Work Text:
thursday, january 12th
He knew they were bound to leave something at home.
They're standing next to a brightly lit vending machine, one with crazy contraptions and all the shiny little buttons that needed more money just to look at than to even touch. He's got his hands folded in front of him, coat tucked and knotted over as Will lingers on, going row-by-row through the square display.
His empath looks an absolute terror.
That tongue of his sticking out already, begging to be put right back into place. "If you hadn't rushed me out the door," he carries on from earlier, tapping two fingers to the liquid screen. Row twelve, column B. He steps aside because lord knows he wasn't paying for it. "You wouldn't even let me get my coat on."
Hannibal's smiling, already ahead of the game, black card thick between his fingers.
"Of course, darling." Airpods being three times the cost at an airport of course. But he's not even looking at that. "All daddy's fault. He will endeavor to better in the future." He's smiling because Will's only focused on him and not the hundreds of other passengers filtering by, the ones the empath usually hates.
"Though I must admit it would be helpful it you hadn't decided to stay up well past your bed time."
Will's already escaped the prospect of ageplay though, for now at least. He's on his haunches with his hand jammed inside the little door of the overpriced vending machine. Finally.
He hates traveling without some sort of firearm in his arsenal— Hannibal, a gun, his right hook. Airpods.
"Not really feeling it right now," he admits when he's standing again. He's got the small cardboard box pushed forward. Hell if he was doing all the bluetooth and setup crap either. How on earth was Hannibal trying to blame this on him?
"Come on. They're going to board soon. I want to get a coffee before. A good coffee, not the two-day old kind."
The doctor's got his coat in one arm now, holds a small rolling luggage between the two of them with the metal handle pressing against his fingers and the square white box in between. "Will," he's smiling as they're walking. "We're in first class."
He has to physically stop the pet name honey from prying out of his mouth and attaching himself to the end.
"Plane coffee," Will explains again, as if he's trying to teach a child even younger than him. "Plane coffee."
Hannibal can't really argue that and so he just holds Will's hand instead. "Have you been to Ireland before?"
They're walking in tandem, each step matching the other. "No," is his answer but he continues on with it even after they're on an escalator. "A bunch of places throughout the UK when I was in college— summer trips, an internship. Nothing major though." Hannibal's got eyes on him and so he divulges even more when they step off the platform. "Wasn't for anything like a vacation or anything."
Hannibal wants to say I need to take you everywhere but instead the doctor goes for, "and even I can admit we are both due for one," instead and that's not even close enough to the truth.
He doesn't say I need to take you everywhere because the only thing he's focusing on actually saying is Will you marry me? but those words are behind his enamel just like honey was.
"What made you think Dublin anyways? Seems kind of random, even for you."
They're queue'd up for a small coffee shop, maybe five or six patrons deep and just shy of thirty from boarding. Most of the Amsterdam Schiphol Airport is quiet for this time of morning anyways— no one travels on the weekdays in the middle of January when the weather is both complete trash and absolute ass.
The raining is falling heavily too. Will can see it from the windows as passengers pass by.
Hannibal's got a packaged cookie in his hands. One shaped like a snowman with a blue scarf and a carrot for a nose.
If only he could get Will to eat his carrots.
"I haven't visited myself," he admits. They both end up ordering drinks. Something black, something sugary. They use their cover names but they don't really have to hide here, not like they used to. "I've had a lay over in the airport but it was neither an arrival nor a departure."
Will's had his eyes on the cookie the entire time. Hadn't bothered to watch Hannibal pay, hadn't watched him watch him right back with a knowing little smile either.
He hadn't been little in a week. "So new for both of us."
"As I feel all things with us are."
The doctor's not looking at him anymore, just watching as the barista works up the endless line of drinks. He's not one for anything but at-home coffee himself but he can appreciate the art.
His hand is almost ready to take his own drink. "But Dublin in January?"
Hannibal takes the cup first, arm much too long and his mind already ran off with a brilliant new idea of it's own. "Uh-uh." He holds the cup close to his chest, where it rests against the posh red fibers of his looped-around scarf, the one that Sinterklaas got him. "Potty first."
