against the hot, slick skin.

“For me,” Will said, as sweetly as he knew how. “Just once, be a little rude.”

It was possible his moan was even louder than Hannibal’s, when Hannibal let himself thrust into Will’s mouth. Will couldn’t find the wherewithal to be embarrassed about it, not when Hannibal was making helpless, sweet noises, not when his hips were pressing him ever more deeply into Will’s throat. The strain of it was delectable, the ache in his jaw, the effortful quality of his breath.

“Will--” Hannibal panted. “Wait.” He was pulling back, shivering all over.

Will made an irritated noise, deep in his throat. “I’m not done with you,” he rasped.

“I hope not,” Hannibal said. He sounded wrecked, barely clinging to his English diction. “But I don’t want it to be over too soon. Please.”

Well, Hannibal saying please was probably the hottest thing Will had ever heard, so. He obliged, reaching for the lube. Hannibal opened up beautifully for him, making soft, sweet noises and pressing back against Will’s fingers. He was shuddering, hands fisted by his sides. It was the most powerful Will had ever felt.

Scratch that, it was even better making Hannibal’s eyes roll back in his head when Will found his prostate. Will drank up Hannibal’s noises, pressing up into the heat of his body. He felt a powerful urge to make Hannibal come just like this, writhing on his fingers. Time enough for that later, though. For now, he pulled back slowly, letting his fingers drag on Hannibal’s rim.

“Condom?” He asked. Hannibal looked up at him, chest heaving.

“I know both of our medical histories,” Hannibal said, because of course he did. “You don’t need to wear one.”

“Thank god,” Will said, and then he was sliding into the heat of Hannibal’s body, and he knew he would never be the same again.

It was unbearable. It was everything. It was too much to categorize, too much to fathom. Hannibal was all heat and tightness around him, thighs spread to make room for Will’s body. His palms were pressed into the bed, throat bared. He was glorious, sweat beading on his neck and at his hairline. He was biting down on his lip, helpless noises spilling out..

Will folded over him, replacing Hannibal’s teeth with his own. It was hard to call it a kiss, more a melding of their mouths, wet and open and perfect. Will swallowed Hannibal’s moans, echoed them himself. The heat of Hannibal’s body was incredible, all-consuming. Will’s hips were working, pressing in again and again, intoxicated by the slow drag of his cock inside Hannibal. He drew up on one arm, clasping at Hannibal’s thigh for leverage. There was something fascinating about learning Hannibal like this, making minute adjustments as he read the reactions in Hannibal’s body. He saw the precise moment when Hannibal’s abs contracted, telegraphing that he had hit Hannibal’s prostate just right. God, he felt so good; he loved making Hannibal feel so good. Will targeted the same angle with deep, slow thrusts, exalting in Hannibal’s shocked noises. It was relentless, driving, almost a subconscious need to keep moving, to be deeper. The catch of his cock against Hannibal’s rim was hypnotizing, so good it made Will bite down hard on his own lip.

Hannibal clearly felt the same, which was of great consolation. He was unraveling before Will, eyes very wide. His hips were jerking up into Will’s thrusts, taking him impossibly deeper. He was making soft, wanting noises, chest rising and falling rapidly. He scrabbled at Will, his nails scoring Will’s sides. He looked helpless, desperately needy. Will shuddered into the sting of his fingernails, the perfect sweet-sharp pain pushing him over the edge. He managed a few more thrusts before he was coming, Hannibal so tight and perfect around him.

Hannibal made a helpless, pained noise, clutching at Will when he tried to pull out. He was still viciously hard, straining with it.

“Hold on, baby,” Will found himself murmuring. What a ridiculous thing to call Hannibal, and yet Hannibal quelled beneath him, fine tremors running through him. “I’ve got you,” Will said, yet more incredible nonsense that he seemed to be saying without any oversight from his brain. “In my mouth, let me.” He slid down the length of Hannibal’s body, still reeling from his own orgasm.

He didn’t waste any time teasing, just swallowed Hannibal down. He had to still Hannibal’s hips to get a hand down to his ass and back inside him, savoring the heat and tightness around his fingers. Hannibal was dripping, slick with Will’s own come, so slick that Will’s fingers were able to glide easily inside him. What a thing to discover he was into; Will would be sure to feel some angst about that later.

Hannibal made a sound, helpless and tormented; Will’s attention snapped back to Hannibal’s face, and thank god for that. It was a gorgeous sight, gazing up at Hannibal through his eyelashes, the messy tangle of his hair. Hannibal came like it was wrenched out of him, salty and hot on Will’s tongue. Will closed his eyes and let his head fall back, savoring it all.

**

The light had changed in the bedroom. Will realized hazily that he must have drifted off. Hannibal was still beside him, but they were cleaned up now, and Hannibal’s forehead was tucked against Will’s neck. His eyes were closed, his breath soft and slow.

“Wore you out,” Will murmured.

“Mm,” Hannibal said sleepily. They were still naked, and there was something beautifully vulnerable about Hannibal like this, laid bare for Will’s gaze. Will traced his fingertips over Hannibal’s shoulder blade, down the length of his arm.

“Mm,” Hannibal said again. He burrowed in a little closer; his hair was an absolute mess. God, Will was going to keep him.

Hannibal was slow to wake again after that, soft and drowsy and pliant. Will settled him on the couch downstairs and made dinner, opting for simple and filling. He seared steaks and roasted potatoes, plating it all up just in time for Abigail to come home. Hannibal still looked contentedly tired and loose-limbed, but Abigail was happy to fill the space. She told them about the grandmas, their knitting and their gossip. Her Danish was improving rapidly.

“Eat your protein,” Will told Hannibal, leaning in close. He kissed Hannibal on the cheek, just because he could. Ridiculous; he’d never been so affectionate in his life. The little one-sided smirk Hannibal gave him was perfect, though. Totally worth the embarrassment. Hannibal ducked his head and ate his steak. Will watched him, full of bone-deep contentment.

**

Saturday morning dawned crisp and cold, the salt air a frigid tang against Will’s tongue. He dressed up warmly for their walk, then suffered to let Hannibal fuss over him for their afternoon outing, changing into a cabled woolen sweater at Hannibal’s pointed look. Abigail was happy and animated, excited to share with them her new community. They walked down to the village after breakfast, Hannibal bearing a loaf of bread and a bunch of fresh herbs from the greenhouse. Will had talked him down from several more elaborate options, which had led to Hannibal asking him pointed therapist questions about his discomfort with friendly gestures. It turned out that making out with Hannibal was a great way to get him to stop psychoanalyzing. Will was discovering a lot of wonderful things, lately.

Down in the village, Abigail led them to a cheery, red-painted cottage. Inside, the grandmothers were in wooden chairs pulled up beside the hearth, knitting needles clacking. It was pleasantly cluttered inside, smelling just a little of wool and strong tea.

Will found himself with a handful of husbands, ruddy-cheeked and curious. They seemed hesitant about him at first, but one of them had seen the Dufour, and Will competently answered enough questions about the boat to ease their minds considerably. There was enough English and broken Faroese between them all to string the bits of conversation together. They taught Will about maintaining the sod roof, then meandered into lure tying. It was a surprisingly nice way to pass an afternoon.

Dinner was a raucous affair. A huge table was pulled out into the center of the room, and platters were passed around brimming with cod and potatoes, slices of fermented meat, and Hannibal’s fresh bread. The grandmothers watched hawkishly as Abigail tried the fermented lamb, then the pilot whale. They looked very approving, afterward. She was seated in the middle of the grandmothers, so they were taking turns filling her plate, insisting she needed more food in order to keep warm for the walk home. Will looked on fondly, slouched in close to Hannibal’s side. He felt the pleasant weariness of an afternoon spent clambering about on the roof. The room was full up with chatter and good food, the warmth of the hearth and the closeness of family. Hannibal was drinking beer at the grandmothers’ urging, and would likely have been outraged to realize that he was becoming charmingly flushed. Oh, Will fucking loved him. He loved Hannibal, he did.

