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Will watches the missed calls pile up at first. There’s a period of a few days where he genuinely considers blocking Jack Crawford’s number, despite all that they had been through. He settles back into repairing boats, though it feels strangely like an uncomfortable second skin. He cares for his dogs, tries to make up for the time he’d lost with them whilst chasing Hannibal down across Italy. His home in Wolf Trap becomes an island.
He isn’t sure what possesses him to finally listen to one of Jack’s voicemails. Maybe it’s the whiskey flowing through his veins or maybe it’s the ominous feeling brewing inside of him, growing with each missed call. He’d told Jack in no uncertain terms that he was completely done with any semblance of FBI work, anything that could be even tangentially related to Hannibal, or Hannibal’s dominion. If Jack is calling now, perhaps, one part of Will’s brain argues, it might actually be important.
Will wishes that he’d just deleted the voicemail.
“I know what you said, Will. But I really think you’ll wanna hear this. Ignore this, delete this, do whatever you want, but you’re gonna find out eventually. Probably best to find out through someone you can trust, even a little bit.”
Jack’s voice rings out in the living room, accompanied only by the sound of the crackling fireplace. It sounds fatigued, weighed down by the heaviness of the past few years. Will stares out at the window, at the warm lamps cast in the reflection. Modern cell phones make it far too easy to call someone back, he thinks. His finger hovers over Jack’s missed call, and his mind reels. Could this information be related to Hannibal, somehow? Regardless of Hannibal’s obfuscations, his finely crafted lies, Will has had the misfortune of coming to know the man rather intimately. More intimately than most. He tells himself he doesn’t want to know anymore. He’d arranged the chessboard between them in such a fashion that Hannibal is now confined to a cell, unable to harm others. Leave the chessboard, let it gather dust. Just let it gather dust.
His finger lands on Jack’s contact. The call rings out in the quiet, and Will holds his breath.
Jack still sounds tired.
“Will,” he greets. He doesn’t ask how Will is.
“Is this important?” Will finds himself asking. His gaze becomes restless, travelling the length of his darkened living room.
“You can decide for yourself,” says Jack. “Hannibal has officially been transported to his cell at Baltimore Hospital. They did a few…standard intake assessments upon his arrival.”
“You can’t diagnose him,” Will says, almost automatically. “There’s no label for what he is.”
“They didn’t. But one of the intake assessments was a classification test. His government records indicate that he’s a neutral. Well, this test revealed that he’s a little.”
Will freezes in his chair, his mind reeling. “…Standard testing?” he questions. “Biological markers?”
“All there. And replicated,” Jack responds.
Will blinks once. Then twice. He falls silent for a few moments.
“Did he admit to it?” he asks.
“Yes. He did,” Jack says.
“Have you considered that you’re being played?” Will questions, exhaustion seeping into his tone. He sinks further down in his armchair, surprise morphing into something darker, almost bitter.
“I have. But there’s no faking the biological aspects of the tests, Will. Like I said, they’ve been run twice now.”
Will falls silent again. This time, it stretches on for long enough that Jack pipes up again.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah — uh, yeah, I am,” Will says, scrubbing a hand down his face. He feels the distinct urge to down the rest of his whiskey. He tries to parse out the emotions tangled together inside his chest but they seem to have fused into a chasm of numbness. “Do we — do we know how he faked his first tests, when he came of age?”
“I looked into the records. The doctors responsible for his assessment went missing under suspicious circumstances the day it was scheduled. If I were to take an educated guess — Hannibal was able to forge his documents.”
“You think he killed them,” Will says.
“I think it’s more likely than not,” Jack returns, matter-of-fact. “But he refuses to say anything about it, so we can’t say for certain.”
Will shakes his head, his gaze falling to the fireplace. He stares for a long moment, transfixed by the motion of the flames. “Who else knows about this?” He questions eventually.
“The doctors, and Alana. That’s it.”
“Freddie would have a field day with this.”
“I know. Which is why I’m going to keep a lid on it for as long as I can.”
Will nods, running his fingertips along the edge of his chair. He straightens slightly. “Do me a favour, Jack,” he says.
“What is it?” Jack questions.
“Don’t tell Hannibal that you called me.”
With that, Will hangs up. He’s engulfed by silence once more.
He stays in that chair until the fire burns out and the first threads of morning light start to sweep across the sky.
—
Will had never spent all that long dwelling on the subject of classifications. Like most people, he’d been classified as a neutral at eighteen and had never encountered many classified littles or caregivers, apart from in his FBI cases. Littles and caregivers are relatively rare, all things considered. Perhaps his general disposition towards others doesn’t help either.
He’d followed the smoky threads of Hannibal’s past to Lithuania, had spent months seeking to understand the man before he laid eyes on him once again. Before he mustered up the will to kill Hannibal, to finally free himself from him, and to free Hannibal from him. There were pieces of Hannibal’s life that Will had been missing, but none of it felt like any grand revelation. Even if he doesn’t occupy Hannibal’s body, he thinks he understands Hannibal with the familiarity that he understands himself.
And, yet. For all of Will’s perception, he hadn’t picked up on Hannibal’s classification. Hadn’t even suspected it for a second, hadn’t so much as felt out its vague edges. It’s damn hard for a little to hide their classification, but of course, Hannibal would find a way. Find a way to worm into Will’s thoughts again, leave him with persistent questions even from the confines of a cell.
Had he managed to hide it from Bedelia, when they’d lived together? How did he manage his involuntary drops? How did Will not notice a single little behaviour slip through the cracks? Not a single little item left visible in Hannibal’s home as Will had slowly encroached on the space, visiting more and more frequently.
Though Hannibal’s fingerprints hadn’t left Will’s brain in the past few months, Will had felt in some sense that he’d been on a path to normalcy. Perhaps not the ideal path, but a path, somewhere away from the blood-soaked chaos that marked Hannibal’s dominion.
But now, he thinks about this revelation. He wakes up in the morning and experiences a brief moment of quiet before remembering it. He thinks of the pieces he’d cobbled together of Hannibal’s childhood and tries to fit them into who Hannibal is now, as an adult. Tries to reconcile the innocence that now forms one part of Hannibal’s complicated web.
Perhaps the worst part is, Will thinks as he wrenches open the engine compartment of a boat, Hannibal might’ve never told him. Will might’ve never found out if he’d let himself fuse completely with Hannibal, given into all the impulses and tendencies that lay within him, organic or manufactured or otherwise. He only knows now because Hannibal’s hand had been forced. Will had set up the chess board to have Hannibal caged, but it doesn’t feel like he’d set it up in his favour.