In the fucking queue! is all that Will can think when he says, "I hate you," even though they both know he doesn't really mean it. He's got his eyes closed, narrowed in fine lines, nails pinned into the denim of his Wranglers.
If Hannibal kept at it he was going to drag those same fingers into lines on his daddy's god-damned face.
It had been an entire week. "Come on."
Hannibal can only respond to that with a smile and simply resolves to carry both drinks in one hand, tails the luggage, the Airpods, cardboard box and all, and holds the sugar cookie by it's plastic between his teeth— the same teeth still ready to say: marry me, marry me, marry me.
The far end of the airport is just as quiet as the prior half, even more so where their gate is. They're not stepping in sync anymore, not since the coffee shop and not all the way to the end where British Airways departs. It's dead empty and it'll probably be half a flight, if that.
The clouds are still building and the rain is still falling.
There's even a Christmas tree still up at the end of the terminal. It's got it's pretty glowing lights still turned on too.
The agent's got his coat in his arms now, trying to shuffle between his belongings. "Here— hold this."
But Hannibal's still out of sync because he's two steps away already. "Let me take you."
Well. He doesn't need to be taken anywhere, thank you very fucking much. "Wait— Hannibal, I swear," he's up in arms just like he's up in his words. "I swear to fucking god," he hisses out and he doesn't even care if he gets spanked later on for it, much like he doesn't at all care about the five-year old little girl next to him whose most definitely not supposed to hear the word fuck. "You are going to be the god damned death of me." But he's already trying to catch up because they're fucking conjoined. "God damn it."
The doctor ignores it all and simply holds the bathroom door open for him after they arrive, a tight and polite smile painted across his face. Bright lights littered everywhere. "Here, I've got your coffee."
Like that's the issue. "Yeah and you're going to be flying alone if you don't shut up."
Will barely pushes past the cramped little door with Hannibal hovering nearby. He hates public bathrooms. Hates airports too now that he's thinking about it.
The door's already halfway closed when he moans, "Move," and he almost sounds like a cow with how he moos out the word. Hannibal even catches it and it only makes the empath slam the door even harder because he sounds like an idiot.
"Give me a minute. Christ. Just— fuck, we're in a bathroom."
Hannibal is on the other side, back to the plywood panel. He's got that little smile on his face, the one where all twenty-eight of his teeth show, sans the four lost molars that were pulled out when he was far too young.
He's looking at how they wrote the name Adam on the agent's cup. The letter m curls at the end like it's trying to smile too. "Let me know if you need help."
Someone enters from the side, far to the right, and the crazy thing is that the doctor thinks he would still say all the shit he's been saying even if they'd been there the whole time— and so he says even more. "Can you get your underwear down?"
On the other side of the door, Will's got his jeans v'd open at the zipper, one hand pushing down all the sides and the other trying to tug out his limp cock between the folds.
His cheeks are redder than the red of the sweater he had on. The one his daddy put on him. "A minute."
The sound of urine luckily replaces any response that Hannibal could start to give.
Will stands like that, one forearm braced against the bright blue tiles of the restroom wall, and the other straight out, holding the weight of his cock. He had to go so, so bad that he just can't help but rest his forehead against the length of his arm as he pisses, eyes closed in absolute bliss.
He tightens his fingers along the girth of his length as the stream stutters twice and his time starts to run out.
"Okay in there? It's been a minute."
Of course he's okay. Or something fucking like that. He opens his eyes and watches as the stream starts to dribble out and the water in the toilet bowl is no longer clear as day and instead all yellow-tinged, dirtied by his urine and his dirty, dirty thoughts.
A minute? A minute? He needed a god damned week.
He's got his fingers working the line of his tight whites when he answers. "Yeah," he says back and he doesn't know where in the hell this courage is even coming from because all of a sudden he's adding on, even quieter and even more childish than expected. "'M good daddy."