**

One of the greatest indignities of Will’s new life, or at least it ought to have felt so, was Hannibal’s insistence on dressing Will. It seemed to escalate after the visit to the grandmothers, taking on the dramatic scope of a pitched battle.

The first time Will woke to find a sweater neatly folded upon his dresser, he snorted and ignored it. Hannibal said nothing, though he did curl his lip a little at the flannel shirt Will had spite chosen. November had given way to December, the weather pristinely cold and blustery. He was very aware of what a logical choice the sweater would have been, but he couldn’t bring himself to become so malleable.

Will did wear the sweater the next day, because it looked very warm and soft, and because he thought he should probably offer Hannibal some positive reinforcement. Hannibal hadn’t complained or tried to hypnotize Will or anything; these things deserved a reward.

It turned out to be a reward for Will, too, though. No sooner did Hannibal catch sight of Will then he was dropping to his knees, tugging open Will’s trousers with eager hands.

“I don’t even care if this is a manipulation tactic,” Will said, already sinking into Hannibal’s throat. It was incredible how quickly he could get hard, when faced with the captivating sight of Hannibal Lector on his knees. “Fuck, is Abigail here?”

Hannibal drew his head back, and Will almost whimpered at the loss of sensation. “Out to the village, at the cafe,” Hannibal said, and reapplied himself to Will’s cock. His voice was already a little wrecked, husky and perfect. Will clutched at Hannibal’s hair and gave up on trying to be silent, letting his moans out freely.

Once he had recovered, Will toppled Hannibal to the floor and sucked him off too, which bizarrely felt like as much a treat for Will as it could possibly have been for Hannibal. Hannibal thunked his head hard against the planked floor when he came, his hips jerking up in Will’s hands. His lips were parted so beautifully, ecstasy inscribed across his features. Will watched him, all the way through it. Afterward, Will let himself ooze down bonelessly, forehead tucked against the ridge of Hannibal’s hip. They caught their breath together, panting as one.

It took a few minutes before Will was able to roll off of Hannibal, flopping down at his side. He reached out, palmed the underside of Hannibal’s skull. Hannibal lifted up for him willingly enough, head heavy in Will’s palm. “Did you hurt yourself?” Will asked. He still felt as though he was floating.

Hannibal glanced over at him, head rolling against Will’s hand. His hair felt wonderfully soft, strands of it catching between Will’s fingers. “Do you know,” Hannibal said wonderingly. “I genuinely can’t recall. It is of no consequence”

Will was laughing before he had quite decided to, and Hannibal was laughing with him, easy and delighted. “You’re incredible,” Will said wonderingly, staring incredulously at the ceiling. “You are, that’s what you are.”

“You must know that I feel the same about you,” Hannibal said gravely, though his lips were parted in what on ordinary mortals would have been called a grin. He was still ridiculously covered up, shirt and waistcoat and tie still on, though the button at his neck had come undone. More likely, Will had probably yanked it open. He liked baring Hannibal’s throat like that, so much so that the top button of Hannibal’s shirts had started to feel like a personal insult to Will. No insults right now, thankfully. Hannibal looked a vision, golden and majestic, felled by Will’s ministrations. Will loved him, terribly.

“Where are the dogs?” Will asked, a moment later. He’d forgotten in all of the orgasms and related activities, but it was surprising that they hadn’t come to investigate the commotion.

Hannibal tilted his head harder into Will’s palm, an entreaty if Will had ever witnessed one. He dug his fingers into Hannibal’s scalp, gratified by the sweet sound that Hannibal made as he leaned into it. “I hid kibble about the back garden,” Hannibal said. “They’re out there hunting it all down.”

Will rolled over and kissed him, fingers tangled in Hannibal’s hair. It was impossible to feel so strongly for a single human being; he felt as though he would burst. Hannibal kissed him back, open and easy and sweet.

After that, there were warm coats, elegantly cut. They appeared in various iterations of herringbone and twill, in a suspiciously perfect size for Will. Will tried to parcel them out, random interval reinforcement. Hannibal probably knew it, though he was also getting what he wanted and thus inclined to stay silent.

Will hit his limit when Hannibal tried to get rid of his old clothes.

It wasn’t particularly subtle. If he’d wanted to, Hannibal easily could have disposed of them without Will knowing. He could have thrown them off the bluff, or even gotten up early and taken them to the charity shop; he was often awake before Will. Instead, Will came in weary from a morning of fishing to find several of his admittedly more well-worn t-shirts folded up neatly in a trash bag. Several of his pairs of trousers were neatly collected underneath, stacked up with provoking tidiness. Will dropped the fish on the counter, pulse spiking. He seized the bag and stomped through the kitchen with it. He had the feeling he was being played, but he wasn’t entirely sure what the stakes were, yet. Hannibal hadn’t even tied off the bag.

“Hannibal,” Will growled, locating him in the lounge. Hannibal was at the piano, playing something light and fast. Will paused in the kitchen, seething.

Hannibal’s hands stilled upon the keyboard. He lifted them, turning around upon the piano bench to face Will. He glanced up blankly, as though he had absolutely no idea what Will was on about.

“You’re so--” Will started, frustrated. “You’re so vexing. You can’t throw away my clothes!”

“Come here, Will,” Hannibal said mildly, ignoring the argument at hand with irritating predictability. “I would like to vex you some more.”

Will couldn’t help his incredulous laugh. He rolled his eyes, but he was already crossing the room, for once tall enough to tower over Hannibal. Hannibal leaned back against the piano, watching Will. It was an obvious provocation, but whatever, sometimes obvious worked on Will. He kneed Hannibal’s thighs apart and stepped into his space, close enough that he could feel Hannibal’s breath coming fast and shallow. “Fine, go ahead and try it,” Will said. This negotiation was already well out of control. Might as well see what Hannibal was really after.

He was expecting Hannibal to kiss him. Instead, Hannibal brought his hands to his own throat, releasing the hated top button of his shirt. He waited a moment for Will’s reliable intake of breath. Will gave it to him, because fuck. A second button slipped free, then Hannibal was opening his waistcoat, fingers slow and sure.

“Yeah,” Will found himself murmuring. “Keep going.” Will’s clothes had been an obvious ploy, but for what exactly?

Hannibal made a low noise, deep in his throat. His fingers were slow and sure at the button of his trousers, lowering the zip. Will wondered vaguely whether or not this had been the original plan. Hannibal, for all his narcissism, wasn’t typically much of an exhibitionist. He was generally laser focused on Will, his own body almost an afterthought until Will forced him to feel it.

“Well,” Hannibal said archly. “I thought perhaps no clothes at all would be preferable to those hideous monstrosities you insist on wearing.” Hannibal leaned back against the piano, the line of his burgeoning erection tantalizingly displayed.

Ah, there it was. Hannibal wanted to get fucked, wanted Will irritated enough to do it very thoroughly. Of course he preferred this playacting to just asking for it like some kind of ordinary, vulnerable person. Well. Will wasn’t above it; his pulse was jumping already. He felt heady with it, his body already taking an interest. Fuck, maybe Hannibal had orchestrated this for Will as much as for himself. He supposed it didn’t matter, really.

“Go upstairs,” Will said, very evenly. “Take off everything. Don’t fold it.”

Hannibal gazed back at him, looking terribly serene. “Throw your old clothes into the hearth and burn them,” he replied, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

Will didn’t know if it was rage or delight welling up in him; maybe both. He felt almost painfully turned on, his blood thick with arousal and interest. What a stupid, pointless, fascinating game.

“The hell I will,” Will said calmly. “Upstairs. Naked. You.”

“If you won’t accommodate my simple request,” Hannibal said, “Then I suppose you will have to make me.” To anyone but Will he would have sounded entirely calm, but Will could hear the thread of anticipation, laced finely through it.

Hannibal probably didn’t want Will to be careful of his old wounds. Will was anyway, because he didn’t enjoy that kind of hurting, and because he knew that Hannibal would secretly be pleased by it, even if he could never admit it. Will was very precise with how he tackled Hannibal, his hand finding the base of Hannibal’s skull to shield it as they toppled off the piano bench, hitting the hearth rug with no small amount of force.

