Chapter Text
Will is released from the psychiatric hospital in Baltimore two days before Christmas Eve. He’s tired, has dark circles under his eyes and a small bag slung over his shoulder, and Hannibal meets him in the entrance hallway. He kisses him on the forehead, brushing his hair back and holding him close with an arm around his shoulders. Will presses into him, just for a moment, then leans back and meets Hannibal’s eyes. His hair is gently curling, a little longer than before his admission, and Hannibal regards him carefully.
“You look well. More at peace with yourself.”
It isn’t entirely true. Will looks exhausted and too thin, the line of his collarbone visible beneath his thin sweater. Hannibal will have to feed him up. But his eyes seem less haunted, and he gazes up at Hannibal openly, doesn’t hide away and avert his gaze as he’d been so accustomed to doing whenever Hannibal brought up a sensitive subject.
“I feel a little better. More… human. That doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“Absolutely.” Hannibal’s arm comes around his shoulders again to lead him out to the car and Will leans gratefully into his side, his bag sliding seamlessly from his shoulder into Hannibal’s hand. The Bentley is parked nearby and Hannibal holds the door for him. “I’ve missed you very much.”
Will sinks into the leather seat, closing his eyes, unable to articulate exactly how much he missed Hannibal when he was separated from him. Hannibal closes the door and gets in the driver’s side; the Bentley purrs to life and they make their way through the city streets to Hannibal’s home. Will dozes in the seat, then turns sleepily to Hannibal, head lolling against the headrest.
“How are the dogs?”
“Fine. Alana is caring for them very well. Although I suspect they miss you. Winston has been pining.”
“He’s not the only one,” Will picks at his fingernails. “I missed you.”
“I missed you every second of every day, little cub.” Hannibal takes his hand, interlinks their fingers and squeezes warmly. “I could hardly sleep without you by my side.”
“Really?” Will’s pale blue eyes regard him with open trust. “Me neither. It was always cold in that place.”
“Then I shall endeavour to keep you as warm as possible when we get home, to make up for it.”
Will gives him a sideways smile. “I’m sure you will.”
In the kitchen, Will stands at the counter looking a little lost as Hannibal busies himself with making them both coffee. He looks as though he’s forgotten what to do, how to be here, and Hannibal won’t have that. He pulls a chair out for Will and ushers him into it while he makes them both a basic brunch of Eggs Royale with both smoked salmon and bacon, coffee, and freshly squeezed orange juice, all of which Will devours as though he hasn’t eaten in weeks.
“God, that’s good.” His groan of delight is almost orgasmic as he picks up a rasher of crisped bacon and crunches into it with closed eyes. “I’d started to forget what real food tastes like.”
Watching Will enjoy his food so much makes Hannibal want to devour him there and then, in any and every way possible. He’s certain the food served in hospital was not like his own - in both taste and source - and having Will back at his table to appreciate his culinary artistry is a dream come true in itself.
They don’t take long to make it to the bedroom. Hannibal is washing up diligently when warm fingers prise the last plate from his hand and he’s turned and kissed so passionately that his breath is stolen from him. In turn, he pins Will to the counter and ravished his mouth, dragging him up until Will is seated on the countertop, thighs encasing Hannibal’s hips, and from there it’s only a short stumble to the bedroom.
Will begs wordlessly for Hannibal’s fingers, climaxing with a desperate cry with two fingers deep inside him and a thumb massaging his rim. Hannibal follows him moments later, coating Will’s softening cock and tender balls with his release and they fall into each other, panting. A shower is a requirement and they whisper how much they’ve missed each other amid sweet kisses. They dress in warm cashmere and cotton and lounge beside the fire in Hannibal’s study with wine and whiskey, companionably quiet, Will relaxed and loose-limbed and Hannibal stroking and touching every inch of him he can reach.
“What do you usually do for Christmas?” Will mumbles and Hannibal’s arms close around him just a little tighter. The flickering fire sets the lines of both their faces into shadow.
“I entertain,” Hannibal says simply, murmuring the words into a mess of dark curls. “A few acquaintances, usually. Jack and Bella. Alana. Others you may know by sight. What are your plans, my dear?”