It almost feels like a stasis. Will isn’t with Hannibal but Hannibal isn’t dead. It’s an unsettling in-between that Will has decided he has to make do with.
—
Will is on his way to the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
He tries to rationalise it, on the road there. His thoughts filter through all sorts of leaps and cognitive distortions, trying to justify it.
Will teeters back and forth. He turns back at a pitstop, but then swings right back around again. He’s completely lost in arguing with himself until he finally finds himself at the hospital doors, gazing up at the murky grey sky. He enters the building, and something heavy condenses inside his chest.
“I’d like to see a patient — Hannibal Lecter,” he says to the man behind the reception counter.
“You’ll need to fill in a visitor’s form,” the man says. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Uh.” Will hesitates, pressing his lips together. “No, I don’t. I’m…an acquaintance of Alana Bloom. She knows I’m coming. My name is Will Graham.”
The man levels him with a somewhat disbelieving look. “I’ll need to verify that. Grab a seat, Mister Graham.”
“Thanks,” Will mutters, as he turns around and heads over to a seat in the corner, sitting down.
He’s always found this waiting room to be eerily quiet and sparse, compared to other medical waiting rooms. He waits for about fifteen minutes, tapping his fingers against the armrest restlessly. He almost persuades himself to walk out and head home again.
Then, Alana comes out into the reception, her walking cane clicking on the tiles. Will stands up immediately.
“Alana—“
“What are you doing here, Will?” she questions, coming to a stop just a few feet away.
It’s probably fair enough. Will had lied to the receptionist about calling ahead.
“I…” Will hesitates. “I need to see him.”
Alana’s brows furrow slightly. She lets out a sigh. “I’m not sure you do, Will.”
“I won’t be ten minutes. Keep whatever guards, surveillance you’ve got set up,” Will says.
“Why? Why do you need to see him?” Alana questions, tipping her head slightly.
“Because…” Will thinks for a moment. “Because I need to see him for what he is, one last time. I need to see him here…caged.”
Alana sighs again. “The knowledge isn’t enough?”
“It was,” Will says, quieter now. “Not anymore.”
Alana has that familiar look of scrutinisation on her face as she regards Will. Once again, that’s probably fair enough. He still can’t help but feel a twinge of remorse about the way Alana had become so entangled in all of this.
“Alright, ten minutes,” Alana agrees, after a long few moments. “Come with me.”
Will doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. He follows along beside Alana as she leads him through the hospital corridors, his own stay here hovering at the edges of his mind. He wipes his hands on his jacket a few times, the skin at the back of his neck prickling uncomfortably.
When they finally reach Hannibal’s section of the hospital, Alana turns to him again. “His cell is just through that door. Be careful, Will.”
And just like that, Will is headed towards the dragon’s den. The security guards’ gazes flicker towards him briefly as he approaches the door, stepping aside to allow him through. He feels a strange sense of vertigo all of a sudden.
He grips the door handle and pulls it open, slowly stepping inside. Hannibal’s eyes are the first thing he catches sight of, gazing at him immediately. He’d probably heard the commotion outside.
Will moves forth with measured steps, watching Hannibal’s eyebrows as they twitch upward just slightly, just for a second, as he processes who it is. He’s sitting at his desk in his white prison attire, facing Will. He straightens in his chair as Will approaches the glass.
“Will. This is an unexpected surprise,” he intones. “If I recall, you were rather clear in your wish to have nothing to do with me. What brings you here?”
Will’s eyes flicker along the length of Hannibal’s cell for a moment. He doesn’t beat around the bush. “You’re not a neutral.”
There’s a pause.
Hannibal inclines his head. “I see that Jack Crawford called you, then. I advised him against it.”
“He told you?” Will questions.
“I surmised it. I wish to support your choice, of course, and I knew that the discovery might activate your imagination.”
Will stares at Hannibal for a long moment, letting out a soft exhale. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“I take precautions to ensure this aspect of my identity is not a relevant part of my day-to-day life.”
Will nods, looking away with a huff. “So, no then.” He folds his arms across his chest, pacing down the length of the room. He feels Hannibal’s eyes following him. “I assume these… precautions , have been unavailable to you for a few months now. And will continue to be unavailable to you, for the foreseeable future.”
He turns back towards Hannibal just in time to see the man’s gaze break away, down towards his sketchpad. He taps his pencil against the desk, once then twice.
“Alana has certainly made that clear to me,” Hannibal says, evenly.
Will nods, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. He uncrosses his arms, pacing back to the centre of the room to stand before Hannibal again.
“You’re not embarrassed about your classification,” he says.
“Shame is not an emotion that comes readily to me,” says Hannibal.
“So you’ve just hidden it because it’s just an inconvenience to you. It’s frustrating,” Will says.
There’s another pause. Something indecipherable flickers across Hannibal’s face.
“You’ve given this some thought,” he notes.
Will shakes his head, his gaze shifting away towards the wall. Words of protest want to crawl their way up his throat, but they lose their way and fizzle out into nothing. Nothing, but telling silence.
“I’m curious how your pursuit of normalcy is going,” says Hannibal. “I don’t smell anybody’s scent on you, apart from a faint whiff of Alana’s preferred perfume. Have you spent your days alone, Will?”
“Not alone,” Will says.
Hannibal inclines his head in acknowledgement, smiling faintly. “Ah, but of course not. You have your dogs, after all.”
Will presses his lips together. Despite the revelation, it would seem that Hannibal hasn’t changed, not even a little bit. Maybe that’s reassuring. Maybe not.
He steps closer to the glass. “Do you resent your little side the way you resented Mischa, when you were younger? For stifling you?” he questions.
Hannibal maintains eye contact, but he doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Slowly, he gets up from his chair, approaching the glass with purposeful strides, until he’s standing right in front of Will.
“You’re attempting to reconcile this knowledge with everything you know about me. There’s no need, Will. By all accounts, I am still the same monster. The same monster that’s reflected in your mirror.”
The faint reflection of Will’s face in the glass morphs into Hannibal’s face through the glass.
Will goes to say something, but his attention is torn away by the security guard who enters, followed by Alana.
“That’s time, Will,” she says, her gaze flickering between the two men.
“A shame indeed,” says Hannibal, his eyes never leaving Will. “Goodbye, Will. Perhaps you’ll see me in the mirror.”
Will presses his lips together, returning the eye contact.
“Goodbye, Doctor Lecter,” he says.
Hannibal’s gaze is the first to falter, flickering down towards his desk. Will feels a strange satisfaction, combined with something heavy, something he can’t quite put a name to. As he turns to leave, Hannibal carefully folds up the paper he’d been sketching on and sets it aside.
