Chapter Text
Cuba is seriously beautiful, Will thinks, as he steps out onto the veranda and surveys the leafy palms and patchwork fields that lay before him. After waking up, Will always gives himself ten minutes to take in the quiet of the morning. The humidity is a punch to the gut (he's still getting used to the climate), but the tranquility more than makes up for it. Will can see why Hannibal chose to bring them here to heal after their cliffside tumble. The change of scenery has been good for them. Will's nightmares have lessened considerably since leaving his old life behind. The nights of being haunted by stags with bloodied antlers and wendigos with sightless eyes have passed. Nowadays, it is usually Abigail who pays him a visit, every month or so. In his dreams, Will holds her as she convulses in his arms, crimson spilling over his hands as he tries and fails to keep her throat closed. Occasionally, it's slices of Beverley Katz instead. She taunts him with half a mouth:
Interpret the evidence.
Will has forgiven Hannibal his sins, but he cannot forget- just like the scars on his body which no longer hurt, but refuse to fade.
Will makes his way inside, scenting the tantalising aroma of breakfast. As he pads barefoot down the hall, he spots a patch of crumbling plaster, making a mental note to buy some filler. The humble villa in which they live is old and worn. The deceased owner’s daughter had been eager for a quick sale, as was the property agent, who gave their fake ID’s only a cursory glance before agreeing the deal. Granted, they were sophisticated fakes, matched by the sophistication of the money laundering operation that Hannibal engineered to pay for it. The killer's 'frozen' assets were filtered through a dozen offshore accounts set up years prior. In no time at all, he and Will had the keys to the kingdom and were crossing the threshold to their home.
Their home.
Theirs.
Christ alive.
Some days, Will has no idea how he ended up here. He is living with the world’s most prolific cannibal, in something worryingly akin to marital bliss.
Like all good partners do, they split the household tasks between them. Will’s domain is the outdoors, maintaining the land that came part and parcel with the villa. When he returns from a hard morning’s labour, scar-damaged shoulder aching, Hannibal is always ready to provide a much-needed massage. When there is no work to be done outside, Will looks to the mechanical, assembling appliances and undertaking repairs. Hannibal Lecter has no such interest in D.I.Y (although he owns plenty of hardware tools for… reasons). In contrast to Will, Hannibal owns the interior, forcing the building’s rustic charm to bend to his rich tastes in décor. The state-of-the-art kitchen (which Will spent hours fitting, thank you very much) remains his undisputed territory, but Hannibal enjoys the other man’s company at the cutting board. Often of an evening, when Will is sprawled out on the chaise-longue with a full belly and a Spanish phrasebook, the notes of a harpsichord fill the space they share, lulling him into a doze. Will keeps them functioning, but Hannibal makes them comfortable. It borders on absurd that Will Graham and “functioning”, and Hannibal Lecter and “comfortable”, could ever go together in a sentence… yet, somehow, here they are.
Will enters the kitchen and, sure enough, finds Hannibal already seated at the breakfast counter. He is still wearing his cashmere pyjamas, hair mussed from sleep, face bathed in the morning sunlight streaming through the window. The counter is set for two. Breakfast is egg and sausage, accompanied by a rack of toast and a steaming pot of coffee. Hannibal looks like he needs the caffeine, having stayed up all night composing into the early hours. His eyes are unfocussed, chewing mechanically on a slice of toast. Will stops and stares. He can count on one hand the number of times he has seen Hannibal in a state of disarray. Normally he is fully dressed by breakfast; trousers and shirt ironed, hair slicked, ready for their next skirmish. Will has only ever glimpsed the flesh and blood man that lurks behind the mask during life threatening situations, many of them directed by Will's own hand. Will wonders if this Hannibal, weary and content, is the same one that greeted Alana in the morning after a night of passion. He dismisses the thought. Whichever version of himself Hannibal let Alana see, Will is certain that it was just another person suit.
Hannibal catches him staring.
"Good morning Will. Does something about my appearance interest you?"
"I'm just surprised. I always thought that you wore a three-piece to sleep in your coffin," Will quips, sliding into the chair next to Hannibal and helping himself to sausage. He thinks it's pork. A smile flits across Hannibal's face as he prepares another slice of jam-on-toast.
"I am far too partial to garlic and steaks to make a good vampire. It is normally you who resembles the living dead in the morning, dear boy."
"Yeah well, that's what we are."
Since going over the cliff, the pair have become ghosts to the FBI; lurking spectres on Wanted lists that people claim to have seen, but never catch.
They'll see for real, soon enough, Will thinks. He nods in request to the open jar that Hannibal is holding.
"Pass the jam."
