rhymeswithcannibal | Until we get a real season 4...

"Does it sit at the edge of your mind, the danger that every compromise brings you closer to becoming less yourself?" Will straightened, then, leaned forward. He watched Hannibal's face without making eye contact, gaze shifting from the muscles around Hannibal's eyes to the set of Hannibal's forehead, then down to how he held his mouth, whatever was visible around the facial hair.

"Is that why we will allow each other our lingering conflicted agendas? Your attempts to stage scenarios where the death of a person becomes necessary and my attempts to keep it from happening?" Will tipped his head to the side, slightly, still watching Hannibal's face for the shift of any micro expressions that Hannibal might betray.

He knew Hannibal needed no such excuse to justify anything to himself, but to try and justify something to Will without invoking Will's ire? Or to evoke Will's ire.

Will's leaning forward resulted in an inappropriate tangential thought: what would happen if he slid off the seat onto his knees in front of Will and caught him by the nape to kiss him? It was a fleeting question - one accompanied by the imagined feel of Will stiffening under the grip of his fingers and the taste of his mouth, tart with wine and sharp with surprise, before Will pulled away.

Too soon.

A rare impatience pulled the corners of his mouth down before he dismissed the imagining to focus on the present. The frown dissipated into a hint of amusement. "What would you do if, before the entree had even been served, I gave a dinner guest an admittedly impulsive ice pick lobotomy?"

Will would consider the act an attempt from Hannibal to avoid the topic or end the conversation on his own terms. He would stiffen, yes, eventually pull away. Though not before sinking teeth into Hannibal's soft lower lip, seeking to draw blood. On second thought, would that be considered punishment or foreplay?

He caught that impatient downturn at the corners of Hannibal's mouth, though before he chase the meaning in his mind, he was frowning at Hannibal's question. The exhale was just a moment short of long suffering, "I would hope the guest didn't have any communicable diseases. For your sake." That ice pick would find itself lodged in Hannibal.

Edited 2017-05-31 03:21 (UTC)

Both. Definitely both. Though physical intimacy was something Hannibal would rather see Will initiate for the not-at-all-simple fact that any hint that Hannibal wasn't respecting Will's physical boundaries could end with Will dumping Hannibal's organs over the side like those of a gutted fish.

Or vice versa. Either option was a suboptimal outcome.

His hint of amusement dissolved into a soft chuckle. "I will remember to curb my impulses when we don't have access to antibiotics." He wasn't even going to pretend to chagrin. "My point, circuitous though it may be, is that our clashes will keep us from drifting into each other and being lost. Unlike Bedelia, you understand that I will not be gently coerced like an errant child."

And manipulating his weak spots could just result in his holding a grudge.

If Will thought Hannibal's attempts at physical intimacy were for anything less than the pleasure of it, Will would chum the Atlantic with Hannibal's innards and only a modest sense of regret for what might have been. He had a sense of his own attraction to Hannibal, mentally as well as sexually. And like something of a hypocrite was enjoying the way Hannibal responded to the smallest of physical gestures, even if some of them ended in pain. At least he was not wholly uncertain where Hannibal stood on the subject?

One corner of his mouth turned up wryly at the sound and at the content that drew such faint amusement. "Will that become a prerequisite for dinner parties? Wine, cheese, antibiotics?"

Will closed his eyes for a long second, then opened them. "You don't consider it poor dinner etiquette to lobotomize guests with an ice pick at the table?" He had absolutely no doubts that this was a scenario that had happened during Hannibal's Florentine spree.

Hannibal's grudges proved deadly, or near enough so.

Will preferred the swift and direct method he had started in the cabin. The results were adequate for the moment and he could adjust as this arrangement continued. Hannibal felt and bled Will's displeasure immediately and Will would not have to hold a grudge after the initial punishment.

Hannibal could give seminars on the merits of delayed gratification and on appreciating subtle pleasures like the brush of fingertips on the back of his hand. Even with the "corrections" that Will imposed, a touch was worthy of appreciation when all he had to do was remember that without Will's choices, they would still be separated by glass and the only human touches Hannibal would ever have would be those of the orderlies strapping him into straitjacket and mask before wheeling him on a cart to whatever location other people chose for him.