And god he knows it's absolutely dirty but he brings his right hand up, the one not trying to figure out what to even do with his dick, brings all five digits up and pushes two of them into the warmth of his mouth.
He wanted to wear a pull-up to the airport. Daddy had asked him but he said no.
(The entire house was painted in darkness and nothing but loud steps left and right as the doctor flew between the doors of the room, when Will had told him no. They were far too late and he never did well with issues that were within his control on either side of the ocean. Even the light from his phone wasn't helping because Will had forgotten to plug the damn thing in. "Daddy," he'd cried, barely able to hold onto Olive's paw and his pair of pink and yellow socks at the same time. The ones with the unicorns on them. "Don't want to wear one there. Please." And Hannibal had answered with a toothbrush jammed between his gums, foam all around just like a wolf. "Tell me dragon or else you're wearing one, Will," he'd said because he wasn't playing around with this, not with the day he was going to propose. "Tell me dragon or else get your bottom into one right now." And Will had just said "dragon!" with Olive at his mouth, the tuff of her neck wet from his tongue, "but I don't want to stop being little— just, not those, not at the airport. Too— too scared still.")
But fuck if he didn't want to wear one— so, so bad.
He's there with his fingers still wet but gone from his mouth and his own personsuit still on, dressed from head to tail just like Hannibal had dressed him at nearly four o'clock in the morning when they were already an hour and a half late.
"I'm done," he says quietly, eyes looking down to the tiled floor. It's checkered style and he likes that they used the colors green and purple because they remind him of his favorite blankie.
It all just comes on so fast. "Sorry I took so long."
He doesn't even know someone else is in here.
"That's alright." Hannibal is all smiles for days about that fact. "We've plenty of time." And the smug bastard is holding up the snowman-shaped cookie with his fingers like it's a fucking reward. "Wash your hands and I've got a treat for you." A fucking treat.
Will's reaction is priceless, all narrowed eyes and claws out like he's ready to attack in the middle of the Amsterdam's fucking Schiphol airport. "And if I don't?"
He's already two steps away from the closest sink and he's got half a gaze across to the only passenger left in the bathroom. It doesn't really make him scared or anything which makes him feel a little funny all over but it doesn't stop him from tapping the faucet on with a little more noise and a little more show than necessary.
"I've wipes." Same bastard is right besides him, watching as all ten of his fingers work through the flow of water. "Good job." Bastard.
His eyes follow the gentleman out, watches until he sees the little cane that the man's carrying makes it's way beyond the hollow of the exit and he's gone. "I said I wasn't little, Hannibal."
And hell if the doctor doesn't just start washing his own hands too. "Never implied you were."
When they finish, paper napkins and all, even Hannibal steering Will by the elbow to the exit, the empath can't help but yank the packaged treat from the doctor's hold, straight out between his index finger and thumb that usually holds so much tighter around him.
Hannibal leads the two of them despite the little display, rolls the suitcase himself because he knows Will wasn't going to do it anyways.
He's got his eyes on the gate's televised screen when they're at a stop, a fresh distance away from a majority of the crowd huddled close. "Probably three or four minutes." He eyes his watch, glances back up and then over to the younger. "Are you sure you have everything, darling?"
Even before ageplay it was the one name that Hannibal had loved on, had brought right over and made it fit in like home.
"Yeah, yeah—" and he doesn't add his own pet name back because he's just not really in the mood. "Yes, Hannibal. For the fifth time today— I have everything."
"Mm." And the doctor only offers the sound because, for his own amusement, he'd have it no other way. "Except your Airpods."
And if that amusement ain't a fucking flower. "Except my Airpods." His smile is tight and he's staring right up at Hannibal, looking at him as if he's ready to ask: problem? Whatcha gonna do, daddy? Stab me? "Do I have a window seat?"
What else is Hannibal to do but smile right back, all twenty-eight of 'em again, the wolfish canine-looking one the shiniest of them all. "Of course, darling." He holds the younger at the elbow again, guides him to the queue nearest left where least patrons are and a red velvet carpet screams their names— their false names— in welcome. "You even get your own bed by the window."