Hannibal does not comply. He sets the jar aside- out of reach- and turns to Will with butter knife brandished, slathered in strawberry jam. Will fights back a macabre laugh. Hannibal Lecter has pointed knives at him before, but they were somewhat sharper and certainly not sweet. Oh, how far they have come.
"I think you're forgetting the magic word, Will," Hannibal prompts. Will's eyebrows raise at the clearly flirtatious tone. It's far too early for the man's games. Will knows that the Hannibal loves it when he has no choice but to beg for help, even over the most menial things. It feeds his God-complex. Well, if Hannibal wants to play games, Will is ready to flip the board.
Will leans in and drags his tongue agonisingly slowly up the knife, tasting strawberry.
"Please."
It is clear that Hannibal wasn't expecting such a bold move. His face barely changes, but shock and delight dance behind his eyes. Coordination abandons him as he reaches for the jam and tries to set the knife down at the same time. He fumbles the knife in haste, and it falls to the tile floor with an ear-piercing clatter. Hannibal tenses and Will can tell that he is fuming at himself.
"Did I just disarm you, Doctor Lecter?"
"I am never disarmed, only occasionally distracted," Hannibal bites back.
Will detects genuine pain in his voice and immediately feels guilty. Will is under no illusions about Hannibal's feelings for him; knows just how to twist the man around his finger. Yet, despite almost a full year of cohabitation, Will still doesn't know his own feelings. Not clearly, anyway. Flirting with Hannibal comes easy to Will, surprisingly easy, considering he has never before been attracted to men. Yet, whenever Hannibal touches him, fingers brushing his cheek or tangling amongst his curly hair in passing, Will is not repelled. Quite the opposite, actually. Will often catches himself leaning into those small touches, before he remembers that this is not just a man he is engaging with; it is a monster in the shape of a man, that sees itself entirely separate and greater than 'the sheep' served at their table. Even with all the power of his overactive imagination, Will cannot picture a romance between them. Would there be sweeping gestures of bouquets and moonlit serenades on the veranda? Would they exchange dismembered bodies and beating hearts as anniversary gifts? Would sex be something reverent and gentle, or a primal, violent act?
What, exactly, does 'intimacy' mean in the eyes of Hannibal Lecter?
Will decides to change the topic.
"I'm going fishing later today. At two o'clock," he informs. Hannibal eyes him.
"You've been going a lot recently. Have you reeled in any fine specimens yet?"
"Not yet. But there's one I have my eye on."
"A big one?"
"No. Tiny, actually." Will smiles. "We swim in different waters, Hannibal. I'm happy to leave the big ones to you."
Any outsider would be bewildered by the conversation, but both Hannibal and Will are fluent in doublespeak. Neither are talking about actual fishing. In fact, Will is self-employed as a dog trainer. Money is no concern in their everyday lives, thanks to Hannibal’s aforementioned financial planning; their jobs fulfil an altogether darker need that they share.
Will picked dog training for three reasons:
1. Dogs. Enough said.
2. The pay is cash-in-hand, and therefore untraceable by law enforcement.
3. It gives him access to people’s homes.
Following the same logic, Hannibal opted for piano tutoring. Their jobs attract very different classes of clientele. Will’s pool is varied (men of all colours and creeds love dogs), whereas Hannibal’s is elitist. The two men have different tastes, and they cast their lures accordingly.
Two o’clock rolls around before Will knows it, and he sets off to his scheduled appointment. It’s a client that he’s been working with for the past two months. They have a particularly aggressive Alsatian, no doubt bred on a puppy-farm and subjected to abuse, which they naively purchased as a guard dog. Fortunately, Will has a talent for disarming dangerous actors.
Will drives slowly up the winding gravel path towards his destination, passing by rows of orange trees and sugarcane, until he spies the secluded farmhouse. Once parked, Will switches off the engine and gives his person suit the finishing touches. His ‘work clothes’ consist of casual jeans and rumpled shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. Will runs his hands through his hair a few times to make it extra messy, hiding the mark of affection left by Hannibal on his forehead. The nasty scar on his cheek inflicted by Dolarhyde’s knife is already concealed by layers of makeup. Will dons the spectacles that he keeps in the glove compartment, and the transformation is complete. He leans back in the car seat, taking a moment to close his eyes and imagine. No longer is he Will Graham, failed FBI profiler-come-cannibal courtesan. Now he is Peter Wilson, awkward-but-loveable dog trainer who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Will’s person suit is near-identical to his old self, just with a new name and more than a few new scars to hide.
He knocks on the door and is greeted by Señora Perez-Garcia. She is a petite woman in her late forties, with delicate features, doe-like dark eyes and corkscrew hair.
“Ah, Peter, welcome! As usual, you’re right on time.” She gives him a small hug and plants kisses on both cheeks. Will can't quite stop himself from tensing at her touch, but the Señora doesn't notice.