What was pain in the face of indignity?

"Will we be having dinner parties?" Hannibal asked innocently. "If so, I'll endeavor not to invite someone rude enough to incite me to such impulsive actions."

It hadn't escaped Hannibal's notice that Will's penchant for immediate response to behaviors he considered unacceptable bore some resemblance to basic tenets of dog training, although he knew for a fact that Will would never cause his dogs pain to train them.

If Will made the mistake of thinking that causing Hannibal pain was actually training him, Hannibal would take his turn to correct Will. He behaved because he chose to, because what he wanted was best achieved by choosing his battles strategically, and because he was intrigued by this side of Will. He'd only seen it hinted at before and he was coaxing Will into the light where he could better see the changes he was undergoing.

Deserved pain and only given when misbehavior necessitated correction! If pain was an acceptable substitution for indignity, then Hannibal could consider the reduction of both if he practiced self restraint. It would also help ebb that small curiosity in Will that wondered just how far Hannibal would let himself be corrected, if the trespass merited something more than had already been delivered so far. Will was not one for inequity of correction to behavior, it was more of a thought that flitted like a bird in the dark, wings beating lightly against closed windows. Present, but able to be ignored.

"Unless you prefer complete isolation to help curb your impulsivity?" Will asked, also innocently.

Hannibal was a different beast. Dogs responded to pain and the physical correction of their behaviors with fear and resentment, Will used rewards to enforce good behavior and the withholding of rewards to modify bad. He was expanding on the method for Hannibal's sake, since he responded better to that immediate physical correlation of pain with Will's displeasure.

If Will knew, he would be somewhat curious at the method of correction Hannibal would use. Still, Will did not consider what he was doing training. He was outlining, in flesh and blood, the things that caused him personal displeasure and the things that he considered jeopardizing to their safety and freedom.

"I know complete isolation, Will, and sharing a home with you is not that."

Nor had complete isolation curbed all of Hannibal's impulsivity, or perhaps Jack would have had both of Frederick's lips for his evidence bag instead of just one.

The pot of honeyed figs hissed for his attention and Hannibal set his glass aside to return to the galley, turning down the heat and adding another pot to the stove into which he could stir in wine and sugar and leave the mixture to boil.

"Rest assured that it isn't my intention to ruin a good thing so quickly. When we have opportunity to entertain guests, they will leave no worse for wear." It wasn't the concession that he made it out to be. Outside of his self-destructive spiral in Florence, he'd made a point of not hunting too close to home whenever possible.

He wanted to be free to create spectacles, even if only for an audience of one, but he'd been indulged with two deaths in recent days and he had other indulgences close at hand to keep him from getting restless already.

Hannibal's words were met with one sharp nod and contemplative silence.

Will considered Hannibal's eating of Chilton's lip less an act of impulsivity and more an attempted exertion of control in a setting where control was strictly limited to him.

"It's only neighborly to entertain," Will said in an absent manner. "Social acceptance can be a shell against suspicion even while inviting it." It was still a splinter under the skin the reminder of how Hannibal deftly navigated past accusation for so long when it had clung and stuck like wet silk to Will. Which led him to think of Beverly and other things he had put aside to move on.

Will rose to top off his glass of wine, he didn't intend to drink more after the second pour, he wanted to be clear headed to drive, if necessary. He poured to rival any sommelier, no muscle memory of the motion, but each gesture ingrained in his memory from the many and various times he'd seen Hannibal pour. The gesture had been lost for those years Hannibal was in the BSHCI owing to Will's personal taste for hard liquor and Molly's preference for all wines boxed. At the time, that had been a relief.

This time those spectacles could be privately enjoyed to the fullest extent, no case or FBI between them.

It had been delightful was what it had been. Hannibal had enjoyed everything about the situation, even when it had landed him in restraints. How could he not?

Learning how to present the appearance of being "one of us," whomever that us might be, was a skill that had served Hannibal well. He might doubt Will's ability to prevaricate so thoroughly, but he'd seen exactly how well Will could lie.