“Make you,” Will was mumbling, half to himself. He tore at Hannibal’s shirt, even though it was already hanging loose. Buttons came pinging off, skittering across the floor.

Hannibal fixed him with an absurdly smug expression, thighs tensing. Unfortunately for Hannibal, Will had come to be keenly aware of the way Hannibal moved, though admittedly it was mainly for lecherous reasons. It served him well in this context too, though; he sat down heavily over Hannibal’s thighs, subverting what would have been a very neat attempt at flipping them over. Hannibal struggled a little, hips working. He was fully hard now, his erection pressed mouthwateringly against the line of his briefs. There was a damp spot growing already, which was very good evidence that Hannibal wasn’t as subtle as he would have liked to be. His trousers were riding loose on his hips, revealing it all like an artful tableau.

“Yeah, okay,” Will said. “The hard way. Don’t you dare laugh at that pun.”

Hannibal eyed him, still struggling fitfully. Will rolled his eyes and wrestled Hannibal up to a seated position, considering his options before deciding on a tactic. He let himself go a little loose, as though the fall had shaken the aggravation out of him.

“Enough of this,” Will lied. He offered Hannibal a gentle hand, going for weary and bemused.

It was impossible to say if Hannibal believed him or not. He took the hand though, letting Will lever him back up. He looked like he was considering brushing off the seat of his trousers, but Will didn’t give him the opportunity. He used the leverage of their clasped hands to yank Hannibal around, one arm twisted behind his back. It wasn’t hard enough to dislocate, but it wasn’t gentle, either. He felt the delicate shudder run through Hannibal’s body very quickly, before Hannibal banished it.

“I said,” Will said firmly, directly into Hannibal’s ear. “Get upstairs.” He let the words come out steely, very sure of himself.

“And I said--,” Hannibal started.

“Yeah, I know,” Will cut him off. “Make you. Okay, baby.” He had no idea where either the confidence or the absurd pet names were coming from, but he figured he might as well use them while he had them. He shoved Hannibal in front of him, forcing him up the stairs. Hannibal struggled rather becomingly, until Will leaned in and bit the corded line of his neck. Hannibal made a sharp, helpless noise at that and went abruptly pliant. Will used the momentary respite to yank them up the final few stairs, kicking the bedroom door shut behind him. He pushed Hannibal hard in the direction of the bed, pouncing on him before Hannibal could do something stupid like, well, anything except lying there and letting Will strip him.

Will was quick and careless with Hannibal’s clothes, snatching at his trousers and briefs, his stupid silky socks. He was very briefly distracted by the smooth delicate arch of Hannibal’s foot in his palm, but shook his head clear of the distraction. It was clear that Hannibal needed something from him; it was written in his tense, wanting posture. Will intended to give it to him. He threw Hannibal’s clothes across the room, where they landed in a crumpled heap. Will grasped the back of Hannibal’s head, twisted his fingers into the soft hair there and gave it a yank.

“Do you see that?” Will said. His voice was coming out like molasses, thick and sweet. “Like I told you to do.”

“How extraordinarily rude,” Hannibal said breathlessly. “You should pick them up right now.”

Will made a sharp, outraged noise against Hannibal’s throat. He bit him there again, and then at the meat of his pectoral, relishing the way it made Hannibal’s hips snap up.

“I am going to fuck you,” Will said, “Until you lose all your vocabulary.” He was sloppy with the lube, droplets spattering over Hannibal’s stomach. He pressed one hand to Hannibal’s chest, holding him down as he slid the other hand tantalizingly close to Hannibal’s straining erection. He ignored it, grinning at Hannibal’s irritated noise. Then his slicked fingers were at Hannibal’s rim, teasing a little before pressing in hard and deep.

Hannibal made a shaky, helpless noise that Will wanted to eat directly off his lips, a desperate whine. He was pushing back against Will’s hand, trying to get him deeper still.

“I know,” Will said. His voice sounded almost unrecognizably dark and tender; he had no idea where it had come from. “You want it harder. You’re going to get it hard. Open up for me.”

Hannibal glared at him, head falling back. “Are you all talk?” he asked. He was probably going for bored, but he just sounded pissily turned on, hilariously so. Will didn’t really feel like laughing, though. He gave in to the whole messy tapestry of his emotions, irritation mixed with devotion and amusement, arousal and sharp want.

“All talk,” Will repeated, shaking his head. He slicked his cock as briskly as possible and lined up, pressing into the heat of Hannibal’s body in one smooth push. He had to pause there a moment to catch his breath, momentarily overwhelmed by the sharp sweet intimacy of their shared gasp. Hannibal’s lips were parted, his neck bared. The bite beside his nipple was still spit-slick; he looked gorgeously debauched.

Hannibal opened his eyes, which looked like a herculean effort. He managed to raise an eyebrow, panting hard. Still, when he spoke, it came out marvelously even. “Have you forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing?” Hannibal asked. Will felt the world fade away completely.

“The audacity,” Will grunted some time later, pressing bruises into Hannibal’s thighs. He was fucking in viciously, as deep as he could get. Hannibal was writhing beautifully, lips parted and wet.

“I think you like me audacious,” Hannibal panted, sounding smug. “I am, as ever, happy to oblige you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Will said. Hannibal felt so good, so tight and hot. The bed was creaking ominously, but Will couldn’t be bothered to care. It was insignificant in the face of Hannibal, spread out so sumptuously before him. Hannibal was pressing back against Will’s thrusts, nails digging into Will’s buttocks. His heels were hooked around Will’s calves, pulling him in harder. God, Hannibal was so greedy. Will fucking loved it.

“Come for me,” Will said, reaching out for Hannibal’s cock. It was so heavy against his palm, so thick and velvety. “Come because I said so.”

“Why don’t you make me?” Hannibal returned silkily, yet again. He looked as though he was getting extremely close, in spite of himself. Will had to admire his commitment to the bit. He could do that too, though.

“No,” Will said, twisting his wrist how he knew Hannibal liked it. “Do it just because I want you to.”

Hannibal let out a sharp, helpless noise as he came, looking more surprised about it than Will, even. Will glanced down, his hand a mess of come. He drew his palm to his lips and tasted it, relishing Hannibal’s shudder. He reached out, pressed his fingers to Hannibal’s parted lips. Hannibal made another savage, triumphant noise as he cleaned himself off of Will’s fingers, and Will was lost. It was like coming apart at the seams, his body helplessly seeking out the tight heat of Hannibal’s body on his fingers, his cock, everywhere. He came, hard.

Hannibal had come because Will had said he should, he remembered hazily. He tumbled down to pant against Hannibal’s collarbone, pulling out as gently as he could manage while mostly boneless. It was about as hard as Will had ever come in his life.

His senses returned gradually, but Will was loath to move. They were both filthy, dripping with sweat and lube and come. Eventually, Hannibal’s arms came up around Will, one big hand resting at the base of Will’s skull. Will timed his slowing breaths to Hannibal’s, watching the late afternoon light dappling over the sheets.

“We should see about the fish,” Hannibal said, some time later. He didn’t seem in any position to actually move, pinned as he was by all of Will’s various appendages. Nor would he have, even if he could, Will suspected. He had gone all drowsy and pliant, as he often did after sex. Will liked to think he was the only person who had ever seen Hannibal like this, so open and easy. He was very confident he was the only person who would henceforth.

“We should get cleaned up first,” Will said hopefully. He shifted atop Hannibal’s chest, aligning their bodies.

“The shower won’t suffer to hold the both of us,” Hannibal said. He was stroking his fingers through Will’s hair, soft and gentle. “It will have to be the bath.”

The bathtub was scarcely big enough for the two of them either, which Will felt entirely comfortable blaming on Hannibal’s broad shoulders. They ended up nestled in tightly, Will’s back to Hannibal’s front. Hannibal said he was certain he couldn’t go again, but he was also the one who started it again, mouthing at the back of Will’s neck. Will ended up scrambling around in Hannibal’s lap so Hannibal could take them both in hand, the bathwater rippling around them as they moved. Will came gasping nonsense against Hannibal’s jaw, and Hannibal followed soon after, his hand fisted tightly around the both of them. Will flattened himself on Hannibal and allowed himself to drift, his mind blessedly empty.