“Oh, big plans. The biggest. Huge, in fact.” Will huffs out a cool laugh, hurt and loneliness coiling in his chest at the memory of his last few Christmases, spent alone in his home, drinking himself to sleep in the early hours of the following mornings. “Me and the dogs. Gourmet dinner. Sausage, mac and cheese, whiskey. Very grand. It’d give your little dinner party a run for its money.”
Hannibal laughs into Will’s hair. The stay in the psychiatric hospital hasn’t robbed him of his wry sarcasm, and for that he’s glad. His Will is still there, wry and sharp-tongued and perfect, just as he always is.
“I was hoping you’d accompany me this year. To my ‘little dinner party’. The spot for guest of honour is regrettably empty.” He kisses Will’s temple. “I had hoped you would occupy it.”
Will shifts in his arms then stills, suddenly tense. Hannibal’s hands run soothingly up his arms to massage his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d fit in very well with your society friends.”
“Then I shall cancel my plans and spend the day solely with you.”
Will twists to stare at him, incredulous. “You’re serious.”
“Entirely. I would rather spend the day with you than be surrounded by acquaintances and know you’re all alone many miles away.” Hannibal kisses his cheek. “I love you, little cub.”
“I know. But that’s…” Will feels his cheeks heat and gazes down at their intertwined fingers in his lap. “You never say ‘friends’.” He ventures curiously. “Always ‘acquaintances’. Why?”
“Because I have and require very few true friends. The rest of them are nice enough and I enjoy their company but my interest in them ends there.”
“And what am I?” He asks, unable to resist, a smirk tugging at his lips. God, it feels so long since he’s smiled properly, laughed. Let go of his pain and just laughed .
“You?” Hannibal noses at his hair with a wry huff of laughter. “You, my dear, are fishing for compliments, are you not?”
“I’m a good fisherman, Hannibal.” Will is smiling in earnest now and Hannibal moves the so that Will is lying back against the pillows, the older man propped up on an elbow above him.
“Indeed.” Hannibal leans in to kiss him but diverts at the last second to nuzzle at his neck and Will whines indignantly. “Will you do me the honour of dining with me this Christmas? It would make me extremely happy.”
“Hannibal. You know I don’t do well with people. Especially now,” Will sighs. “And this sounds like a situation that may require me to be sociable.”
“Darling boy. It will. But I know you’ll enjoy it.” Hannibal kisses his jawline. “Please?”
“I can’t come.” Will sighs, relaxing back into Hannibal’s arms and watching the fire slowly die to nothing but glowing embers. “I have nothing to wear.”
“My darling,” Hannibal tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “How you underestimate me.”
*
“I have a gift for you,” Hannibal says and Will turns, startled, to see him standing in the doorway in black trousers and a white shirt, open-collar. He’s half-dressed and is holding a slim grey box, eyes taking in Will’s appearance with approval. “You look exquisite. The suit fits you perfectly.”
“It should,” Will tugs on his collar, frustrated by his ongoing battle with tie. “It cost more than my house.”
“Perhaps not quite that much,” Hannibal enters his own guest room slowly, admiring Will as he turns back to the mirror and returns to his task. “Do you need assistance?”
Christmas morning has dawned crisp and bright, and Will woke early with the sunrise and lay beside Hannibal as he slept on, watching the sunlight play across his face. His bedroom at the psychiatric hospital had been cool and sparse, cold gray walls with no artwork and just a simple desk and wardrobe pushed against the wall. The lack of stimulation had been so intense that he’d begged for more reading material than the basic classic novels that he found in the desk drawers, which he’s already read cover-to-cover many times. He had laid down two ground rules to Hannibal when he agreed to hospitalisation: no medication and no group therapy. But by the end of the first week he’d been roped into an art therapy class and had found solace in recreating one of his designs for his fishing flies back at home in Wolf Trap. The rest and respite from the stress of everyday life had been cathartic, and he had spoken with Hannibal daily. Upon his release, he’d worried the world would have moved on without him. But it seems that Hannibal had put his own life on hold in favour of waiting for Will.
Now, they stare at each other, Hannibal with warmth in his eyes and Will tense with nerves. Guests will be arriving in an hour and Will isn’t ready, and he doesn’t know if he can do this. He turns back to the mirror and scrutinises his own appearance critically. Hannibal turns him so they’re facing each other and adjusts his tie, turning the two draped lines of fabric into a perfect Windsor knot in seconds.