—
Will doesn’t visit Hannibal again. He comes close a few times, but he manages to reign himself in by the skin of his teeth. As the months drain by, it becomes easier to draw the line between himself and Hannibal, becomes easier to try and pull apart all the places where they’d melded together. Still, he thinks about Hannibal most days. Dreams about him. Even after he meets Molly and he settles down with her and Walter, far away from Baltimore.
Will is fond of Molly. She’s smart, she’s caring. She has the same affinity for the outdoors that Will does, she has the same enthusiasm for owning an entire herd of dogs that Will does. They make each other laugh. If there ever were a normal match for Will, this had to be it, he thinks. He finds…contentment, of some kind, in the normalcy. The sound of the coffee machine in the morning, the routine of Walter’s school days, Molly’s smiles passed across the dinner table.
One weekend, Walter and Molly are away for an interstate little league game. He’s watching from the kitchen window as the dogs play in the back garden. The hum-drum of their routine comes to a halt, and the stillness that settles inside the house is stifling, pressing in against Will’s chest like a physical weight. There’s an awful, insatiable itch clawing away at the inside of his skin, one that leads him further and further into his bottle of whiskey.
Before learning about Hannibal’s classification, Will had felt…perhaps not a sense of closure, but a sense that he knew Hannibal, that there were no lingering questions so pressing that they could not be forgotten, thrown away to the tides of time. As discomforting as this stasis would be, Will felt that he could let go, reshape and mould his thoughts until death was no longer the first and last thing on his mind each day.
Now though, he has questions about Hannibal’s classification that he can’t throw away. What would he be like when he’s little? Would he possess the same restlessness and hunger that defined his teenage years, his young adulthood? What age range is his little space? If it’s younger, can his adult rationalisations still protect him from all the things he’s done? Is he in little space by himself now in his cell, forbidden from using medication to suppress it?
Will shakes his head, gripping the edge of the marble countertop with enough force to turn his knuckles white. The sun has descended beneath the horizon now, and the sky is darkening gradually. There’s a mass of angry grey clouds being blown in his direction, and the damp scent of looming rain is starting to seep into the kitchen. Will should get the dogs in soon. And yet…
He pulls his phone from his pocket, setting it down on the counter. He stares at it for a long moment, scrolling up and down through his contacts aimlessly. Scrolling to the Baltimore State Hospital number then scrolling away from it. Will bites the inside of his cheek, letting out a breath through his nose. He takes another swig from his whiskey bottle.
“Son of a bitch,” he mutters.
He scrolls for a few moments, back and forth, back and forth. Then, he taps the contact before he can stop himself, pressing speaker. He listens to it ring three times, his heart beating fiercely in his ears.
“Hello, this is Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Anne speaking. How can I help?”
Will hesitates for a moment. Then, he clears his throat. “Hello, my name is Will Graham. I’d like to be put through to a patient — Hannibal Lecter. I’ve been told he has a direct line to his cell. I’m— I’m, an acquaintance of his.”
“One moment, Mister Graham…ah yes, I just wanted to double-check. It would appear that Mister Lecter is currently unavailable to take any calls at the moment. Maybe you could try ringing tomorrow morning?”
“Can I ask why?” Will questions, leaning forward against the kitchen counter.
“I — well, the reason is confidential, Mister Graham. But I can assure you that he’ll be available tomorrow.”
“Is he little?” Will asks, his fingers squeezing around his glass.
“Again, I apologise, Mister Graham, but that’s confidential.”
Will lets out a small sigh, nodding to himself. “That’s alright. I’ll call back another time.”
“Of course, Mister Graham. Have a nice day.”
The line goes dead, and Will continues to stare at his phone screen until it turns off. He sets his glass down and massages his temples, pacing the length of the kitchen.
Hannibal is regressed, right now. In his cell.
Does he have supplies?
Will shakes his head to try and rid himself of the thought, but in its place, others straggle to the surface. Would he draw while little? Would the drawings be more childish than his usual drawings? Would he come to Will for approval once he’s finished?
Will shakes his head again, pressing hard at his temples and trying not to linger on that last particular thought. He’s starting to stray into dangerous territory there. He walks past the fridge, where Walter’s drawings are all pinned up, and pauses there for a moment.
He’s so engrossed in his disjointed pacing that he knocks his whiskey bottle by accident, sending it tumbling off the edge of the counter and shattering all over the tiles with a piercing crack. Frustration surges inside of him, expanding from his chest to his fingertips. He doesn’t bother with a vacuum cleaner. Shard by shard, he cleans up the glass and clears up the pool of clear whiskey.
Once he’s done, he heads back outside to let the dogs in, and he tries not to think about what Hannibal is doing now, regressed by himself in the confines of his cell.
—
The questions never really stop. But with time, they become more like a consistent background hum rather than a well-defined flurry.
That is, until Will drags Hannibal down with him into the icy depths of the Atlantic, and the thought comes to him, faint and slightly blurry, that there will always be a part of Hannibal he won’t know.
But then, they survive the fall, a fact that Will certainly hadn’t placed any certainty in as he’d clutched at Hannibal’s shirt, slippery with blood, and felt the rush of wind in his ears, hurtling towards the thrashing water at an almost surreal speed.
That blurry thought on the precipice of potential death stays with Will as they sail the Atlantic, eventually settling in a coastal region of Brazil for a few months. They settle into a strange sort of rhythm as they recover from their respective injuries, their conversations beginning to flow the way they once had, when Will was caught between his plan to lure Hannibal into a false sense of security and the friendship that was genuinely starting to bloom between them.
Will finds himself waiting to bring up the unspoken truth of Hannibal’s classification. He isn’t exactly sure what he’s waiting for until they’re settled on the couch one evening, two wine glasses on the coffee table as Hannibal sketches in his notepad. Will has a book in his lap, but he’d spent the last few minutes reading the same line over and over again, not really taking it in. He tilts his head to watch Hannibal for a few moments, the dying sunlight casting a final bit of warmth along the lines of Hannibal’s face. He knows Hannibal can feel Will’s gaze, but he doesn’t stop drawing. He’s waiting for Will to either speak, or return to his book. Maybe he knows that the former is far more likely.
“I don’t think we ever finished our conversation,” Will says, as he absently traces his finger along the words on the page.
“You’re going to have to be specific, Will. We share numerous conversations,” says Hannibal, his gaze flickering upwards to briefly meet Will’s.
Something tells Will that Hannibal knows which conversation he’d referring to. Will does not point this out verbally.