"It's good to see you again," he reciprocates in imperfect Spanish, as she ushers him in.
The farmhouse is traditional in style, decorated with handmade knick-knacks, and family photos displayed proudly on the wall. His client likes to talk and Will is glad to listen, filtering out the information from the noise. He learns that the Señora's two children are living away from home in Havana, studying at university, and her husband works long hours as a doctor at the local hospital. Often being alone in the house at night, she was concerned about security, hence why they bought a dog. Will has also spotted a sophisticated alarm system on the front door that could prove problematic.
One step at a time.
As he passes through the interior, Will spies the young woman he has been quietly keeping an eye on. She looks South-Asian, judging by her skin colour and long braid of jet-black hair. She’s young enough to be his daughter. Will feels a pang in his chest, thinking that Abigail would be about her age now, had she lived. The woman keeps her head down, dusting the ornaments on the mantlepiece. As she stretches, the sleeve of her dress rides up a couple of inches, and Will spies bruising on her wrist in the shape of fingers.
//I've told you what to wear. I've told you what (not) to say. You're a good girl; I trust you to hide all the terrible things I do to you. Keep your head down and do as you're told.\\
“Good afternoon," he tries with a friendly smile. She glances at him, nods politely, before returning to her work.
Will steps out through the glass patio doors and into the garden where the Alsatian is kept chained. The dog barks ferociously when he first appears, until Will bends down the dog’s eye-level, and recognition dawns.
“Hi Uno. Don't tell me you've forgotten me.”
Uno sits back on his haunches, and his growls cease. Will spends an hour training him with treats and toys. He is pleased that the dog is much calmer and attentive compared to when their training first started. Soon, Uno won’t recognise Will as a threat at all. The Señora watches him from inside for a bit through the glass. When his hour is up and Will returns to the house, she is simpering with gratitude, pressing his due pay and some extra pesos into his hand.
“Honestly, you’ve worked wonders with him. I really can’t thank you enough, Peter. Won’t you stay for a cup of coffee? I apologise that my husband can't join us. He's working the late shift again.”
Will glances to the kitchen where the quiet young woman is already boiling the kettle.
“That would be great, thank you.”
They sit down over a cup of café cubano and a plate of homemade torticas. The Señora tells him that it's an old family recipe, waiting anxiously for Will's opinion as he tastes the crumbly shortbread. It's deliciously sweet, but the atmosphere is soured by a sudden shattering noise. The young woman has dropped one of the espresso cups.
“Amara,” the Señora hisses, making the other flinch. She hastily gathers up the broken pieces, wincing as a jagged shard cuts her finger. “Silly girl, go and get the broom!”
The older woman looks to Will, exasperated.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I might have you train her too, one of these days.”
//I own you. Requests are for human beings; I give you commands. To me, you are no more than a dog.\\
Will smiles and dips his head in a deliberate show of awkwardness. In this moment, he is mild-mannered Peter Wilson. He will not rise to provocation.
“Oh, don’t worry, accidents happen,” he assures. The servant- Amara, Will reminds himself- returns soon after with the broom and begins sweeping up her mess. Will looks to the broken pieces. "You know, I might be able to glue it back together. I'm pretty good with these things," he offers. The young woman glances up at him from under her lashes, and jumps when their eyes meet. The Señora speaks in her stead.
"Really? Oh, that would be wonderful. This is some of my best china," she laments. Amara dutifully hands over the broken cup to Will in a plastic bag, not meeting his eyes.
After finishing up his coffee, Will bids the Señora and the young woman farewell. Hannibal is amused that night when he finds Will sitting at the table with superglue, meticulously piecing together the broken shards.
"That's an interesting fishing rod you have there, dear boy," he remarks, leaning over Will's shoulder to 'get a closer look'. He's so close that Will can feel his body heat.
"... I'm working, Hannibal."
One fixed teacup and four more appointments later, Amara finally speaks to Will.
He has not long arrived and is out in the garden, when the young woman steps out after him, holding a trowel and watering can. She fills the can and begins to tend to the flowerbed nearby, pruning the dead heads of flowers and turning over the earth to uproot the weeds. Will kneels to make himself smaller than her- nonthreatening- and makes Uno sit and wait patiently for a treat. He's pleased that the dog did not growl at him on arrival this time. It means that Uno finally sees him as one of 'the pack'. Now, if Will could only convince Amara of the same. He can sense the young woman watching him, but Will doesn’t want to scare her off by confronting her directly. He uses Uno to break the ice.
“He’s really improved, you know," he announces airily. "It won’t be long before you can take him on walks.” Amara says nothing in response. Will looks over at her and smiles. “I’m Peter, by the way.”