The water was cold and the dogs were making tragic noises of dramatic abandonment outside the door, by the time they had recovered enough to get out of the bath.

“The fish,” Hannibal said firmly, while they toweled off together. Will couldn’t help watching, distracted by the intricate, solid muscle of Hannibal’s thigh. “You are very optimistic,” Hannibal said dryly, catching him at it. “I’m afraid I am only mortal.”

“I’d like to put that to the test,” Will mused, stepping closer.

“Enticing,” Hannibal said. “After we prepare the fish.” He did kiss Will though, hard enough to show Will just how much he liked the idea.

Once dressed, Will trailed Hannibal down the stairs, ogling him some more just because he could.

“Gross,” Abigail said, catching him at it. She was on the couch, curled up with her book. “Aren’t you too old for this?”

“Well, Hannibal might be,” Will said, smirking.

“I invite you to consider where my hands were twenty minutes ago,” Hannibal said crisply, “And whether or not you would like me to put them there again.” He was putting on his apron, rolling up his shirtsleeves. Will wanted to lick his forearms, badly.

“Jesus, no,” Abigail said, squinching up her face.

“If you wish a reprieve,” Hannibal said, “Then come and help me with this seasoning.”

Abigail disentangled herself from her blankets, assorted dogs, and the couch, and ambled over to help. Will settled in at the island with his wine, watching Hannibal cook. The temptation to make a nuisance of himself was strong, but Abigail looked so happy, so at ease. Will let it be.

“You are acquiring your father’s propensity toward profanity,” Hannibal remarked idly. Will froze, glass halfway to his mouth.

Abigail just laughed. She was peeling potatoes, and her hands didn’t still for a moment, easy and relaxed. “Better than my other dad’s propensity toward pretentiousness,” she said, and shot a grin in Hannibal’s direction.

Will felt like he was watching a boxing match, eyes darting back and forth. Hannibal had been so kind with Abigail, so easy, ever since they’d gotten here. He’d never before seen Abigail do something that could be considered rude, though, even as a joke. Will hoped very desperately that Hannibal was not going to prove his instincts and, well, his hopes, wrong.

Hannibal leaned into Abigail’s side, very gently. “His gift for glib rejoinders is alive and well in you also,” Hannibal said. He glanced over his shoulder, fixing Will with an expression that, while, subtle, still felt remarkably warm.

Will let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. God. It was still sinking in, Abigail calling both of them her fathers, Hannibal bringing her here. He felt drunk on it, a warmth in his belly. Will put down his wineglass and bullied his way in between them by the cooktop, wrapping an arm around each of their waists.

“Ah, Will is lonely,” Hannibal said. He pressed a kiss to Will’s temple. Abigail smiled at him, meeting his eyes for a moment before returning to her task. Will squeezed them both closer, his heart ready to overflow.

“I’m not,” Will said, and was shocked to realize just how true it was. “I have my family right here.”

**

“Will you join me on a little excursion?” Hannibal asked, that weekend. Will frowned at him. It was bitter cold out, and he was in three pairs of woolen socks and had one of Hannibal’s sweaters on over his own flannel shirt.

“Why would we go out in this cold?” Will asked dubiously. They didn’t need groceries, or anything else that Will could think of.

“To select a Christmas present for Abigail,” Hannibal said, as though it should have been obvious. “I have a plan, but it requires your assistance.”

“What plan?” Will asked. He was shucking off excess socks already, though the sweater was going to have to stay. In addition to being warm, it smelled very nicely of Hannibal.

“Come along if you would like to find out,” Hannibal said, with an air of having just won a complicated chess match. Will was tempted to say no, just to be contrary, but curiosity about Abigail’s gift inevitably won out. Hannibal was of course very good at chess.

“Fine,” Will said. He tousled Hannibal’s hair, just to show him he wasn’t the boss of everything. Hannibal scowled at him, unusually expressive. Will smirked and hooked a finger around his belt, tugging him toward the door. “Come on, then. This was your idea.”

Hannibal obliged, reaching around Will to open the door. He tucked his nose for a moment against Will’s throat, breathing him in. “I like you in my clothes,” Hannibal said softly. “You smell of both of us.”

There were no words to describe the way that twisted up Will’s breath in his chest. He kissed Hannibal instead of trying to muddle any words together, which was a cop out, but a very pleasant one. Hannibal seemed to understand, anyway.

In the car, Hannibal opted to play something playful and lilting. Skalkottas, Will produced, from somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Spending so much time with Hannibal, coupled with his own idle habit of collecting knowledge, meant that he was really leveling up his ear for classical music. Hannibal tapped a finger in time with the recording, an uncharacteristic tell that Will felt charmed to witness. These tiny insights always felt like a gift.

Hannibal had left a blanket on the passenger seat for Will. Will considered pretending he was far too strong and manly for it, but what was the point? Hannibal would see through it anyway. He ended up bundled cozily in it, watching Hannibal drive. The music was just right, enough to quiet his thoughts, not so much that he needed to focus on it completely. Besides, there was Hannibal to focus on, and that was far more interesting indeed.

Hannibal was wearing a winter hat, which he always donned with an air of faint resignation. Even he hadn’t yet figured out a stylish and sophisticated alternative, for which Will was secretly glad. He liked it on Hannibal, the way it softened his features. God, he was becoming an unbearable sap. He really didn’t care.

They drove for over an hour, which was rather far for their new home. The islands were well connected by tunnels and bridges, meaning that almost nothing was more than half an hour apart. Will was glad for the longer drive, though. He was struck by the wild beauty of the landscape, of Hannibal in it. Hannibal looked like he had grown out of this place, just as unfathomable and terrifying and beautiful. Will leaned back against his blanket, Hannibal at one side and the ocean swelling at the other. He allowed himself to accept that maybe, just maybe, he might belong here too.

Will had very little hope that he could predict Hannibal’s choice of gift, so he had been prepared for almost anything. Somehow it was still a shock, though, pulling onto a pitted earthen farm lane. Hannibal smirked at him, eyes flitting over Will’s face. Will rolled his eyes and refused to ask what they were after. He would find out soon enough.

At the farmhouse, they were met by a plump, ruddy woman in wellingtons and practical dress. She led them to a warm barn, home to several hardy looking ponies and a Faroese sheepdog nursing a young litter. Hannibal was watching Will, looking terribly smug.

“Is this--?” Will gestured at the puppies.

“Indeed,” Hannibal said. “Abigail has shown a great interest in your companions. A dog of her own, who would always love her best. I think it would do her good.” He shifted closer, his arm brushing Will’s. “And you could teach her how to raise the creature,” he added. “I think she would like that, also.”

“That’s--” Will said. “That’s brilliant, Hannibal.”

Somehow Hannibal had managed to turn up the smug quotient even more. He smirked at Will, one hand catching on Will’s lapel. Will gazed up at him, helpless to look away.

“I brought you here to choose one,” Hannibal said, once the moment had gone sappy enough to please him. “We can retrieve it on Christmas Eve.”

“Right,” WIll said. He knelt to watch the puppies, noting the dynamics as they tumbled around together. After a few minutes he made his choice; she was confident without being overly bossy, playful with the rest of the pack. Will picked her up, a tiny ball of fluff that he could almost hold in one hand.

“Her,” he said.

Hannibal turned and addressed the farm woman with a stream of Danish, gesturing at the puppy who was now gently sleeping in the crook of Will’s elbow. Will stroked her gently between the ears. Abigail was going to be so happy. Surely Hannibal had to be able to feel a bond to Abigail, to both of them, if he was able to come up with something like this.

“I don’t suppose you will let me take you out for a good meal?” Hannibal asked. He was back at Will’s side, watching him cradle the puppy.

“What, tonight?” Will asked idly. The puppy was so small and soft, cuddled up sweetly.

“Yes, tonight,” Hannibal said. “Abigail has agreed to feed the dogs. There is a restaurant I would like to try in Torshavn, if you would consent to another drive. It can serve as our alibi, should Abigail ask where we went.”

Will tilted his head at Hannibal. “Sure, if you don’t try to dress me.”