“About your classification,” Will clarifies.
Hannibal hums. His pencil comes to a brief pause against his notepad. “It would seem your imagination was activated, just as I suspected it would be.” He pauses again, resuming his shading. “I would’ve liked to tell you myself. But circumstances did not facilitate that.”
“You were planning on telling me?” Will questions, a touch sceptically. “That’s not what you said, when I visited.”
“I said that I took precautions to ensure this aspect of my identity is not a relevant part of my day-to-day life, which was not untrue at the time.”
“So, you wouldn’t have told me…if you could’ve continued to take suppressants?” Will surmises, haltingly, his brows furrowing slightly as his gaze lowers to Hannibal’s drawing.
“It would’ve slowed the process, perhaps. But you’re family, Will. You would’ve known eventually,” Hannibal says simply.
Will considers this for a moment, toying with the pages of his book. He shifts slightly to face Hannibal a bit more.
“When did you know?” He questions.
Hannibal doesn’t respond immediately. He takes a moment to examine his drawing, looking for places that still need shading. “I suspected when I was an adolescent. I knew when I was tested.”
“You killed the examiners,” Will says.
“Had this fact appeared on my records, it would’ve created…inconveniences for me, as I’m sure you can imagine. I wished to avoid such an outcome,” Hannibal intones.
It’s as good a confession as any, Will thinks.
“Have you gone into little space since…we arrived here?” Will questions.
“Yes, at night,” Hannibal says simply.
Will’s eyebrows raise slightly. He shuffles a bit closer to Hannibal, facing him fully. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I am quite capable of handling myself. And, your rest is important.”
“Both of us are capable of hunting alone as well, but I still prefer to go together,” Will returns.
Hannibal inclines his head, as though genuinely considering the words. When he doesn’t say anything, Will presses on.
“Does it usually happen at night?”
“Occasionally,” Hannibal responds.
This gives Will pause.
Does that mean Hannibal is avoiding him while in little space, on purpose?
Hannibal has entrusted Will with various facets of vulnerability that no one else will ever be privy to. But is this where Hannibal draws the line?
“How long were you on suppressants?” Will asks him.
“My entire adult life,” says Hannibal.
Will blinks, taken aback. “Some might call that…an unacceptable medical risk,” he notes.
“I suppose doctors never were particularly good patients,” Hannibal muses. He almost seems amused.
Will leans back against the couch, not pressing further despite the distinct urge to do so. His mind reels with the newfound information. If Hannibal has been on suppressants his entire adult life, that means he’d never actually experienced a natural drop, until he’d gone to prison. Perhaps he wouldn’t have even had answers to the questions that plagued Will during his initial visit. Will may not be as in the dark as he thinks he is, at least relatively speaking.
He spends the next few minutes staring, almost absently, as Hannibal finalises his sketch. After a while, he closes the book in his lap and sets it aside.
This is not going to do at all, he decides.
—
Will doesn’t bring it up for a while.
With time, he feels out that Hannibal seems to disappear from their bed every fortnight or so. He doesn’t follow Hannibal out, no matter how much he wants to. When Hannibal is out during the day, Will goes through all the cracks and crevices of the house and begins to realise that Hannibal doesn’t have very many actual little supplies. Apart from his art supplies, if that can even be counted.
Whenever Will is out for food over the next few months, he makes a point of buying at least one little item and hiding it away. It doesn’t take long for him to amass a decently sized collection of supplies.
He still doesn’t know Hannibal’s exact little age range, so he makes sure to cover most of his bases.
Will waits until Hannibal’s fortnightly drop is coming up. While Hannibal is out, he takes out his collection of little supplies and re-arranges their living room. He pulls the coffee table out into the centre of the room and surrounds it with pillows, scattering art supplies and toys all over it. Then, he arranges plushies and blankets on the couch, he sets a bottle, a sippy cup and a packet of pacifiers on the counter. He makes up a dozen brigadeiros and places them in a plastic kids bowl, setting that on the coffee table too.
He walks a few circles around the room before he’s satisfied, taking a seat on the couch between the plushies and pulling out a book to kill time until Hannibal comes back.
As it turns out, that time would be relatively short. About five minutes after Will sits down, he hears their car pull into the driveway. He listens as Hannibal cuts the engine, opens the boot to grab his bags, and approaches the front door, footsteps crunching on the gravel. When he opens the door late afternoon sunlight pours in with him, and Will hears his footsteps come to an abrupt stop near the entryway.
He looks up from his book, watching Hannibal’s expression closely. For the time being, all he can see is muted surprise.
“I know you’re due for a drop, so I set up a few things for you,” Will says, casually.
Hannibal takes a few slow steps forth, setting his bags down on the floor. “May I ask how you’ve surmised that?” he says, as his eyes flicker across the room.
“Observation. And instinct,” Will says simply.
Hannibal’s gaze finally settles on him again. “You are unusually persistent about this,” he notes. “Paternal, I might even argue. Unresolved feelings regarding Walter? Or Abigail?”
“Unresolved feelings regarding you,” Will corrects. “I thought about you while I was with Molly. Alone, in that cell.”
“Pity, then,” Hannibal says, brows furrowing slightly with a touch of disapproval.
“Not pity.” Will thinks for a moment. The realisation hits him in a rush. “…Jealousy, maybe.”
Hannibal’s brows smooth out, curiosity glinting in his eyes. “Jealous of who exactly?”
“Jack. Alana. The guards, the nurses,” Will says. Hannibal is eyeing him with a certain intensity now, almost like he’s attempting to avoid looking at the rest of the room. “I called the hospital one time and I was informed that you were unable to take calls. Wasn’t hard to guess why. They all knew, they… saw , before I did.”
“There is nothing there to be jealous of,” Hannibal says.
Will hums, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. He disagrees, of course. But that’s not the point right now. He stands up from the couch and sets his book down, walking over to the bags Hannibal had brought in.
“I’ll put this stuff away. You can sit down.”
Hannibal eyes him for a long moment, and Will can practically see the gears in his head turning, the carefully masked apprehension. He knows it can’t just be the vulnerability of dropping with Will around; Hannibal has had no qualms about allowing Will to see him vulnerable over the past few years. There’s something deeper operating here that intrigues Will.
Regardless, Hannibal seems to acquiesce for the time being, lowering himself to one of the pillows around the coffee table and scanning over the art supplies. Satisfied, Will brings the bags into the kitchen, putting away the food and giving Hannibal some space to settle. He makes himself a coffee, sipping at it for a couple of minutes before making his way back out to the living room.