Her lips part for a moment, about to say something, but then she closes her mouth and goes back to gardening. Will refocuses on the dog, taking him through a series of commands. He can’t make it too obvious that he’s talking to the Señora's servant. After a couple of minutes, he tries again. This time he is direct.
“Are you staying quiet because you don’t want to talk, or because they told you not to?”
Amara suddenly becomes very still. Will risks another look at her. Her lips are pressed together to stop them trembling. Touch would be ill-received on both ends, so Will lets his words convey as much warmth that he can give.
“You’re a young woman, not a dog.”
A beat, and then:
“My name’s Amara.” Her words are murmured so quietly that they are almost stolen away by the breeze. Will lets out a small breath. It's a day of breakthroughs.
“Amara, be honest. Are you here because you want to be?”
“I came to this country to find work," she explains, viciously pulling up the weeds from the flowerbed. Will had guessed as much. Amara's fluency in Spanish far outstrips his, but she clearly wasn't born here. “The men at the agency told me they'd found me a position. They said it was good pay.”
“But they lied," Will states. The fight seems to leave her all at once, and Amara sits back on her ankles, closing her eyes and turning her face to the sky.
“I did what they told me to do. I got on a plane. A man was waiting for me when I landed, and then... somehow... I ended up here.”
Will can relate. He knows what it’s like to have your entire life thrown up in the air, and by the time you find your footing, you have no idea where you are or how you got there.
“Does the Señora have your passport?” he presses. Amara nods. “Does she pay you anything?”
“Pocket money. Enough to buy new clothes when I need them.” She gives him a rueful smile and then reaches for one of the plants, stroking the feathery leaves. “But it’s not all bad, I suppose.” Will follows her gaze, and dares to move a little closer, still scratching Uno behind the ears.
“You like flowers?”
“Yes.”
Will scans the colourful blooms on display. At Hannibal’s suggestion (read: an undeniable request disguised as a suggestion), Will had dug out a flowerbed at home. Hannibal had been choosy about the plants and given Will a lecture on their meanings, whilst the man himself sat back and watched Will do the dirty work of planting them in. Will wasn’t really interested at the time, but now he’s grateful for the lesson. He channels Hannibal's spirit, letting the Devil speak through him.
“Orange orchids,” he announces, spotting the proud blooms demanding attention. “They're a happy flower. They represent optimism and excitement. They can also mean boldness.”
“Do they?” Amara hums. Will’s eyes jump across to his next choice.
“Magnolia for perseverance… ah, and you have Strelitzias too. We call them 'Birds of Paradise' back home. Birds and flight go hand in hand. They're a symbol of freedom.”
“You really know a lot about flowers," Amara remarks, looking at him quizzically. “Are you a gardener too?”
“Ah, not really,” Will laughs, and the smile on his face is real this time. He glances down at the gold band on his left hand. “My er… wife taught me.”
He and Hannibal aren’t legally married, God forbid. Even if Will wanted to marry him (which he doesn't), it would be highly unwise, considering their status as fugitives. The rings merely serve as a handy deterrent. The two of them live together in darkness behind the veil. If anybody on the other side were to try and get close, things would become… complicated.
“You have a family? Lucky.” Amara smiles, but there is a sad quality to it. She is separated from her own family by miles of ocean. Will shakes his head.
“It wasn’t luck, Amara, we... struggled. Against each other, sometimes.” Amara doesn’t need to know that he and Hannibal’s domestic ‘struggles’ involved hit men, knives and saw blades. “It wasn’t exactly pretty, but perseverance paid off. We're free now." Free of Jack Crawford breathing down his neck, free of Alana's patronising, free of the skin suit of normalcy he had tried so desperately to squeeze into for so long. Will looks Amara in the eye. He speaks low and gentle. Convincing. “Sometimes in life, you have to be bold to get what you want.”
The young woman licks her lips, and glances back at the house. The Señora is thankfully nowhere to be seen.
“Are we still talking about flowers, Peter?"
Will straightens up and gives Uno one last stroke on the head. He doesn’t look at Amara, but he feels her staring at him, like she's trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle. Will can hear the unspoken question that hangs between them.
Who are you?
Instead of answering, he poses his own.
“Do you know the access code to the front door?”
Amara swallows.
“Yes?”
Will’s lips twist into a bitter smile.
//I'm not worried that you might run away. With no passport or money, where would you go?\\
“Can you leave it open at eleven tonight?”
By now, Will has built up a picture of the family's routine. Tonight, the Señor is working the early shift at the hospital, and will be home in time for dinner. Everybody will be present and accounted for.
“…Yes.”
“Good. Make sure it is.” Will checks his watch, takes off his glasses and slips them into his pocket. His hour is up, and Will's person suit is itching him. He leaves Amara with a parting promise:
“My wife and I will do the rest.”