Hannibal didn’t roll his eyes, but it looked like a near thing. “We can drive there directly,” he said, in lieu of whatever snarky thing he was probably thinking. Will tried not to grin, but it was no good. He returned the puppy to her mother, turning to take Hannibal’s arm.

“Okay,” he said. He looked at Hannibal through his lashes, wide-eyed. It was one of the most reliable ways to stir up Hannibal’s composure, which meant that Will liked to deploy it strategically. Now just felt like a reward, though, for Hannibal accepting him as he was. “Okay,” he said again, “Come on, husband, wine and dine me.”

“With great pleasure,” Hannibal said. He drew Will back to the car, tucking the blanket around him. Will suffered it, because he could see how much Hannibal liked it, how much he seemed to need to do something for Will. Contes de Hoffman was soft in the background as they drove; Hannibal must have been feeling whimsical.

Will let Hannibal order the ludicrously expensive tasting menu at the restaurant.

“I can tell you want the wine pairings,” Will said, eyeing Hannibal over the tastefully embossed menu. “It’s too bad we have to drive back tonight.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, like he thought this was an insultingly minor problem to solve. He tapped at his phone for a few moments, before looking up with a satisfied air. “Abigail is happy to tend to the dogs, and there is a hotel just across the street.”

Will pretended he needed to consider it. “Sure, what the hell,” he said, once he thought he’d made Hannibal wait long enough. “Book it. Order the wine.” It still felt unnerving and new, being so agreeable, but Will thought he might be able to get used to it.

By the time they had worked their way through the tasting menu and all of the associated wines, Will was pleasantly tired and just past tipsy, feeling delightfully loose and relaxed. He lolled against Hannibal’s shoulder as Hannibal finished their shared after-dinner brandy, breathing in the pleasant, subtle hint of Hannibal’s cologne. Hannibal had already paid, but could not be hurried out of the restaurant. He was watching Will fondly, his arm wrapped around Will’s shoulder. Will leaned into the warm pressure with a sigh.

“Mmph,” Will said against Hannibal’s neck. He adjusted slightly, tried again. “Are you going to take me to bed?”

Hannibal’s eyes widened just slightly. “Certainly, although you look--” He paused, gazing at Will. “--Tired.”

“Yeah,” Will said, “I’m not going to be up for doing any work.” He leaned in close to Hannibal’s ear, breathing the rest against his skin. “But you could fuck me.”

Hannibal’s hand tightened convulsively around Will’s bicep. Will smirked up at him lazily, letting his hair brush over Hannibal’s throat.

“I didn’t know you would want--” Hannibal started. He cut off, lips pursed, and dragged them both up. “We are going now.”

Will laughed, nearly tripping over his chair. “Stop at the car,” he said. He’d been aiming for commanding, but he was too mirthful to really sell it. Hannibal had him by the hand, and was tugging him out of the restaurant.

Fortunately the car was nearby, so Will was able to quickly locate and pocket the emergency lube from the glovebox. They’d only tried to have sex out in nature the one time, but it had been memorable enough that Hannibal had stocked the car for all future amorous endeavors. Will was feeling intensely grateful for it, right about now.

Evidently Will had spent more time on this extremely practical errand than Hannibal could bear. He had been tugging at Will’s hand all the while, but once Will had stepped back out of the passenger seat, Hannibal pushed him back against the side of the car, his fingers in Will’s hair. Hannibal kissed him, his body deliciously solid and warm against Will’s.

Will groaned into the kiss, pressing into the line of Hannibal’s body. “Come on,” he said, though he was still dropping kisses on Hannibal’s jaw. “Hotel. Bed.”

Hannibal ducked his head once, releasing Will with no small amount of reluctance. He looked fairly debauched already, his eyes dark and his hair falling over his forehead. Will resisted the very strong urge to make out with him some more, opting instead to tug them back toward the street. Hannibal led the way to the hotel and hurried through the check-in process, Will tucked closely under his arm.

Finally, there was a room with a bed and a door that locked. Will had no sooner closed the latch than Hannibal was on him, walking him toward the bed. He paused there, hands on Will’s waist.

“Are you certain you want this?” Hannibal asked. “It is not a requirement.”

Will never would have claimed to be sultry, but did he let himself go loose and pliant in a way that Hannibal seemed to like very much. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “You know my preferences, but--” He shrugged, looking up at Hannibal. “I want everything with you.” He passed a hand over Hannibal’s face, tracing the line of his cheekbone. “ It’s like, I like whiskey a lot,” he said. “But sometimes I just have a craving for tequila.”

Hannibal wrinkled his nose at that. Will laughed, unable to contain it. It was just so predictable. “Fine, not tequila, a very fancy wine. Whatever you want to be in this metaphor, it’s yours. Please fuck me.”

If Hannibal had been anyone else, he likely would have rolled his eyes. As it was he simply looked very unimpressed with Will. He had the lube out, though, and he was already hooking his fingers under the hem of Will’s shirt.

“Think I told you you had to do all the work,” Will said. He leaned back on the bed, getting comfortable.

“Gladly,” Hannibal said. He was slow and gentle as he undressed Will, fingers lingering over each button. Will thought about telling him to hurry up, but it was nice like this, arching into Hannibal’s palms as they slid over his skin. Hannibal had such fine, big hands, which was not something Will had ever noticed about anyone else in the universe. It was one of many things Hannibal had awakened in him, evidently.

“Turn over for me,” Hannibal said, startling Will out of his reverie.

“I want you like this,” Will countered. “I want to see you.”

“I agree entirely,” Hannibal said mildly. “But first I want you relaxed.”

“Oh, well then,” Will said. He shifted onto his belly, glancing back at Hannibal. “And now?”

Hannibal gave him a fond look, lips curving. “And now you relax.” He twisted a gentle hand in Will’s hair, urging him to lean forward into the pillows. His fingers slid down to Will’s shoulders, kneading in with beautifully firm pressure. Will made an embarrassing noise into the pillow, but he couldn’t find it in him to care, when Hannibal’s fingers were already busy drawing the tension out of his neck. Will had kind of thought that tension just permanently lived there. It was a revelation, honestly.

Hannibal, as was so often the case, would not be hurried. He was thorough with his massage, working out tension Will hadn’t even realized he was carrying. It was probably more than that, though. Hannibal liked touching him, liked learning his body. Will was typically only ever this pliable immediately after sex, when Hannibal was also loose-limbed and dazed with pleasure. Hannibal was likely seizing the moment to commit Will’s body to memory while he was in possession of all his faculties, which was, well. Maybe it was creepy. Maybe it was romantic. Will liked it either way.

“You’re going to put me to sleep,” WIll slurred into the pillow. “ ‘S too nice.”

“No such thing,” Hannibal said. “But I will endeavor to keep you awake.” He was kneading Will’s glutes now, thumbs digging in just right.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that his mouth followed soon after, but the first swipe of his tongue over Will’s hole still shocked him. Will made an embarrassingly high, wanting noise, hips bucking into the contact. Hannibal’s tongue swiped over him again and again, greedy and hot.

It was so immediately good, so slick and hot and god. Hannibal was making noises like he loved it too, like he was getting off just from eating Will out. Fuck. Will let out another terrible, embarrassing whine, shivering with want. Hannibal chuckled against his skin, a dark, pleased sound. He was working Will open on his tongue now, and Will was helpless to do anything but feel.

“Do you like this, then?” Hannibal asked mildly. He circled Will’s hole with a slicked fingertip, gently teasing.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Will said, pressing back against Hannibal’s finger. “Ahh, come on, Hannibal.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Hannibal said, because he was an asshole, and also predictable. Will rolled his eyes, which was satisfying even if Hannibal couldn’t see it. He probably sensed it, anyway. “Fine,” Will said, rolling his shoulders. He smirked at Hannibal’s sharp intake of breath, undulating slowly under Hannibal’s gaze. “Yeah, I like it. I like your mouth on me. I’ll probably like your fingers too, if I don’t die of old age before you get to it.”

“Well, if your life is at stake,” Hannibal said reasonably. His fingers felt perfect sliding into Will, first one and then a second, crooking just right.