A bed on the plane and Dublin in January. If that isn't the life. "What? Hannibal. Hannibal. It's barely over an hour flight. A bed? Jesus, I don't even know with you sometimes. Hell, I'm don't even want to ask," and he's all but sighing through the words, rubbing at the bridge across his nose.
He's got half a nerve to put on his glasses. "Are you going to set them up for me?"
And isn't he just a treat in life— in Hannibal's life— the one before and the one after.
"Soon." He's got both of their passports, Adam and Loren, between his index finger and middle finger, offering them to the attendant and open at the fold. "Once we're settled, alright?"
On the plane itself—the really, really big plane as Will had said late last night, all tight and bundled into Hannibal's arms with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and the book of planes, trains, and all the large things spread in his lap, hands roaming over all the pages in pure, childish, fascination—he's in awe just as last night and it's probably why he has a hard time not sinking.
It's not like he hasn't flown first class before, well, once, but he's definitely not expecting all the fancy bits and bobs that this type of first class has. Not the short little female attendant with a bright smile and the bushy hair at least.
"May I take your coat, Mr. Chilton?"
And that had been a nightmare of an argument. "No, I'm fine, if you— no, thank you."
Hannibal's already got his coat anyways, folded on top of his own. "We'll be fine, thank you." He's smiling at her, smiling like he likes it. "However, if you could bring us a glass of champagne and can of ginger ale, we'd be appreciative."
Luckily most international attendants know their places and bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, Cynthia isn't any different. "Of course, Mr. Chilton. Take your seats and I'll be around in a moment."
Will's got his glasses on now, stolen from the pocket of his coat before it was pirated over. His entire body falls to the cushioned seat, not yet extended out as a fold back. He's had his eyes on the square LCD monitor though, all colorful in it's attempt to drag human attention away from reality. "There's not even enough time to watch a movie."
The doctor's tucking back his personal brief, two fingers at the same time unbuttoning the center of his three-piece. "I'm sure we can find something."
He's got eyes on the aisles after, barely a third full at the front and no one in the seats to the left or across, probably to remain the same with mostly all boarded.
No one in their right mind travels on a Thursday morning in the middle of wet-and-soaking January to vacation in Dublin.
"Can I help you find something?" The way that he says I instead of daddy feels foreign but while he's always ready to take Will apart, he wants to do it respectfully. He's on his haunches, knelt by Will's waist at the side. "I see some categories you might like."
Will's hesitant but it's not because of the not-feeling-little thing. Because he is. Feeling little. It happened earlier but he doesn't know exactly when. It just did.
He remembers the vending machine and how cool the glass was against his palm when he was deciding on a type of earbuds to pick out and he just couldn't believe he was allowed to have anything he wanted. He remembers that silly machine and he remembers the coffee shop too, how Hannibal got him the cookie—a packaged cookie—and shoved the thing between his teeth to carry it all the way over to him, carried it to him and called it a treat. No way he could forget something like that, not with the same psychopathic man walking him to the bathroom right after, because he wants to remember that most. It had to have been there because that's the last thing he remembers happening, pushing his undies down and peeing— the last thing he remembers before— before—
"Scared daddy," he whispers it because he really hasn't formally said it over a week (seven days in the week and then an extra three hours after that because last Wednesday was the actual last time, four in the morning, lazy and loud after sex— hadn't said it in a week).
He closes his eyes with his admission and folds his hands neatly in his lap at the same time. "I'm always scared."
His eyes have crinkles at the crow's nest corners. "And daddy wouldn't have it any other way."
He says it like he's ready to do anything.
"Sorry." Will's close to bringing those sneaky fingers up to his mouth again but the mental hard stop is just too there and just too jarring. They're on a plane. "You can help though."
His mother's mother's mother's ring sits heavy in his pocket. The one with the pearl at the center, from inside the heart-shaped jewelry box.
The one that makes he want to ask will you marry me in the middle of the aisle of an aeroplane.