"Our story of Aleksey and his friend and crew member is going to be complicated by hosting dinner parties." He drifted over to stand near Will, offering his glass for a refill after Will had topped off his own glass. Will's ease with pouring caught his attention, sent a train of thought meandering after the skill's origin. He knew Will's tastes and he also didn't see Will marrying a woman whose behaviors might stir thoughts of Hannibal. He would wager that the semi-widowed Mrs. Graham didn't have expensive tastes.

"How do you propose we reconcile that with guests?"

Consuming Frederick Chilton's severed lips and the word 'delightful' did not have the same cohesion in Will's mind as they apparently did in Hannibal's mind. If Will were to attempt to mentally salvage anything from the situation, it would be Hannibal's courtesy in only eating one and leaving the other for evidence.

Will's empathy came with the fortunate, or unfortunate, side effect of appropriating mannerisms on occasion. The observation and assimilation could be mindfully done or subconscious, the wine pouring a gesture of the mindfulness of his having adapted what he learned from Hannibal and displaying it.

When Hannibal approached, Will filled Hannibal's glass with the same deft ease and set the bottle aside. He leaned close into Hannibal's personal space and said with an air of conspiracy, "I never said I would be attending." Then clinked his glass lightly against Hannibal's before he taking a sip.

Framing it as a courtesy was generous. Jack and Alana and especially Will had needed to see the consequences of Will's choice to signal Frederick as a pet, a lapdog. Jack and Alana's reactions hadn't been on anywhere near the same scale of importance as Will's.

He breathed in when Will leaned close, not sniffing but still appreciating. That appreciation overlay the flicker of - what? disappointment? - emotion that his words pricked. Not attend? How was that an option? He slid that aside for future consideration. If he decided that attendance wasn't optional, he'd just have to engineer the situation to make Will want to attend, even if it was only to ride herd on Hannibal.

With that he sipped his wine, barely smiling for another potential game. "I understand. I wouldn't want you to spend the evening not enjoying yourself."

Will saw the consequences first hand, smelled the consequences in the thick, charred-meat scent that lingered in the back of his throat when seeing Chilton in the burn ward. His horror at the Frederick was muted, like the dull echo of a gong struck from another room. Distant. He hadn't really processed whether the reaction was for the consequence of his curiosity or for the lack of socially acceptable response he found within himself.

"I'm trusting you, Hannibal," Will said, one corner of his mouth curving up, brow furrowing in thought. "To be that shell against suspicion for us." His gaze slid to Hannibal's eyes and he took a sip of wine, purposeful.

Hannibal had considered it important to keep Will from looking away, no matter how lingering social expectations of propriety might tell him that if he couldn't look with horror, he shouldn't look at all.

"Even with all your doubts," Hannibal said almost to himself, calling back to the honesty they'd shared in those first days of their new lives.

He could see the threads Will had been stringing around him. If he didn't cut through them soon, he'd be left a Gulliver tied down by one exceptionally determined Lilliputian.

He reached out to clasp Will's nape as he leaned in until they were almost nose to nose. "I will be a perfect gentleman."

Those threads didn't just tie him down; they tied Will to him, and he wasn't ready to let Will go.

He wouldn't have looked away. It was important to see the consequences of his actions, even if he didn't feel how he thought he should feel about them, how he was expected to feel.

"As many and varied as they are," Will added with complete honesty. He knew Hannibal had his own doubts, wondered if they were secreted to shadowy closets in Hannibal's mind palace or worn close under the skin. Once bitten, though Will had given Hannibal overtures now that could not be taken back, tokens of that trust, or at least the fundamental things that trust could be built from.

Will made no effort to hide the design of those threads. He had done the equivalent of making direct eye contact as he, strand by strand, threaded them around Hannibal, through the skin of this new life. Not before piercing his own flesh to start the pattern, to anchor it.

The warmth of Hannibal's hand against his skin drew Will's gaze down, he exhaled and lay his free hand on Hannibal's side, thumb ghosting lightly over the now healed bullet wound, only cloth between their skin. He blinked, shifting his gaze from somewhere in the middle of Hannibal's chest to Hannibal's eyes, behind his closed eyelids in the space of that blink.