Will shoved himself back against Hannibal’s hand, groaning extravagantly. “Fuck, more,” he said breathlessly. It was shockingly good, although he shouldn’t have been surprised. Sex with Hannibal was always like this: all-consumingly brilliant, overloading to the senses.

“When you are ready,” Hannibal said. He sounded like he was trying for an even tone, but his hips were hitching too, his erection dragging against the back of Will’s thigh.

“Yeah,” Will said, pressing back against him until Hannibal groaned. “I think I’m ready.”

“Just a little longer,” Hannibal said, and then his mouth was back on Will, his tongue licking in between his fingers. Will writhed into it, the sensation sharply electric upon his skin. He felt almost feverish, helpless with want.

“Please,” he panted out. “Come on, Hannibal, please.”

Hannibal sucked in a breath, something between shocked and pleased. “Of course,” he said. “You said you wanted to see me.”

“Yeah, yes, yes,” Will said. He rolled over clumsily, feeling like he had far too many limbs. The massage and subsequent prep had left him relaxed to the point of bonelessness, and controlling his body felt almost impossible.

Thankfully, Hannibal handled the rest. He was gentle as he spread Will’s legs, gentler than Will thought anybody had probably ever seen Hannibal. Will felt half insensate with arousal, but still the moment was strangely sweet. Hannibal looked unusually vulnerable like this, brow furrowed and lips parted. He was stroking Will’s thigh, reverently tender. He looked in awe, like this was something he hadn’t dreamed Will would allow.

Well, that was just ridiculous. “Come on, Hannibal,” Will found himself saying. “Inside me. I want you.”

“Will,” Hannibal bit out helplessly. “Please. Please, Will, say it again.”

Will groaned, transfixed by Hannibal’s wide-eyed gaze. “I want you, Hannibal. I want you, come on.”

“Will,” Hannibal said again, and there was far too much emotion to fit in such a tiny word. Will felt the slick head of his cock, and then Hannibal was pressing into him in one gorgeous, sinuous motion, cleaving Will open slow and perfect.

Will moaned, approximately half for Hannibal’s sake and half because it just felt so good. Hannibal had done a thorough job of prepping him, and the first push was uncomplicatedly wonderful, Hannibal’s cock gloriously thick and hot inside him. Will’s head was lolling against the pillows but he could do nothing about it, every iota of his awareness focused upon the sensation of Hannibal bottoming out inside him.

Hannibal made a sharp, shattered noise, staring down at Will. His features were helplessly open, his brow gorgeously furrowed. He was showing his teeth, which he almost never did; he must have been unaware of it.

Hannibal looked like some kind of old world forest creature, a Celtic god limned in moonlight and wreathed by ancient shadows or something. He was incandescent, far more than could be encompassed by mere personhood. The idea of being loved by such a man, by such a being; it was bigger than Will knew how to understand.

Hannibal made a noise, almost a whine. It jolted Will from his reverie, and he realized he’d gone still, awestruck by the sight and feel of Hannibal.

“Stay with me,” Hannibal panted out, hips working. His thrusts had gone deliciously slow and deep. “Be with me, Will.”

It was suddenly all Will cared about, making sure that Hannibal knew. “I am,” he said fervently, shivering into the pleasure of it. “I’m with you, I’m always with you. I’m here.” He was squeezing Hannibal’s forearm hard enough to bruise, his nails leaving deep crescents in their wake. He shuddered out a moan as Hannibal stilled deep inside him, pressing just right at his sweet spot. Hannibal toppled forward onto his forearms, groaning helplessly as Will thrust up against him, pulling him even deeper. Hannibal felt immense inside him, perfectly thick and hot.

“Will,” Hannibal said helplessly, half a moan. He looked undone, his self control in tatters. God, it felt so good to be the cause of that.

“Come for me,” Will said. “Come on, let go. Come for me, darling.”

“Oh,” Hannibal said, wonderingly, and then his whole body was spasming as he obeyed. His arms gave out abruptly, and he made a shocked little noise as he collapsed onto Will’s chest, fine tremors running through his frame. Will wrapped his arms around Hannibal and held him, relishing the sound of Hannibal’s slowing breath.

“That was very rude of me,” Hannibal said, a few minutes later. “What must you think of me?”

“I think you’re perfect,” Will said, too delighted to dissemble. “I did this to you.”

“You did indeed,” Hannibal allowed. He didn’t sound displeased about it. “And now I have recovered. Come here and let me see to you.”

“You’re on top of me,” Will pointed out logically, smirking up at Hannibal.

“Ah, so I am,” Hannibal said. Will huffed out a laugh and reached for Hannibal, drawing him into a kiss. He did want to come, but he also felt unbearably tender, delighted to have ruined Hannibal so thoroughly. He wanted to wrap Hannibal up and tuck him close, card his fingers through Hannibal’s hair and feel Hannibal’s breath against his neck. He wanted to fall asleep like that, too warm and not caring, tucked in tightly together.

Hannibal slid down Will’s front to gaze appreciatively at Will’s cock, licking over the head. Ah, Will wanted that too.

**

They drove back in the morning, Will curled up with his stupid cozy car blanket. He felt extraordinarily satiated, still drowsy from the comfort of his fulfilled desire to wrap Hannibal up in his arms. The weather was cold and foggy, giving the drive even more of a dreamlike quality. Hannibal was quiet beside him, occasionally looking over fondly as he drove.

Back at home, the dogs erupted in a cacophony of delight, Abigail padding out sleepily behind them. Will took a few laps with the pack, scooping Buster up in his arms. Inside, Hannibal had already set out the bowls, and Will watched the pack line up happily for their breakfast before turning to his own. Hannibal had kept it simple, some sort of baked french toast he must have assembled before they left. It smelled incredible coming out of the oven, laden with cardamom and clove. Will ate his breakfast slowly, watching Hannibal watch him. Hannibal was being unusually emotive, still flayed open from the previous night. It was making Will feel like plotting.

Hannibal probably assumed the harpsichord would serve as his Christmas present, if he thought about things like that at all. It should have been, if Will was a reasonable person. He was increasingly aware that he wasn’t reasonable, though. Certainly not where Hannibal was concerned.

Abigail helped him work out the details of the plan later that day, while Hannibal was out in the greenhouse. The grandmothers had invited them back for a holiday baking day, an apparently very involved affair. Abigail would bring Hannibal, and Will would decline, citing a weatherproofing project for the boat.

He was able to complete the necessary preparations over a shaky international telephone line the next day, and by the time the baking day arrived, Will had solidified the plan. He left by car first thing in the morning, carrying a list of hardware store supplies he’d left carelessly out on the kitchen island, near where Hannibal had prepared breakfast. The flight to Copenhagen was only two hours, though it took just as long again to clear airport security and find his way to the tiny watchmaker from whom he’d ordered Hannibal’s gift.

Thankfully, the clerk spoke excellent English. It was the work of a few moments to check the inscription on the fine, vintage wristwatch. It had been refurbished beautifully, restored with painstaking care. Will paid the exorbitant fee without flinching; most of their money was shared, but Will had never been particularly fond of banks, so they’d also laundered a sizeable sum of his own funds, kept for occasions just such as this one. Will returned to the airport in good time, and made it to the hardware store in Torshavn before it closed.

Back home, he started a pile of laundry that included the clothes he’d worn through the airport. He changed into work clothes and spent a good hour with a can of anti-fouling paint on the boat, letting the smell seep into his clothes. He was probably being ridiculous with the espionage, but, well. He thought Hannibal would like the surprise.

Afterward, Will showered thoroughly, leaving his work clothes in the bedroom hamper. By the time Abigail texted to warn of their arrival, he was holed up in the lounge with assorted pieces of trim for the harpsichord spread around him on the floor.

Hannibal crossed the lounge to brush a kiss over the top of Will’s head, bearing a precarious armload of parcels wrapped in butcher paper.

“We baked so much,” Abigail said, following closely behind. They both looked rosy and cheerful, cheeks pink from the cold evening air.