Hannibal is still sitting at the coffee table, one of several notepads laid out before him. He’s just examining the packet of oil pastels when Will comes in, and his gaze snaps over immediately, following Will as he sits down on the couch. Will sets his cup of coffee down and picks up his book again. When Hannibal continues to stare at him, he looks up from his book.
“I won’t engage with you if you don’t want me to, but I’m not leaving,” Will says firmly.
Hannibal considers this for a long moment, clearly weighing the words up in his head. He inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Very well,” he says.
Will nods and returns his gaze to his book, satisfied. He stays true to his word and doesn’t try to approach Hannibal or talk with him, he simply reads his book and occasionally reaches over for a sip of coffee. Still, he doesn’t allow himself to become completely absorbed, remaining aware of Hannibal as he draws with his oil pastels.
With time, the afternoon sun begins its descent towards the horizon, and Will’s coffee mug slowly empties. In his periphery, he notices Hannibal move, getting up from his pillow and settling on the nearby armchair instead. Then, a few minutes later, he moves again, shifting positions on the chair as he draws.
At some point, Will looks up from his book to find that Hannibal is gazing at him again. There’s a softened quality to his expression that hadn’t been present earlier. Will almost says something, almost asks if Hannibal is alright, but he restrains himself. Instead, he gets up to turn on the standing lamp in the corner, chasing away some of the darkness that’s starting to gather as afternoon fades into evening. He lingers by the window for a moment, looking out at the darkening sky. In the faint reflection of the glass, he can see Hannibal, still watching him. To anyone else, perhaps the unblinking attention would’ve been disconcerting. Will has no such qualms.
He turns and walks back towards the couch, taking his seat between all of the plushies and picking up his book. Just as he’s starting to get back into it, he notices Hannibal move again, standing from his chair. At first, he thinks Hannibal is just moving back to the coffee table. He quickly realises that Hannibal is, in fact, creeping up towards him. Will barely suppresses a smile.
It’s only when Hannibal is standing in front of the couch that Will finally looks up, giving him a questioning look. Hannibal stares for a moment. Then, he removes the plushies next to Will and wordlessly sits down beside him. He hesitates just a moment longer before carefully leaning into Will’s side, causing a smile to break out on Will’s face. Will places a bookmark in his book and sets it aside, leaning back against the couch and loosening up a bit so that Hannibal can sag further into his side. He winds an arm around Hannibal’s back, letting out a sigh.
“Was that so hard?” Will murmurs, finally breaking the silence.
Instead of responding, Hannibal just turns his head into Will’s neck, one of his hands coming up to clutch at Will’s shirt. Will runs a gentle palm over Hannibal’s neck.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Will says, unable to conceal how pleased he is.
There are a few beats of silence. Then—
“Can’t finish my drawing,” Hannibal murmurs, which gives Will pause because oh shit, he sounds young. Younger than Will had been anticipating. The tone, the cadence, it’s still undeniably Hannibal, but his voice is slightly higher, slightly thinner, a certain softness filling out the syllables that isn’t usually there.
Will’s tone naturally dips into something softer too. “Why not?” He asks, tilting his head slightly so he can see Hannibal’s face.
Hannibal thinks for a long moment. Then, he untangles himself from Will and gets up, walking over to the coffee table to grab his notepad and the packet of oil pastels. He pads back over to Will and sits down, placing the open notebook on Will’s lap. He looks at Will expectantly.
Will hums. “Alright, let’s see.”
He looks down at the drawing, taking it in. Hannibal has seemingly started from the outer edges and worked his way in. Strokes of oil pastel form the outline of a dense forest, with one strip of evening sky visible at the very top. The shades become warmer towards the centre and the strokes become a bit messier, but the colours abruptly stop, leaving a narrow ring in the middle. In the ring, he seems to have used pencil to sketch out the outline of a large wooden pole, with two…silhouettes? Will tilts his head slightly. As he looks, the colours and shapes take on a form he recognises. Jan de Baen, 1675. The corpses of the De Witt brothers. Hannibal has shown him this painting before.
“Looks like it’s almost done,” Will notes, treading carefully. Despite Hannibal’s proclivities as an adult, he’s unsure how this would reflect in a younger headspace, especially since his natural drops have only started relatively recently. During Will’s visit to the hospital Hannibal had told Will there was nothing to reconcile, but…is there still some sort of innocence Will needs to protect here? Is Hannibal no different to other littles in that way?
Will goes to ask why Hannibal can’t finish the drawing, but he stops when he notices the faint overlapping pencil marks within and around the two corpses, like Hannibal has drawn and erased the details multiple times. Depending on how young his little headspace is, maybe his fine motor skills are impacted.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” Will tells him instead. “Do you mind if I have a go?”
Hannibal nods, watching Will with curious eyes. Will rifles around in the packet of oil pastels for a moment before pulling out a maroon-looking red. Slowly, he begins to fill in the sketched silhouettes with red, using soft, short strokes. He glances over at Hannibal a few times, making sure the boy doesn’t object. When Hannibal merely continues to watch, Will continues to colour in until one of the silhouettes is completely red.
Hannibal scans over the drawing for a moment. Then, he holds out a hand. Will gives him the red pastel, watching as Hannibal begins to colour in the other silhouette, mimicking Will’s careful strokes. Will smiles ever so slightly, shifting so that Hannibal can come in closer to his side again. He grabs a brown oil pastel from the packet and starts on the pole, filling in the sketched lines.
“Done,” Hannibal says after a couple of minutes, looking over at Will.
Will examines the other silhouette, nodding in approval. “Good job,” he praises.
He grabs a pale orange pastel and fills in the torch at the bottom, trying his best to blend some of the orange into the torch’s surroundings. Once he’s done, he puts the pastels back into the packet, pausing when he realises the red is missing. He looks over at Hannibal, quickly realising that his absent fidgeting with the pastel had ended up with him putting the tip of it into his mouth. He has to hide a small smile.
He’s starting to gather that Hannibal’s headspace may be on the younger side of things. For some reason, that fact has his chest clenching with something like tenderness.
“That one’s not for eating,” Will says gently. He reaches over to the coffee table, grabbing one of the brigadieros from the bowl he’d made. Then, he offers it to Hannibal. “Here, trade. You can eat this one,” Will tells him.
Hannibal considers this for a moment, before taking the brigadiero and giving Will the pastel. Will places the pastel in the packet and sets it aside, before wrapping an arm around Hannibal again, drawing him close. Hannibal shifts a bit until he’s comfortably tucked against Will’s side, eating his brigadiero.
Will looks down at the drawing, admiring it. “You like it?” He asks Hannibal.