“I didn’t know I could look like this,” Will whispers to his reflection and Hannibal wraps an arm around him from behind, resting their heads together and they gaze at each other’s reflection, quiet for a moment.
“I am truly sorry,” Hannibal says. “For laying a hand on you. It will never happen again.”
“It’s fine,” Will hears himself reply, blue eyes still fixed on Hannibal in the mirror. “I know. I know it won’t.”
“It is far from fine. My actions were unacceptable and I will spend as much time as it takes to make it up to you.” Hannibal kisses his cheek and moves away; Will misses his warmth immediately. “Perhaps I may start with your Christmas gift.” He extends a hand and Will stares at the slim box, lost for words. “Would you like to open it, or shall I?”
“You. Please.” He’s so overwhelmed by everything that he’s sure his hands won’t work properly and he’ll probably drop the box.
Hannibal leans in and kisses Will on the mouth then makes a show of untying the pale ribbon and lifting the lid of the box. Inside, nestled on a bed of tissue paper, is a cream silk scarf and Will’s hand reaches out of its own accord and he drags the fabric through his fingers in wonder. It’s beautifully soft and he wants to press his cheek to it but feels that wouldn’t be proper.
“It’s… Hannibal, thank you,” is what he says, and Hannibal discards the box in favour of holding up the scarf and gesturing to Will’s neck.
“May I?”
Throat constricted with affection and the general feeling of being totally overwhelmed, all Will can do is watch as Hannibal leans in to drape the scarf around his neck, taking a little extra time to make sure it’s in the perfect place, before kissing Will gently on the mouth and stepping back to look at him, their hands linked together.
“Beautiful. You’ll be the envy of everyone here tonight.”
The familiar panic claws at his diaphragm and Will closes his eyes, breathing deeply to steady himself. That’s what he’s most afraid of: being the centre of everyone’s attention, being stared at, even if it is in envy rather than disdain and curiosity.
“May I have a minute alone?” It comes out strangled and Hannibal nods in understanding.
“Of course, little cub. Take as much time as you need. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Hannibal leaves him alone in the guest room and it feels strangely empty without him. Will turns back to his reflection and studies himself. His hair is tamed and he’s clean-shaven; he rubs his chin curiously. He feels younger like this, more vulnerable, and he knows exactly how he’ll look to the guests at the party. The young man on the arm of the wealthy, distinguished host, dressed in a handmade suit and sipping wine more expensive than anything he owns. It creates a strange frisson of excitement within him. Hannibal had commissioned the suit for him while he was in the hospital, trusting somehow that Will would spend Christmas with him and that he would acquiesce to wearing clothing picked out and handmade for him by someone else, to someone else’s taste. And, naturally, he has. Because Hannibal asked.
He breathes deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth, as he was taught in hospital, and it seems to help calm his nerves somewhat. The knot in his chest stops tightening, at least. He levels his reflection with a gaze, strong-jawed and stoic. He can do this. Socialise. Enjoy himself. Be who Hannibal wants him to be.
He takes his time walking down the hallway then descends the stairs, fingers trailing down the rail. He can hear the soft hum of voices - he’s been alone up there for longer than he realised and feels a pinch of panic at the realisation. Hannibal must be angry with him for lingering, leaving him to greet his guests alone.
Yet at the bottom of the staircase, Hannibal stands waiting for him, looking unfairly handsome in a rich, black tuxedo that seems to somehow catch the light at every angle, hands clasped behind his back and a welcoming smile at his lips as he watches Will approach.
“Merry Christmas, Will.”
As he reaches the bottom step, Hannibal reaches for his hand and lifts it to kiss his knuckles. Will blushes scarlet but allows it, warmth curling in his chest when Hannibal’s arm comes around his waist and they walk together into the drawing room where a handful of guests mill around and waiters in tuxedos offer canapes and champagne. He scans the room instantly, an unbreakable habit, seeing Jack and Alana, Bella, and some of Hannibal’s society friends that he knows by sight but cannot name. He feels out of place and anxious but with Hannibal pressed warmly to his side, he knows anything is possible - including surviving a society party on Christmas day.
A glass of warm apple cider is pressed into his hand and Hannibal kisses his temple seeming not to care about the eyes on him. Flushing, Will empties the glass in almost one gulp, colouring at the amused look on Hannibal’s face.