The ring's inside a pretty pink box, velvet all around. It beats on the same pattern as the heart stammering inside of his chest right now. "Sure thing sweetheart." And he's on his knees now, grace all gone, index finger poking at the menu on the backside of the plastic. "Let's see what daddy can find."
And I said, "Romeo, save me, I've been feeling so alone."
Daddy ends up finding a decent selection of cartoons and movies, all of which somehow distract more of Will's attention than he'd like to admit, especially with him still being all a little huffy and puffy in the chest and the feelings.
He's got a can of ginger ale at least. That's one of his favorite drinks. He's allowed to have that type even though it's a soda.
His fingers have been playing with the edges of the seat-back pocket menu, a real fancy one, but only because he's not supposed to pick at his fingers, which, unfortunately, he really, really wants to do.
He just doesn't like that all of a sudden there are people in front of him and behind him too. "Dragons?" His voice is curious, quiet and soft. "Real dragons?"
The doctor's already queuing up the captions because the introduction's loading, both wild and captivating for the empath because daddy found him dragons. "It's only a little over an hour and a half, too. You might be able to finish if we start it now."
And Hannibal has to physically stop himself from proposing right then and there because God-above if he didn't love the hell out of this man. He's tried to show it every which way there is and he still needs to show it more.
There's only one other way that he knows how.
Will's eyes are sparkling then, long lashes making him look at least a decade younger, maybe even two. "Watch it with me?"
Will you marry me? "I'll start mine at the same time as yours. Let me finish with your phone and I'll have your sound ready."
And he's about a quarter through the movie when he watches Toothless and Hiccup touch for the very first first time, open palm to wet and friendly nose, welcoming friendship in a way that makes him tear up in his seat, self-ignorant of passengers left and right who probably couldn't be bothered to give a damn in the first place.
Makes him tear up so much that he has to look out the window, look out at all the fluffy, soft, white and gray clouds he saw earlier when they were thirty-thousand feet below and he took ageplay with him in the carry-on luggage.
The same kinda really, really soft clouds that he painted last week—Cirrostratus, daddy had corrected him—last week when he was little. Clouds like the ones that Toothless was flying through right now.
He wonders if he could see Toothless if he kept looking, thinks they might be high enough to catch him mid-flight.
"I keep waiting for you but you never come."
Will never sees Toothless but he sees everything else and even between the clouds,— the Cirrostratus clouds,— he sees Hannibal too.
*
But boy if that happiness ain't but all gone by the time the empath steps out of DAA, Dublin International Airport, because God forbid he forget something else.
God forbid he forget Olive.
He's got his hands in his hair, fingers twisted all the which ways. "I said I don't know!"
"But do you recall if you brought her out of the house with you?" Hannibal's got gloved hands on the steering column, all puffy and out of breath himself. It was Olive. "Baby, you've got to try and retrace your steps for me."
Olive. "I don't know!"
(Daddy had been twice his height when he was about six, when Pepper needed to be buried and the shovel was just a little too big for his helpless hands, when his daddy had told him no. Daddy had been twice his height and twice a man too. "No, no. Don't cry like a little girl, William," his daddy had said. He wasn't even that mean, didn't usually try to make him cry more. "You're a big boy now, Will. You know better. Come on— Pepper was sick. Real, real sick." Daddy had put his big cowboy hat that didn't fit his head at all right on top of the boy's head and buried the weight of it all underneath. It only made it easier for Will to hide his crying as daddy dug up that hole though, the one three feet deep and two foot wide, the one they both helped put Pepper into with a sheet over her back. "I want her back, daddy. I'm sorry I'm crying. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He'd sobbed and daddy forgave him because he had Pepper since she was just a pup and he was only six, only still supposed to be daddy's big, big boy. Daddy forgave him and sobbed too, just not because of Pepper.)
But fuck— he didn't know.
"Please," Will all but whispers, tearing up just like he did when Pepper died, all into the night before the burial and before his daddy had told him to stop. "Please, Hannibal. I need her." Never knew he needed a thing more.
It really should scare him.