Hannibal nods in affirmation. “Mm. Like it.”
“Me too,” Will says, giving Hannibal a small squeeze. “We’ll have to put it up somewhere.”
Will gently closes the notepad, setting it aside on the coffee table with the pastels. He grabs a dog plushie from beside him, holding it up for Hannibal to see. “Do you like these? This one’s my favourite.”
Hannibal stares at the plushie for a moment. He then proceeds to grab it from Will’s grasp and put it behind him, away from Will’s reach. A faint smile twitches on Will’s lips at the action, his eyebrows raising slightly.
Maybe the jealousy goes both ways.
“Oh, is he hiding from me?” Will says, furrowing his brows in feigned confusion. “I wonder why.”
Hannibal blinks. Then, he grabs the dog plushie and drops it behind the couch instead, even further away.
Will makes a show of peering around behind Hannibal, feigning further confusion. “And now he’s gone. Hmm, I guess that’s alright. Still got my actual favourite,” he says, giving Hannibal another squeeze.
Hannibal settles against him again, seemingly satisfied. Will grabs another plushie from beside him, a large owl this time
“Here, what about this one?” he prods. He flaps one of the owl’s wings upwards a few times, and Hannibal’s eyes follow the motion.
Slowly, Hannibal reaches out and takes the owl, raising both of its wings, then lowering them and giving them a small squeeze. He runs his fingers along the Owl’s faux feathers, patting it gently. Then, he hugs the owl to his chest, resting his cheek against it.
“There we go,” Will says, giving the owl a small pat. “She’s soft, hm?”
Hannibal nods, nosing at the owl’s head. “They’re quiet,” he says, tipping his head up to look up at Will.
“Owls are pretty quiet,” Will agrees.
“Mm. And then…” Hannibal moves the owl forward in a swift, almost jabbing motion.
“They pounce,” Will finishes, smiling slightly. “They’ve got sharp beaks, too.”
“Like me,” Hannibal says.
“Oh, do you have a sharp beak too?” Will questions, amused. He makes a show of moving around, viewing Hannibal’s face from different angles. “I don’t see a beak. Unless…oh, hold on, I see something.”
Hannibal blinks a few times, gazing at Will curiously. Will slowly reaches behind him and grabs the first plushie he feels, drawing it towards him. Based on the floppy ears, he surmises it’s the stuffed bunny.
“Oh yeah, I definitely see something,” Will continues seriously, “it’s…oh, I think it’s…a hungry bunny!” he gasps, pulling the bunny out from behind him and using it to gently nip at Hannibal’s face, pressing the bunny’s nose against his cheeks.
Hannibal face scrunches up slightly as he ducks away from the gentle onslaught, something heart-stoppingly close to an actual giggle escaping him. He lifts the owl up to his face to protect himself, causing Will to chuckle as he withdraws.
“See, it’s not just the hungry owls you gotta worry about,” Will tells him.
“Wasn’t a beak,” Hannibal says, still holding the owl in front of his face
“You’re right, that wasn’t a beak…hm, maybe I should have another look?”
Hannibal shakes his head, shaking the owl along with him.
Smart boy, Will thinks, amused. He raises his hands in surrender and puts the bunny away.
“Alright, alright, the bunny isn’t hungry anymore.”
Hannibal lowers the owl to his chest, hugging it close as he leans back against Will’s side again. Will wraps an arm around him, gently rubbing his shoulder.
“What about you, though, mister sharp beak? Are you hungry? Should we make some dinner?”
Hannibal thinks for a moment. “Mm, what?” he questions
“What could we make? Well…I was thinking I could make spaghetti and meatballs, since we still got that leftover pasta and sauce you made the other night,” says Will.
When Hannibal’s expression turns thoughtful again, his brows furrowing slightly, Will gives him another playful squeeze, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“Is that acceptable?” he questions.
A small smile breaks out on Hannibal’s face, and he gives a small nod. “Yes,” he agrees.
“Alright, good,” Will says, smiling faintly in return. “C’mon, then. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
Will gets up from the couch and holds out a hand to Hannibal. Hannibal takes it, still clutching one of his owl’s wings in his other hand. Once they’re in the kitchen, Hannibal hoists himself up onto the counter, sitting his plushie on his lap as he watches Will flit about the kitchen, retrieving the ingredients he needs. Will sets a cutting board and a knife down on the counter next to Hannibal.
“Alright,” he says, as he pushes the sleeves of his sweater up, “we need to make the meatball mixture first, so I gotta chop a few things up.”
Hannibal nods, watching as Will grabs the bulb of garlic, using the tip of his knife to pry one of the cloves away. As Will begins to peel and chop it up, in his periphery he notices Hannibal pick the bulb of garlic up and begin carefully prying more of the cloves away, setting them at his owl’s feet. Once he’s pried a few away he sets the bulb down, too, watching as Will finishes chopping his current clove up. He moves his owl forward, pushing one of the cloves towards Will.
“Is he helping?” Will asks, amused as he picks up the clove.
Hannibal nods, and Will gives the plushie a small pat on the head.
“Well, tell him I say thank you.”
“Sharp beak,” Hannibal says, lifting one of the owl’s wings in a small wave.
“Sharp beak? Is that his name?” Will questions, as he sets about peeling the next clove.
“Mhm.”
“Alright, well tell Sharp beak I say thank you,” Will corrects.
Once he’s done with the garlic, Will moves on to the herbs. At first, he grabs a rough handful of fresh oregano and starts chopping, but he sees Hannibal’s brows furrow slightly as he watches on. Hannibal reaches over the takes all of the bunches of herbs, sliding across the bowl for them too. He starts carefully pulling the leaves from their stems, and placing them in the bowl. Once Will is finished chopping up his handful of oregano, Hannibal uses Sharp beak to nudge the bowl towards him.
“Thanks, Sharp beak,” he says affectionately, as he grabs a few more handfuls from the bowl and begins to chop them up.
Will places the chopped herbs in a larger bowl, along with all of the other ingredients for the meatballs. Before he starts to mix everything, he retrieves a plate and places it down between him and Hannibal.
“Do you wanna help me make the meatballs?” he asks.
“Yes,” Hannibal agrees, shuffling a little bit closer on the counter.
“Alright. Maybe we should put Sharp beak a bit further away so he doesn’t get dirty,” Will says.
Hannibal thinks for a moment before nodding in agreement. He places Sharp beak on his other side, shifting into the plushie’s place.
“Good boy. Maybe we should roll up your sleeves too, huh?” Will says as he steps forth. “C’mere, I’ll roll ‘em up for you.”
