Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Shh, it’s alright,” Hannibal murmured “You’re doing beautifully and I’m so proud of you. But that’s enough now. It was cruel of them to make you fight me- you could never have won. It’s not your fault.”

Tears skittered down Will Graham’s cheeks. Hannibal’s left hand moved upwards, cupping his face gently, soothing Will’s panicked intake of breath. Will stood ever so close to Hannibal, he could smell the blood ( Jack’s blood, some part of him warned) that caked Hannibal’s shirt, face, and knuckles that skimmed ever so delicately over his face. In the distance, through what sounded like rushing water, Will could just make out the sobbing heaves of breath that came from Abigail Hobbs. But whatever shock had overcome him when he saw her, alive and well, and most of all real ( Just like I imagined her so many times), had disappeared when he saw Hannibal. Out of the corner of Will’s eye he could see the glittering silver knife in Hannibal’s other hand. ( Like a claw ) . But he ignored it. 

Will surged forward, one hand clasping around the side of Hannibal’s neck, the other gripping, hard and fast, the man’s right hand, holding the knife in place, as Will pressed his lips to Hannibal’s mouth.

Hannibal pushed against the force of Will’s body, his own taught and ready for fight, unsuspecting of Will Graham’s true intention. Lips meet his, harsh and brutal and fast. And he finally understood. He finally understood why Will Graham had insisted on playing such intricate games. Had insisted on playing such a damning role. Hannibal had thought that Will knew what he felt toward Hannibal; was certain he knew what the other man wanted. But Hannibal hadn’t. No wonder Will Graham had changed his mind, and decided to save him. Will had finally admitted his own desires to himself, and therefore to Hannibal. In those precious moments that Will’s lips were on his, Hannibal understood. And all too soon the pressure ceased.

This time it was Hannibal who pressed forward, Hannibal who pressed his lips gently on Will Graham’s salty-teared-mouth.

The knife clattered to the floor, loud and harsh, but dim to the two men who stood, embracing in the steel-darkened kitchen, breathing new life into each other. 

It wasn’t until they became aware of Abigail’s shocked and relieved laughter, that they pulled apart. (But only slightly).

Chapter Text

My name is Will Graham. I’m on an international flight to Italy, somewhere over the Atlantic ocean. It is 6:13 EST . 

The thought played on repeat through Will Graham’s head. He glanced at his two companions. Beside him, to his left sat Abigail, still asleep. To his right was Hannibal, very much awake, and very much looking right back at him. Will wanted to say something clever, something poetic. The words quivered on his lips for a moment, before melting back, sinking down his throat with a swallow.

“Hi.” Was what he said instead, and bit his tongue in frustration. 

“Hello.” Hannibal answered slowly and with complete sincerity. 

The airplane was mostly quiet; only the deep thrum of engines, and the occasional murmuring from the few passengers who were awake. 

“We really need to talk.” 

“I agree.”

Will tried to manage a smile, but it was abruptly cut short by a yawn.

"Sleep now, Will. You are still quite tired." Hannibal murmured. His voice was full of affection and tenderness. Will felt something sharp within himself; the burn of unshed tears. Not for the first time, he found himself unable to differentiate his emotions from Hannibal's. Despite the painful feeling Will couldn't help but relish in it. It was not the hurt of a knife or bullet, but the agony of relief. Is this what love feels like?  

Will slipped beneath the surface of sleep.

Will awoke with a start, feeling Hannibal's hand on his arm.

"We're about to land, Will." 

Will nodded, righting his seat. He rubbed his hands over his face, through his hair, pulling, trying to get his blood moving. Hannibal offered him a bottle of water.

"You should drink; you are, doubtless, dehydrated; Airplanes are notoriously arid."

Will nodded again, mutely, and took the proffered water.

He felt dazed. Not in the same way when he had encephalitis, but he was feeling a little directionless. Will was only vaguely aware of them disembarking from the plane, making their way to a cab. Did Hannibal drug me?

Hannibal led Abigail and him up the sidewalk and into a decently-sized flat.

"Did you drug me?" Will asked.

"No, Will."

"I'm pretty sure you drugged me." 

"I imagine it's your body's reaction to the stressful situations you've been in. You finally feel safe."

Will snorted. Safe. 

Abigail was looking around the apartment.

"It's lovely."

Hannibal smiled.

"Why don't you find your room and get settled in." His voice was tender but it was not a question. Abigail smiled.

"Ok." And turned on her heel.

Will set down his bag. 

"Will they find us here?"

"Not for a while. We shall have to keep moving for some time. For now we are safe." Hannibal reassured him.

Will walked slowly around the living room. It was definitely an expensive flat, but he doubted Hannibal would have risked it if it endangered them. 

Hannibal had made his way to the connected kitchen. It was quite smaller than his one in Baltimore, but it would make do. Will moved to the bar-counter that overlooked the kitchen. He sideled onto the chair. 

“What are you making.”
Hannibal opened one of the cupboards and pulled a few cans of canned soup. The edges of Will’s eyes crinkled with amusement. 

“Canned soup?”

“It is necessary that you get some nutrition, no matter how unappetizing it may be to me.”

Will watched distractedly as Hannibal prepared the soup. He started when Hannibal met his gaze.

“Tell me, Will; when did you realize you had romantic feelings towards me.”

“Um. I don’t- I. I’m not sure, exactly.”

“It was gradual.”
“Yeah.” Will nodded. “When did you- do you have feelings for me?”

Hannibal’s face remained almost impassive. Many would have not even noticed the small quirk of his lips like Will did.

“The first moment I met you, I knew that you were capable of understanding me. And in that moment I knew that I wanted to know you better.”

Will broke eye contact.

“And then you decided to blame me for your own crimes.” He accused, numbly.

Hannibal set his spoon down.

“I do not regret many things in my life, Will. Let me assure you, incriminating you is one of my deepest.”

Will turned his head away.

“Yet you still won’t say ‘I’m sorry’.”

“I am sorry, Will. I know my apology, in and of itself, does not repair all the hurts have caused you, but I do hope that you know I am sincere. I have no desire to hurt you anymore, Will. Unless you ask it of me.”

Will met Hannibal’s gaze. 

“Thank you, Hannibal.”

Hannibal had moved near to Will, while talking, and now he stood next to the tall chair Will sat upon. Will could feel his pulse beat through his fingertips. Hannibal brought his hand to Will’s face, and traced his cheekbone with a thumb. Will knew what he intended to do.

“No.”

The word rang quietly through the still air. Will turned his head out of Hannibal’s gentle grasp. Out of the corner of his eye, Will could see that Hannibal lowered his hand. He looked back to the older man.

“I know I feel something for you, but I-- I need time.” And he reached instead for Hannibal’s hand, grasping it firm in his own.

“I understand, Will. I will be happy to be with you in any manner you wish. I do not wish to hurt you, ever.”

“I know.”

They were staring into each other’s eyes, feeling the connection that surged between them. Hannibal was sure that if this was all he was allowed of Will, it would not matter to him. The bond they shared was deeper than any primal urge written in their blood; it was engraved into their minds.