Will levered himself up and offered Abigail a one-armed hug. “Free labor,” he said. “Smart grandmas.” He glanced over at Hannibal, who had just stripped off his coat and scarf. He looked so gorgeously lean and buttoned up, dressed in a smart charcoal and burgundy tartan. Will wanted badly to drag him up to bed and unbutton everything, including Hannibal’s stupid self-composure.

He settled for fitting his palms to Hannibal’s face and kissing him, slow and lingering. It was usually Hannibal who initiated these small physical gestures, especially in proximity to Abigail. It felt nice to do this, though, sweetness overlaid with the ever-present frisson of desire. Will liked the way it made Hannibal breathe in sharply against his mouth, something between surprise and joy caught in his expression. Abigail huffed a laugh at them, but she sounded fond.

“Did they stuff you full of food?” Will asked. “I didn’t start dinner; I figured they’d feed you.”

“I can never eat again,” Abigail declared, throwing herself down on the couch in an excess of drama. “They just kept giving me more food!”

Hannibal chuckled, still gazing at Will. “They were most persistent,” he acknowledged. “Let me make something for you, Will. You worked all day and didn’t stop to eat, I think.”

“I ate,” Will said, largely out of habit. He considered for a moment. “Huh, I didn’t eat.”

“A shocking revelation,” Hannibal said dryly. “Come along.”

Will came along, following Hannibal to the kitchen. He winked at Abigail along the way, grinning at her obvious delight. So far, the Christmas surprise seemed intact.

**

Will completed the harpsichord just in time for Hannibal to host a holiday party. It was small by Hannibal’s standards, a concession to Will’s desire to remain low profile. All the knitting grandmothers came, though, a handful of befuddled spouses in tow. They brought and subsequently consumed a lot of local beer, leading to an increasingly impassioned series of Christmas carols accompanied by Hannibal on the piano. By the end of the evening everyone was staggering about contentedly, picking at the decimated remains of the Christmas roast. Hannibal had told everyone who would listen about how Will had built him the harpsichord, and then said it again to several people who were far too drunk to understand, leading to a bizarre pantomime that left Will laughing helplessly on the floor, surrounded by good-naturedly confused dogs.

“You’re drunk,” Will accused Hannibal, once everyone had cleared out. It had been a meandering affair getting them all out the door intact, and Will very much hoped no drunken husbands were going to fall asleep in the gorse on the path home. The grandmothers seemed very capable of wrangling them, though. “Abigail,” he said, flourishing dramatically. “Hannibal is drunk.

Hannibal gazed up at Will with an expression of wounded innocence. He was laid out artfully upon the couch, looking very much like a consumptive Victorian heroine but for his impressive physique. “Abigail,” he said, enunciating her name crisply. “Please tell Will that I am not drunk.”

“Wow,” Abigail said, cackling at them. “Are you both twelve? That explains a lot, actually.”

“I am not twelve,” Hannibal said imperiously. He paused, considering. “I am-- not twelve.”

Will cocked his head, looking down at Hannibal fondly. “Are you being vain or have you actually forgotten how old you are?” It was delightful to see Hannibal like this-- the grandmothers had plied him with a great deal of beer. Will was apparently categorized with the husbands, and so for once in his life wasn’t the one being cosseted and fed things. It had been delightful, watching Hannibal suffer the same treatment.

“Age,” Hannibal said, rather prissily, “Is commonly regarded by your culture to be a very rude topic of discussion.” He reached out a covetous hand and twisted it in Will’s shirt, dragging him closer. Will tumbled onto Hannibal with an indignant yelp. It was hard to mind, though, when Hannibal was warm and pliant beneath him, gazing up at him through his eyelashes.

“Huh,” Will said. He watched Hannibal softly for a moment. “Yep,” he said, and wrestled his way under Hannibal, twisting so Hannibal could loll back against his chest. “Yep, definitely drunk.”

“If I wished to have such an insipid argument, I certainly could,” Hannibal tried, though it didn’t seem like even he felt very convinced by it.

“Hush,” Will said. “Just enjoy it. I certainly am.”

Hannibal looked as though he wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or offended. He subsided into Will’s arms regardless, letting out a contented noise as Will wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s chest. Abigail wandered over with her tablet and snapped a photo of them, smirking down at it.

“Cute,” she said. Huh, yet another thing Will hadn’t thought to want. Yet another thing he had.

On the morning of Christmas eve, the first snow of the season began with almost magical timing. Will was halfway to believing Hannibal had machinated the weather; it was never wise to underestimate his abilities. It fell heavily, already starting to stick to the heather outside the house. Hannibal regarded it owlishly before retrieving his woolen coat.

“We must go before it worsens,” he said, gesturing at Will. “Come along.”

Will obliged, making sure the dogs were all accounted for before shrugging into his own coat. They took the trip slowly, Hannibal handling the car with easy confidence. It wasn’t bad yet, just a light dusting of snow upon the road. The air was thick with it though, giving a sense of twilight timelessness as they drove. Hannibal looked almost angelic framed by the snowfall outside the driver’s side window, his hair falling becomingly over his forehead. He was wearing a woolen sweater that Will suspected had been knit by one of the grandmothers, the collar of it peeking up from under his coat. Will brushed his fingers over it, relishing the soft sigh that Hannibal offered in return.

They retrieved the puppy without incident. Will cradled her to his chest on the return drive, snugged beneath the car blanket. He’d accepted that his was a life of Hannibal tucking warm blankets around him, cooking for him and worrying over his hands when he worked on the boat in the cold. It was infuriating, how much Will liked it all.

The puppy fell asleep on his chest, already a solid, even-tempered little thing. She made soft dreaming noises into his neck as Will gently petted her tiny furrowed brow.

“First Christmas,” Will remarked idly, his attention still on the puppy. Hannibal was watching the road and driving with a careful hand, snow crunching under the tires.

“First,” Hannibal said, thoughtfully. He didn’t elaborate, but Will still thought he understood.

There didn’t seem much point in trying to hide the puppy from Abigail, once they got home. The dogs reacted to the interloper on a spectrum ranging from befuddlement to joyous excitement, until Will finally called them off to go sit at their stations for a treat. Hannibal doled out lamb horns to each of them with a kingly air, his subjects paying him adoring obeisance before dashing off for a good chew. Abigail held the puppy close and gentle, watching it wonderingly as she stroked its tiny forehead.

“What should I call her?” She asked. She was speaking in a hushed tone, as though afraid to startle the puppy. Will had a strong suspicion the puppy was going to be unflappable, but the instinct was still good.

“That is for you to decide,” Hannibal said. He had a proprietary arm wrapped around Will’s shoulder, and was allowing himself an unusually casual pose, leaning under the lintel between the kitchen and dining room. Will slouched into him comfortably, snaking a hand into Hannibal’s back pocket. Hannibal raised an eyebrow, but shifted infinitesimally into the contact.

“I’ll help you with her,” Will said. “Anything you need to know. But she’s yours.”

“Mine,” Abigail repeated wonderingly. “She’s mine.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal said. “I imagine you will be too occupied to help with our Christmas dinner. Perhaps Will can indulge me instead.”

“I indulge you constantly,” Will said. He took Hannibal’s proffered apron though, slinging it over his head. Hannibal set him to chopping vegetables, moving around Will in the kitchen with their usual easy choreography. The snow was falling heavily outside, the daylight already fading into the long winter night of the north. Hannibal fiddled with the speakers and then a Chopin prelude offered a soft counterpoint to the rhythmic clack of knives and pans. Will drifted contentedly, accepting whatever small tasks and affections Hannibal offered him. He peeled potatoes, accepted an absurdly sentimental nuzzle to the forehead, and watched Abigail curl up on the couch with the puppy, feeling full up with warmth.

After dinner, they skipped the usual language study in favor of sprawling out in the lounge. Or at least, Will and Abigail sprawled. Hannibal sat at the harpsichord, playing something lengthy that contained a frivolous number of trills. It was clearly a self indulgence, something he enjoyed rather than something he was performing. Will watched him at it, joy filling up his chest to the bursting.

“I have a present for you,” Abigail said softly, once Hannibal had retired to the couch. They were tangled up warmly together under a blanket, Hannibal carding his fingers through Will’s hair.