Hannibal holds his arms out to Will, who carefully takes the bottom of Hannibal’s sweater sleeves and rolls them up to his elbows.
“There we go, that’s better,” says Will, as he steps away again. “Alright, let’s make those meatballs.”
Will starts by stirring the mixture until it’s well combined. Then, he uses a spoon to scoop out a bit of it, rolling it into a ball with the palms of his hands. Hannibal watches him closely, then follows his lead and scoops some into his own hands, brows furrowing slightly as he concentrates on rolling it gently between his palms. Once he’s done his expression smooths out a bit, and he shows Will his meatball.
“Good job,” Will says approvingly, “you can put it on the plate with my one.”
Hannibal gently lowers his meatball down next to Will’s, looking down at the pair of them with a tiny smile. Then, he reaches over to start on his next one.
It takes them about ten minutes to go through all of the mixture, and they end up with a decent pile of meatballs on the plate.
As Hannibal is finishing up his final meatball, Will pops over to the sink to wash his hands. Once he’s done, he heads back over to Hannibal.
“Now let’s go to the sink and wash your hands,” he says.
Hannibal nods, and Will hovers a hand by his side as the boy jumps down from the counter. Will leads him over to the sink.
“Alright, rinse off your hands first and then I’ll get you some soap,” Will says, as he turns on the tap, quickly testing the temperature.
Hannibal holds his hands beneath the water, rinsing them off. Once he’s done, he looks at Will.
“That’s good. Hold out your hands for me,” Will says.
Hannibal holds out his hands, and Will squirts some soap into his palms, watching as the boy washes his hands.
Once Hannibal’s hands are clean and he’s sitting back up on the counter with Sharp beak in his lap, Will starts the process of putting on the water for the pasta and cooking the meatballs. Just as he goes to put the sauce on, he sees movement in his periphery, and he turns to find that Hannibal is absently nibbling on the stuffed owl’s ear tufts. Will shakes his head slightly, walking back over to the boy.
“Here, how about I get you a pacifier so you don’t have to eat Sharp beak, hm?” he says.
Hannibal smiles slightly at the words, still with the owl’s fuzzy ear tuft in his mouth. Will sighs slightly, amusement tugging at him.
“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” he says, as he rounds the counter to grab the packet of pacifiers he’d bought. He picks out the blue one and runs it under some water before offering it to Hannibal.
“Can we trade?” Will asks him, holding out the pacifier.
Hannibal considers this for a long moment, gazing at the pacifier curiously. Slowly, he pulls away from Sharp beak, parting his lips slightly so that Will can slide the nub of the pacifier into his mouth. Hannibal sucks on it tentatively, as though feeling the sensation out, which makes Will frown slightly.
He’d never actually asked what sort of supplies Hannibal had received while at the hospital, and he certainly hadn’t found any pacifiers tucked away in the places they’d stayed since their escape. Is this his first time using a pacifier? It was surprising and a bit galling, considering his seeming age range.
“Good trade?” Will questions after a few moments.
Hannibal nods, his expression slackening a bit with contentment as he sucks on the pacifier, setting Sharp beak back down on his lap.
Will gently ruffles Hannibal’s hair, smiling slightly as the boy ducks away.
“Good,” he says. “You wanna play while I finish dinner?”
“Help,” Hannibal protests, with a bit of difficulty, his voice a bit garbled.
“You and Sharp beak already helped, remember?” Will reminds him. “I just need to cook it now, that’s all.”
Hannibal’s expression scrunches up again slightly, a crease forming in between his eyebrows. Will reaches out instinctively, gently smoothing his thumb over the crease.
“C’mon, I’ll get you set up, hm? You can play for a bit,” Will coaxes softly.
Hannibal’s expression visibly softens again. He squeezes Sharp beak tightly for a moment, then he nods.
“Play,” he garbles out, his voice soft.
“Good boy,” Will praises, “down we get, then.”
He holds out a hand to Hannibal, helping him down from the counter. Then, he leads Hannibal back over to the living room, coaxing him to sit down on the couch.
Will goes and retrieves a handful of baby toys from the coffee table, including a set of variously textured balls and blocks. He sets it all down on the couch beside Hannibal, giving him a small smile.
“Just call me if you need anything, alright? I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Hannibal nods, gazing down at the toys. He slowly reaches out and grabs a fuzzy ball, squeezing it in his palm. He sets it down in front of Sharp beak, nudging the owl towards it. Will smiles again as he turns and returns to the kitchen, checking on the progress of the meatballs and the sauce.
For the first few minutes, Will checks on Hannibal frequently, poking his head around the corner to see if Hannibal is still okay on his own. Each time he looks, Hannibal still seems content squeezing a ball or piling a few blocks on top of one another.
He can’t deny that of all the feelings tangled up inside him at the sight, surprise is still among them. He had, of course, spent years thinking about what Hannibal might be like while little, had thought about seeing him, even caring for him in some way. And while he can see Hannibal’s adult side reflected clearly in his little side, he still seems so… young . The severity of the protectiveness that clenches inside of Will almost takes him aback. Reminiscent of the way he’d felt about Abigail yet distinctly different, not weighed down by the same crushing guilt.
Eventually, Will gets sucked back into finishing up dinner, taking a brief break to pour himself a glass of cachaça. By the time he has let everything simmer and strained the pasta, his glass is empty and the sky has fully darkened outside, his reflection growing increasingly opaque in the kitchen window.
Will turns off the heat for the sauce and heads towards the living room to get Hannibal settled at the table. Except, as he approaches the couch, he promptly notices that Hannibal is now drawing. Not on his notepad, not on a piece of paper, but on the inner cover of an actual book. Which is strange, because Will hadn’t even heard him get up to grab said book. He cringes immediately and quickly moves forth.
“What are you drawing?” he questions, keeping his tone calm.
Hannibal looks up, his pacifier still in his mouth. He reaches up to take it out. “Sharp beak,” he says, as though it’s a perfectly logical undertaking.
Will gazes down at the drawing, which is, indeed, a pretty impressive rendition of Sharp beak, particularly in the colour choice. Still, there's an obviously childish quality to it, the lines a little wobbly and the proportions a little bit off. Will presses his lips together for a moment.
Well, at the very least, he knew not to draw on any of the actual pages.
“Why didn’t you use your notepad?” Will questions, keeping his tone curious.
Hannibal tilts his head slightly, thinking. “Wanted to be in it,” he explains. His voice is soft, a bit thinner than usual, but it still has that same reasonable cadence that Hannibal always responds with.
Will barely suppresses a smile. “Did he?”