"Will," Hannibal says only because he's got his hands in the satchel now, fingers pressing down into the seams as if a stuffed dog could hide there. "Will. If she's at home, there is nothing I can do. Do you think you left her at home? In the bedroom?" He even checks the inside fold, where Will's two pacifiers are hidden. She's not there either.
And it's just too much for even him, even little him. "I don't know," Will answers, tugging harder at his hair as if he's trying to tug himself out of this state, out of this littleness. "I can't remember. She was," and he hiccups because he's been holding back sobbing and sure, you can do that all you want to, but sooner or later it's still just gonna break it's way out. "She was with me last night— I don't know. Brushing my teeth. This morning."
The doctor's halfway in the back backseat though, barely able to piece out what Will is saying. He's got the roller open at the middle, spread out all the way across.
"Cereal," Hannibal looks up, looks over at his wild eye'd boy. "You had her with the bowl of cereal in the kitchen."
And then Will's looking up too, realization dawning. Olive.
He's neither little nor big when he explains it all out, fingers on the clutch of the Mustang. Red, like his sweater. "I washed the dishes and went to put on my shoes. She— I left her— I left her on the counter. By the stove." Like the red dishtowel he used to wash the dishes and wash her front paws.
"Will." The doctor all but pulls the boy into his arms, lets the entire mold of the agent sink in and into at the same time. "Will." He says it again because he doesn't know if he even said it a first time. "Will, honey."
He's got his hands and arms folded to himself, not yet crying but all the emotion there regardless, all the feelings coming to surface. His fingernails finger into his forearms on both sides. "I need her, Hannibal. Please."
The ring weighs so, so heavy.
He wonders if his mother's mother's mother looked beautiful dying too.
"I can fix this." He says. Says it all. "I can fix this, baby." And then says even more. "If you need this I will get on a plane and pick her up, Will. I don't know how long it will take me and I don't know the specifics but I will go get her if you need me to."
The air in the two-thousand and sixteen Mustang is static now. Something completely different because all of a sudden they're not just playing anymore.
It's not just coloring books and sippy cups and corner time and everything that Will's kept at his disposal but always by himself until now. Now that Hannibal's offering him even more.
He didn't even know there could be more.
"I can get her, Will."
"I know." And he does knows how much of a line that Hannibal is willing to cross, how much he's willing to go. He sighs when he says it again, "I know."
Besides them another rental car starts off, luggage thrown up and gears thrown in reverse to start a whole different adventure, one completely unrelated to ageplay and cannibalism and proposing.
"I'll be okay." He says it so softly, soft like the clouds from the sky outside the airplane's window. "I kinda knew already— kinda." He laughs a little and this time the unmistakable sound of crying is there. "When you asked earlier if I had everything. Before— before, uh, the plane. In Amsterdam."
Hannibal hums above, wonders if the empath needed this spell more than anything, needed a bit of catharsis to go along with ginger ale and half-eaten snowman cookie.
Wonders if his little boy is just as dirty and evil as his lamb is.
"I can still get her for you, Will." He says it against the younger's hair, into the messy stack of curls. "All you have to do is ask."
Will's sniffling, pushing a fist at his nose from underneath, still crowded in strong Lithuanian arms. "I know daddy." His thumb runs along the underside of his nostrils, just above the lip. "S'okay. I can be okay without her."
The doctor isn't thinking about the ring now, not with his little boy being so big and all. "And if you're not," he says softly, looking out through the glass pane and all the grays and basics of the airport garage, "just let me know. I'll do anything for you, baby."
He says it like he saying it to both little-Will and big-Will, because Olive or not, the message is just the same.
Come to think of it, the recipient is too.
*
At the hotel, Hannibal takes Will all gently and slowly, leaves the ring in his coat pocket and takes the empath to bed with his arms tied tight above his head.
He works him open with his fingers and mouth, leans his entire body over the agent as he tries to keep all the really gray clouds that seem to have followed them, far, far away.