“How thoughtful of you, Abigail,” Hannibal said.

“It’s nothing big,” Abigail said awkwardly. She retreated to her bedroom with the puppy in tow, emerging with a small parcel wrapped up in festive paper.

Will unwrapped it, revealing a framed photo of himself and Hannibal, curled up together on the couch. They were fully clothed, and yet there was something shockingly intimate about it, about the open wonder in both of their expressions. Will stared at it silently for a moment, unable to find any words that would express the way it made him feel.

“It’s stupid,” Abigail said, entirely misreading his reaction. “I just thought it would be nice to have family pictures.”

“It’s not stupid,” Will said fiercely. “I-- Yeah, I’m sorry. It’s really good. I love it.”

“As do I,” Hannibal said. He covered Will’s hand with his own. “It is a beautiful gesture. Thank you, Abigail.”

“Okay okay,” Abigail said. “It’s no big deal.” She was grinning though, looking happily down at the puppy in her arms.

Abigail went to bed early, taking the puppy with her. Will had walked her through the basics of housebreaking, and she was prepared to get up in the night to take the puppy out if needed. After she had gone, Hannibal followed Will up to the bedroom agreeably enough.

“I have a present for you, too.” Will said, once he had closed the door behind them.

Hannibal made an inquisitive face at him, cocking his head. “You built me a harpsichord,” Hannibal said, rather predictably.

“I did,” Will agreed. “And then I got you something else. I guess you’re spoiled now.”

Hannibal grimaced at him. Will laughed, increasingly delighted with the idea. “Everyone in the village thinks you’re my kept man,” he pointed out. “Baking bread while I’m out fishing. You’re my house husband.”

“I’ll thank you to never say that again,” Hannibal said, wrinkling his nose. “What a disturbing moniker.”

“Is that how you speak to your husband?” Will asked mildly.

“I already know that is how you speak to yours,” Hannibal countered. Will regarded him for a moment before dissolving into mirth, tugging Hannibal in by the hand. Hannibal stared at him flatly for a moment before relenting, the corners of his mouth quirking up.

“I love you,” Will said, abruptly stricken with the need for sincerity. “Let me give you your Christmas present.”

Hannibal waited obligingly as Will rummaged about in the closet, producing the gift. He’d stowed it there just before they’d left for the puppy, once Hannibal had finished dressing and was occupied with cooking breakfast. He placed it on top of Hannibal’s chest of drawers, stepping back to take in the effect.

It was a handsome inlaid wooden watch case, crafted from extra bits of mahogany he’d secreted away while building the harpsichord. The wristwatch he’d purchased in Copenhagen was nestled into the first compartment, leaving ample room for more.

Hannibal stepped forward, fingers grazing the overlay of the case’s lid. “This is beautiful,” he said, his voice hushed.

“I’m not going to be a creative gift giver,” Will said, watching him. “But I want to remind you every year that I’m staying. You gave us the gift of time, here. I’m going to give you regular reminders. I’m here. We’re here together. We’re going to be, for as long as we’re on this earth.”

“And beyond, if any of the theologians have it right,” Hannibal mused. His fingers were delicate on the clasp of the case, more delicate still as he lifted out the wristwatch.

“Abigail helped with the inscription,” Will said. Hannibal turned over the face of the watch to look at it, tracing it with a fingertip. The shop had done a good job with the fine filigree, making an artful tracery out of all three of their first initials.

“Conjoined,” Hannibal said, very softly. “This is very precious to me.”

“Well,” Will said, suddenly bashful. “Good.”

Hannibal turned to him, throat working as he swallowed. “I do wish to give you something also.”

“I think you’ve already given me everything I could want,” Will said, and found that he meant it. He couldn’t imagine any trinket that could improve his life beyond what it already encompassed. More to the point, he couldn’t imagine Hannibal making such a trite gesture.

“Indulge me,” Hannibal said. He was still speaking softly, warmly. He cradled the wristwatch in his palm, stroking absently over the inscription.

“Okay,” Will said. “What do you want to give me?”

“Only this,” Hannibal said. “I know you have wondered what I am capable of feeling, and how deeply.” He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. Will waited a breath, watching him. He had no idea what to make of the heat in his veins, the rush of his pulse.

Hannibal looked up at him, sighing again. “I never believed I would meet someone who would truly see me,” Hannibal said. “It was the work of many years to create my facade. I had almost forgotten how to speak openly.” He sighed again, uncharacteristically unpolished in his elocution. This, Will realized, was Hannibal speaking from the heart, unrehearsed.

“I know that my way of seeing the world has not always seemed to you fair or kind,” Hannibal said. He waved a hand at Will’s snort, hushing him. “I will not apologize for that, it would not be genuine.” He took Will’s hand very gently, lacing their fingers together. “I will, however, tell you that you are the most precious thing in the world to me. If you were to pull me off another cliff I would gladly go, so long as you were with me. I cannot imagine a life without you at my side. You hold my heart in my hands, and it is yours to do with as you please. In short, I love you. Please, do not ever doubt how much I love you. I will love you beyond breathing, beyond understanding or even imagining, for the rest of our lives.”

Hannibal cleared his throat. Will watched him helplessly, speechless. It seemed likely that they were both going to cry. “Well,” Hannibal said, uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “That is your gift: I am working to be honest with you. I admit, it is not a glamorous gift, but I hope you see it is genuine.”

“Hannibal,” Will breathed, swiping at his eyes. He grasped Hannibal by the wrist, pulling him close. “Come here, god. Come here, Hannibal.” He dragged Hannibal close, drawing his arms up around Hannibal’s neck.

“It’s the perfect gift,” Will whispered, against Hannibal’s lips. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Will,” Hannibal started, frowning.

“Nope, shut up,” Will said. “No philosophizing about that. Just make out with me.”

To his credit, Hannibal occasionally took the path of least resistance, too. They made out, cried a little, made out some more. That was perfect, too.

“I did also purchase you several bespoke suits,” Hannibal said later. They were curled up on top of the sheets, huddled to one corner to avoid the rather prodigious wet spot on the other side of the bed. Hannibal’s hair was mussed beyond repair, and Will felt as though he’d lost a number of brain cells during his very recent and very exemplary orgasm.

“How thoughtful,” he said dryly. He was stroking a hand over Hannibal’s stomach in total contrast to his tone of voice, gentle on his scars. He turned his head to the curve of Hannibal’s shoulder, dropping kisses into the dip of his collarbone.

“Very thoughtful indeed,” Hannibal said, “Considering it is really a gift for me.” He lifted Will’s chin in one big hand, leaning in to kiss him. “Yes, a very thoughtful gift,” Hannibal repeated, sounding smug. “I know exactly what to get me.”

Will rolled his eyes, trying ineffectually to contain his grin. “Not a great gift if I don’t actually wear them,” he pointed out. “Which I will, because I’m also very thoughtful.” He kissed the corner of Hannibal’s mouth, his cheekbone, the hinge of his jaw. “You can pick out an opera in Copenhagen. We’ll take the ferry over. You can even book an outrageously expensive hotel.”

Hannibal made a thoughtful noise, like he had just had a very interesting revelation. “We seem to be particularly good at marital compromise,” he said.

“I’ll show you martial compromise,” Will said. How was it that Hannibal brought this out in him, the capacity to be so silly, so happy? He shoved his way on top of Hannibal, sliding down to look contemplatively at Hannibal’s cock.

“Surely not again,” Hannibal said, but his hands were already in Will’s hair, gentle and sweet. He did come again, anyway, because marital compromise and also, because he was perfect.

Late that night, they wandered out to the bluff, bundled up in sweaters and pajamas, coats and scarves. The snow was still falling heavily, catching in Hannibal’s eyelashes and riming his hat. Will kissed him in the moonlight, the sea wind catching at his hair, the snow falling around them. Hannibal tasted of wine and salt water, sex and delight. He tasted of time, of the future.

“The teacup,” Hannibal whispered, against his lips. Will gazed out over the bluff, out to sea.

“Unshattered,” Will whispered back, a benediction. He took Hannibal by the hand, led him back to their home-- to their future.