"I know."

"How could they not be?" Were Will's doubts fish darting in the waters of his stream? Or the rocks upon which he stood? Hannibal's many and varied doubts were like rats in the walls - most often heard in the quiet moments but always near.

Will's hand was a warm weight and he had no doubt its placement was intentional. What he wanted was to close that scant distance between them and press a kiss to Will's mouth. What he did was drop his hand from Will's neck to his shoulder as he stepped in for an embrace instead. This time there was no cliff for Will to pull them over, no exhaustion or pain. No adrenaline and rapturous victory high, either, but there was a gentler rush just in the closeness.

Bodies in the stream. Bloated reminders of Hannibal's capriciousness floating past and never breaking surface tension. Trust was the shadow of a great rack of antlers in the trees beyond the stream, the flutter of feathers, the snort of an exhale. It was a comfort.

As much as Hannibal's physical presence was likewise a comfort. Will pressed into Hannibal's embrace, fingers no longer resting idly on Hannibal's side, but twisting in the fabric of his sweater. Will turned his head slightly, the brush of his nose and slight exhale of breath from parted lips ghosting over the line of Hannibal's throat. He breathed Hannibal in just under the line of Hannibal's jaw, where the pulse of his blood was strongest, the smell of him radiating warmth and life.

Will set his wineglass down blind on the counter behind him to wrap his arm around Hannibal's shoulders. He slid fingers into Hannibal's hair, cradling the base of Hannibal's skull in the palm of his hand. He opened his eyes and after another long minute, straightened, but did not pull away. A wry smile turned up the corner of his mouth.

"As your own doubts are?" The trust was stronger. They were this close and neither of them bleeding.

As much as Hannibal thought of himself as "human but better," the underlying truth was that he was human, and he was a social animal who had been in (comparatively luxurious) solitary confinement for several years. He had spent the months since then moving forward one determined step at a time from recovery, through retribution, and now on to constructing this new life with someone who was as close to his equal as Hannibal was ever going to find.

Which was a Hannibalian way of saying he'd been lonely and having Will holding him was every bit as good as it had been the night they had killed Francis together.

Even having seen Will tear a chunk of Cordell's face out with his teeth didn't diminish the electric prickle of desire that washed over his skin at the brush of Will's breath on his throat. Actually, having seen what Will was willing to do with his teeth served only to heighten the experience. Could you really be a cannibalistic serial killer without being a bit of a thrill seeker? Hannibal would argue no.

He held onto Will, one hand on his shoulder, the other dropping to his hip, and leaned his cheek against Will's curls for as long as Will held himself there, breathing slowly, giving Will his almost complete attention save the smallest portion tasked with listening to the figs and syrup on the stove. It had been a long, long time since he'd simply held someone and been held in return.

He tried for fond, but his expression may have landed a little closer to wistful. Either way, he wasn't the wounded man with infection and morphine warring for his self-control; whatever other emotions Will might touch were Hannibal's to keep inside for now. "My doubts are as varied as yours, but I find that some of them have lost their substance."

They were clear headed in their embrace this time, not clouded by the notes of betrayal and pain as they had been that last night in Hannibal's kitchen, nor flooded by the neurotransmitter high of endorphins from blood loss and savage victory as the night on the cliff. Will wasn't thinking of Hannibal's tactile nature being constrained those years behind glass, but of a dead woman's words, can't live with him, can't live without him. She was almost right.

Will wanted Hannibal present with him.

It would be a very personal way to end things, the hot rush of Hannibal's blood over Will's tongue, the feel of flesh giving way under his teeth. He would hold Hannibal against him, tight, a reverse of that night in Hannibal's kitchen, this time Will the perpetrator and Hannibal his victim. But no. A large death was not the one he was thinking of with Hannibal's heartbeat strongly reverberating in Will's own chest.

"It is... practical.. to retain those doubts, for both of us, given the tumultuous and bloody endings we penned in each others' flesh the other times we tried to shape this life." Will's fingers carded through Hannibal's hair. "This doesn't feel like an ending."