And they'd tried to look in the hotel too. Tried to find something, anything, that Will could latch onto and come to peace with for the next few days. But the cat from the gift shop and the giraffe right next to her just didn't fit the mold of what the agent was trying to make, didn't quite give him what that little side of his needed very much so.
So Hannibal tries to find it instead, even though he knows he can't. Not with Olive. But he can fill the space in between, can reach his hand between the gaps like he taught Will to reach in between the chest wall cavity of their first victim together, palm cupped so that you don't tear at the innards or through the guts.
He reaches in and starts to pull Will from the inside out.
The space between their bodies usually holds Olive when they fuck like this, when Will's near the line of being more than just a little little and nowhere in the vicinity of being big at all. She's usually tucked in between that same line when Hannibal holds Will's cock with his sticky fingers but she's not there today. He doesn't feel her soft fur tickle over the back of his hand as he starts to work the younger's girth not does he feel her pointy little snout poke at him to go faster.
Will's got his back against the white duvet, legs parted to the side, open wide along the thighs so that Hannibal can lay out in between. And he knows Olive is gone too, not where she usually is against his chest, but he's not trying to think about that right now. Not with Hannibal's fingertip fingering at his slit.
Reaching in and pulling out. "Always so wet for daddy."
And they both know they're not going to make it much long after that. There's just too much pent up energy in the day still, too much chaos for a Thursday.
Hannibal doesn't even think he's going to be able to get it inside with how things are going. "You're just always so wet."
His fingers start to work Will with more intent then, works to find something that he can latch onto as he presses up and into the younger at the v of his groin. His own cock is hot and heavy between his own legs and he pushes up into the gap to try and ease some of the burden.
While there's usually music, there's none today, not in the hotel at least, or even the entire car ride on the way either. Will's cries are loud though, and they make up where the lyrics are unfortunately absent, perhaps left back at home sitting by Olive's side in the kitchen. She's going to need the company anyways. "I'm too close, Hannibal."
Not even a stuffed animal deserves to be alone.
"Let me get you off baby." His mouth is wet and wide against Will's throat as he plagues the skin with dozens of kisses. "Let daddy take care of you."
They move like this for longer, climbing and reaching together, reaching in and pulling out and then doing it all over again. Hannibal keeps his hand motion smooth and solid, works his fingers taut and tight as he sweeps the index finger harsh against the bottom side of the mushroom-shaped hooded head. It makes the empath hump upwards, flaunted out wide and dirty just like it sounds. Makes him try to get enough pressure off, try and take away some of the burden too so that maybe they can both find relief together.
It's just that Will is dirty too, just as messy and riled up, just like his daddy. Just like dad. He's got both his legs wrapped around Hannibal's waist, feet latched onto one another as they try and hold on.
He can even feel Hannibal hump into him right back, almost feeling like he could hang on enough to let the older line up and push inside. It's just— he's just— almost too close. The hand on his cock is working him so, so good and it's like he doesn't even have to climb anymore, like Hannibal's just doing it for him, doing it like he wished his dad would've. "Oh god, Hannibal—"
He's not even that little. Hasn't really been for a week. "Daddy— dad. Hannibal, I'm gonna, dad."
And Hannibal can feel it just enough too, carries him the rest of the way while he walks that same distance himself and comes hard into the space between Will's legs at the same time that the empath is receding in his own needed pleasure.
They make out like they move against the mattress, long past lunch and into the afternoon of the day, all the jet lag pulling them back into the sheets.
He has his heel rested against the inside of Will's calf and he's flat on his back, stroking through the younger's curls. "I am sorry about Olive, Will."
Will's on his side, arm thrown across the doctor's chest. "It's okay." He does mean it, he really does. He doesn't want Hannibal to fly cross country just for a dog. "I know she's fine. It's all that matters." Just for Olive.
And real or not, he'd do it. "Brave boy." He's still out of breath so it's hard to piece together all his thoughts before he speaks. Truth be told, he doesn't really do that anyways, not with Will. Not since after.
After the dragon and after the cliff. "Daddy's sweet, brave boy."