“Sorry. Dutch courage,” he says and Hannibal shakes his head ruefully.
“I shall fetch you another. I will only be a moment, little cub. Try and mingle if you can.”
Then Hannibal is gone and Will is alone, lingering at the edge of the room and trying to blend into the expensive wallpaper. He almost bolts from the room when he sees Jack making a beeline for him, dressed in a deep plum suit and black tie, looking more attired for a funeral than a Christmas celebration. Alana is hot on his heels in a red dress and black blazer, wearing heavier make-up than Will is used to and it takes him a moment to realise he’s staring. But she’s smiling and it seems genuine, then they’re right in front of him and his window of escape has closed.
“We’ve been busy in your absence, Will,” Jack says, his dark eyes lingering on Will’s suit, his scarf, Hannibal’s hand on his waist. “We could have used your help.”
“What he means to say,” Alana elbows the older man hard in the ribs. “Is that we missed you. Merry Christmas. And we’re glad you’re feeling better.”
“Yes. That’s what I meant. Merry Christmas,” Jack says shortly. Will takes in the stress lines at the corners of his eyes, his tense posture. The way he’s holding his glass and his spine. The frown lines and the downturned lips, and he knows instantly that not all is well.
“Something’s happened,” he says, in spite of every instinct screaming at him not to ask. “Something you’re not telling me.”
Alana opens her mouth, her expression one of sincerity even as she begins to shake her head. But Jack beats her to it.
“Yes, it has. Three kills in as many weeks. Trophies were taken from each of the bodies, and the victims displayed grotesquely like some form of art for us to find.” Jack sips his drink, seeming to contemplate his next words. “And we’ve seen it all before. We’ve seen this killer before.” Jack sighs. “We haven’t seen anything from him for years. I thought - hoped - he’d died or moved on.”
A warm hand comes to rest on Will’s hip and he relaxes back against Hannibal’s shoulder, taking the proffered glass of hot mulled wine and drinking from it deeply. He’s aware of Jack’s eyes trailing across him, taking in his proximity to Hannibal and their familiarity. There’s something in his gaze that he can’t read, that even his empathy cannot latch onto, and it makes him frown curiously.
“This doesn’t sound like a conversation one should be having at a dinner party at Christmas,” Hannibal says and Will picks up the note of disapproval in his voice. “Please, Jack. Let’s save work for another time.”
“Will asked,” Jack replies levels and Will bites his tongue to stop himself from telling Hannibal that, actually, he hadn’t. “And it's a conversation I wish we didn’t have to have at any time, but now seems as good as ever. I have a killer on my hands and the one person I needed to take a look at the crime scenes was unavailable.”
Hannibal’s hand tightens on Will’s hip. Jack’s voice is thick with disdain and Will is caught between the desire to tell Jack exactly what he’s been struggling with, and the desire to just walk away.
“I don’t want Christmas ruined for Will by discussions of the macabre.” Hannibal is saying and Will hopes his gratitude is palpable. “Please, Jack. As your host, I am asking you to curtail this discussion and pick it up at another time.”
“Very well. I’ll make it brief.” Clearly put out yet loathe to be rude to the man cooking his Christmas lunch, Jack turns to Will. “We know him. An old adversary, one who enjoyed taunting us in the past then vanishing into the ether. But he’s reared his head again and this time,” His knuckles whiten as he grips the glass a little too tightly. “I’m going to catch him if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Who is he?” Will hears himself ask. Behind him, Hannibal’s hand is soothing on his waist, thumb stroking his skin through the fabric of his suit. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he was sinking back into the web of Jack Crawford and the BAU, but he didn’t realise it would happen this quickly. Yet he can’t help but want to know who this man is and who he targets. How he kills. Why he kills. He wants to know him. And by the way Hannibal pulls him just a little closer, holds him a little more possessively, he knows it too.
Jack levels his gaze when he looks at Will.
“No doubt you’ve heard of him before. You’ve probably taught your students about him in your classes.”
“Who is he?” Will insists. Around them, the room seems to have gone quiet. Jack looks almost apologetic, glancing from his own glass to Hannibal then back to Will with dark, burning eyes.
“We call him The Chesapeake Ripper.”
END PART I.