Funny to think that it was a comfort to know that when he died, it would almost certainly be at the hands of the man he held in his arms. Let them play out the Grand Guignol with other people and not each other for a while, drawing blood on each other only with shallow cuts until they were ready for their story to head toward climax.

"Forgiveness doesn't come with the gift of forgetfulness, and that's a mercy. We must remember if we're to ever learn from the pain." He tightened his fingers on Will's hip for balance as he tipped his head back a little into the touch, putting weight against Will's fingers as he studied him with half-closed eyes. "This isn't an ending. After a long intermission, it feels as though we're ready to move into the next act."

Will wanted to lean in, to press his mouth against that line of offered throat, to skim the skin with his teeth and see Hannibal react. "I wouldn't want to forget," Will said, expression almost pained. "Even as terrible and painful as some of our history together is, those things that happened, that we did to each other, are the foundation for what we have now. Our past is blood spilled on freshly turned earth, giving barren soil the vital essences to grow and sustain this life."

Honor every part. Not just their blood in that soil, Hannibal and Will but the blood of others. He saw in his mind's eye Alana and Jack, backlit by moonlight, casting drops of black-red blood onto the soil. Beverly and Abigail's pale corpses half buried in loose earth, blood leeching out and into the soil surrounding them. The blood of many others, friends, allies, enemies, victims, cast into that primordial earth.

Will closed his eyes, a shudder wracking his shoulders. Despite that, he held Hannibal's head steady, "Hasn't the next act already begun or are we still taking our seats?"

"Nor would I." He brushed fingertips along Will's jaw, keeping his other hand flat on Will's hip to reassure that it was empty, no knife forthcoming if his touch stirred echoes of that night in Baltimore. "We couldn't understand each other without our shared history. We tried before, but there were still veils to be torn away."

If he could see what Will was seeing, he would want to draw it and capture the image. It would stir in him an ambition to start a new set of companion illustrations for Dante's works that someone could find after he and Will were dead.

Despite his determination to wait for Will to act first, that shudder tugged at him and his inconvenient compassion for Will. His internal struggle was over almost as soon as it began, and his action was just to press his lips to Will's forehead like a benediction, holding for one long breath before straightening.

"Our new act can begin now. Before this we were entr'acte. Playing out our little morality play with Bedelia before embarking on the greater part of the story."

Their position did bear a vaguely discomforting resemblance to that night, but trust won over doubt and Will did not flinch from the touch. Though he did appreciate the flat handed gesture, even if Hannibal always seemed to have something up his sleeve. Metaphorically speaking. Or perhaps not so metaphorically.

Will might describe it to him sometime, walking Hannibal through each expression, Jack's solemn disappointment, righteous fury twisting in his eyes. The compassionate in Alana's eyes in contrast to the set of her mouth, concession to her fate with a hint of disappointment twisting the corner.

His brow smoothed under Hannibal's mouth, not the easing of tension, but the inability to carry it under the warm press of lips. When Hannibal straightened, Will's fingers tightened fractionally in his hair, not allowing him to move too far away, "A small diversion between acts as we reset the stage."

"The world is our stage now." He gave the slightest tug against the grip in his hair as a test of Will's resolve, then relaxed back into enjoying the moment.

"With the exceptions of France, Italy, and the United States," he added with a faintly self-satisfied smile that covered a ghost of frustration that Will wouldn't let him return to Italy.

"Tell me, in idle daydreams while you were a police officer, or on cold days in Wolf Trap, did you ever imagine a tropical vacation? Did you think of sipping drinks on the beach or swimming in crystalline waters?""

Will's grip held fast, he was not letting Hannibal pull away. Yet.

"Especially Italy," Will said, expression falsely apologetic. He was needling a bit, but Hannibal had brought that and the Italy ban on himself via Hannibal's own behavior and action.

Will's expression relaxed to one of thoughtful consideration. "I thought about the smell of ocean air mixed with oil, of fixing motors on white sand beaches." How differently life would have been if the weight of expectation in using his abilities had not been born like his own metaphorical cross, if Will had left expectation and burden for something more simple

If he were wholly honest, he knew something would have ruined that life, too. Probably a cannibal fugitive, the devil in disguise.

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