Hannibal nods. He looks back down at his drawing, then closes it so that Will can see the cover. “Can we read?”
Will tilts his head slightly, examining the cover. The Lives of the Twelve Caesars, by Suetonius. Not your average kids’ book, but Will is certainly not complaining.
“Sure, we can read it after dinner. Next time, Sharp beak is gonna have to settle with being in your notepad, alright?”
“Mkay,” Hannibal agrees, a touch reluctantly. He puts his pacifier back into his mouth and sets the book aside, grabbing Sharp beak.
Will smiles. “Alright. Let’s go have dinner.” He holds out a hand for Hannibal to take, helping the boy up from the couch.
He leads Hannibal over to the dining table in the kitchen, getting him settled on one of the chairs with Sharp beak. He feels Hannibal’s gaze following him as he walks over to the kitchen, retrieving a pair of bowls from the cabinet. He spoons out two servings of spaghetti and meatballs, pausing when he goes to retrieve the cutlery. He decides to just grab one pair of cutlery, chopping up the contents inside Hannibal’s bowl into small, manageable pieces. After shaving some parmesan onto both servings, he brings them over to the dining table, pulling up a chair beside Hannibal, rather than opposite him.
“Here we go,” Will murmurs, as he sets both bowls down. “You and Sharp beak comfy?”
Hannibal nods, flapping one of Sharp beak’s wings. Will smiles slightly.
“Alright, good. Can Sharp beak hold onto your pacifier for a bit?”
Hannibal takes his pacifier out of his mouth and sets it down on the table in front of Sharp beak. Will makes a mental note to give it a quick rinse before Hannibal uses it again. He uses the fork to scoop up a small bit of Hannibal’s food, blowing on it gently.
“Open up for me,” Will coaxes.
Hannibal complies immediately, opening his mouth so that Will can feed him. He hums softly as he chews.
“Good?” Will questions.
Hannibal nods enthusiastically.
“Good,” Will murmurs, a touch relieved. He takes a bite from his own bowl.
Will goes back and forth between feeding Hannibal and feeding himself, a certain stillness settling in the air. Unlike the stillness that used to claw uncomfortably at Will’s insides, this one leaves Will feeling centred. The warm light inside the kitchen, the darkened night outside, the occasional flurry of wind.
Once they’re finished with dinner, Will starts to clear the bowls away, putting aside some leftovers for the following day. While he’s at it, he takes Hannibal’s pacifier and gives it a quick rinse before returning it to him. Will lingers by the table for a moment, gazing at Hannibal.
“Do you remember when you said you went away while I was sleeping?” Will asks, setting a hand on the back of Hannibal’s chair.
Hannibal, still holding his pacifier, lowers it slightly. “Mhm,” he says, craning his head to look up at Will.
“What did you get up to?” Will asks curiously.
Hannibal thinks for a moment. “Draw,” he says.
“Is that it? No toys?”
Hesitation plays across Hannibal’s face, as though he’s wondering whether there should’ve been anything else.
“That’s alright,” Will says, quickly. “I was just wondering, that’s all.” He gives Hannibal a gentle pat on the head. “How about we get you some milk, huh? Then we can read that book.”
Hannibal’s gaze brightens slightly, and he nods, setting his pacifier back down beside Sharp beak. Will can’t help but give a soft laugh.
“Alright. Give me two seconds,” he says, as he heads back towards the kitchen to make up a bottle.
Eventually, Will manages to get Hannibal situated on the couch with a warm bottle of milk, sharp beak tucked against him in his lap. Will has The Lives of the Twelve Caesars open to the first page on his lap.
“You ready?” Will questions, glancing up at Hannibal.
Hannibal, who’s latched onto his bottle of milk, merely gives a small nod.
“You sure?” Will teases.
Hannibal nods more enthusiastically this time, gazing at Will with a wide-eyed softness that Will is not sure he’s ever seen from him before.
He smiles. “Alright…let’s see. The Twelve Caesars, starting with Gaius Julius Caeser. Julius Caeser, the Divine, lost his father when he was in the sixteenth year of his age, and the year following, being nominated to the office of high-priest of Jupiter, he repudiated Cossutia, who was very wealthy, although her family belonged only to the equestrian order, and to whom he had been contracted when he was a mere boy.”
Will glances up at Hannibal again, only to find the boy already thoroughly enraptured, gazing at Will almost unblinkingly as he listens. Will presses his lips together as a wave of affection comes over him, entirely unbidden.
He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re such a sweetheart,” he murmurs. “C’mere.”
Hannibal’s expression flickers with surprise, but he seems happy to allow Will to pull him into a hug, wrapping an arm around him as he tucks his face up against Will’s chest. Will takes a moment to inhale Hannibal’s clean scent, nosing gently into his hair.
“Alright,” he says softly, satisfied. “…He then married Cornelia, the daughter of Cinna, who was four times consul…”
Hannibal seems content to continue drinking his milk, tucked against Will with Sharp beak wedged between them. As the evening dissolves into night, Hannibal gradually slumps further into him, his gaze a bit glazed over as he focuses on Will’s words. He casts about absently for his pacifier once he finishes his milk, and Will pulls it from his pocket, gently popping it into his mouth for him. He laughs slightly as Hannibal continues to cast about for the pacifier, despite currently having it in his mouth.
“You’ve got it, sweetheart,” Will tells him gently, smiling as Hannibal blinks a few times.
He starts to suck on the pacifier, his hand dropping back down and curling around Sharp beak again.
When it starts to reach around nine o’clock, Will notices that Hannibal’s eyelids start to droop, his grip on Sharp beak loosening slightly and his sucks on the pacifier slowing.
“Coming up with his troops on the banks of the Rubicon, which was the boundary of his province, he halted for a while, and, revolving in his mind the importance of the step he was on the point of taking, he turned to those about him, and said: ‘we may still retreat; but if we pass this little bridge, nothing is left for us but to fight it out in arms.’”
He feels Hannibal shift against him at those words, clearly interested yet losing the battle against fatigue. Will smiles faintly, rubbing Hannibal’s shoulder. “Hm…you know, I’m getting a little tired. How about we move to bed, then we can read about the bridge crossing,” he says.
Hannibal considers this, clearly weighing up the proposition in his head. Then, he acquiesces with a sullen nod.
Just as Will had anticipated, the moment he begins to read the rest of the story to Hannibal in bed, he’s out like a light, his head dropping sideways onto the pillow with a soft thud. Will smiles to himself and carefully moves Hannibal, fluffing his pillow and getting him into a more comfortable position.
Then, he sets the book aside and lays down beside him, holding his little one close to his chest.