After ageplay. "Daddy can butter me up all he wants but I'm not getting out of this bed for at least an hour."
He's got two pillows braced on his backside, one from neck to mid-back and the other rucked just behind his bottom, just like he's all tucked in. He wiggles in even closer and catches an edge of Hannibal laughing. "I was going to offer two but there is a museum I thought to check out."
Will's on him then, energy found somewhere only after ageplay too, just like everything else it seems, both pillows included. "N-ope." He's smiling when he says it, braced on his forearms and fringe all sweaty still from the aftermath of sex. "Two. And since we're already having this conversation, why don't we already agree that said brave boy would do even better with three."
The empath's feet are kicked up, legs bent at the knee as they wave back and forth behind him.
"Lenient." Hannibal's eyes are playfully wide and he's got a cheeky little smile spread all the way across, cheek to cheek. "I've been trying to remember that word for weeks now. I'm too lenient with you."
And Will's grinning back, just like a Cheshire cat.
Just like daddy taught him.
"Tell me about that museum."
"Is this in my head? I don't know what to think."
He's so, so close to proposing right then and there too. The ring's right here. Maybe not physically in his hand, no, but he feels like the question will you marry me is so close from fumbling it's way out from behind his teeth that he has to, for once in one-hundred and sixty-two days, for once since Will wrote the word down in a circle and pulled everything from outside of that cardboard box, for once he has to think before he speaks.
So Hannibal tells him about the museum.
*
Hannibal lets him sleep until nearly six p.m. when the rain's just then starting to really hammer itself outside on the streets below.
Will's completely passed out, fumbled all across the bed like a toy. A stuffed toy named Olive.
And Hannibal had tried while Will was asleep, tried to search high and low for anything that looked like the canine plush, anything nearby that could even get close to it for purchase. But most toy shops were just starting to close when he had began his search and nearly all of them were surely shut down by now.
He really did feel bad. It felt like a daddy thing to do— to keep up and keep check, to make things right.
Daddy would just have to do a whole lot better.
At the lobby bar desk, he is also trying to do better. At least from keeping those super, super specific words from falling out of his mouth just yet.
Will's at his side, all itchy and wiggly like he always is when it comes to things like this. He just puts up with it because he knows sometimes it's better to keep a cannibal happier rather than sad so that you can keep your own life happy too.
Not that it was unhappy or anything. "We could have just ordered room service you know. Even you have to love room service on vacation."
Not really.
"True enough." His fingers are clasped over the edge of the wood top, curiosity piqued as he watches the open-faced kitchen breathe fire into the dining area. "But where would the fun in that be?"
And yeah, true, he's fine with sit down dinners, doesn't mind them all too much, it's just that Hannibal makes them dress all fancy but sometimes you just didn't need to be all that fancy, didn't need the confusing tie and the too many hard-to-do buttons.
Sometimes he just wants his favorites flannel and a good bowl of soup. Maybe a diaper. And Olive.
He cringes inwardly at the same time that the hostess makes her appearance, only seconds away from being able to hide his face behind Hannibal's shoulder because he's just not in the mood right now. Hasn't been since the airport.
Hannibal holds out the chair for the agent, let's him take a seat first even though he appreciates the host's gesture of doing the same, only smiles and sends her on her way without a word.
He can actually feel how heavy the ring is now that it's deep inside of his pocket, in it's little pink and velvet box.
Will's looking at his single-sheet menu, fumbling with the sides. "Not even that hungry."
Hannibal looks amused, has his own menu still to the side. "A few bites for me."
Around them it's just an open-faced kitchen and it's also a very Thursday night because it's pretty much just them.
January. Dublin. Showers. During a horrid travel season. On a Thursday.
"Maybe," is his answer, the tip of his tongue pointed out as his eyes start to seek out what he's craving. Something maybe not even on the menu. "Why here? Seems odd. I'd expect something fancier than a hotel dinner."
And maybe he'll just pull out the ring on a rainy Thursday night in the middle of January. "Rain."
He's got to get back on track with the think before you speak thing because doing the opposite just isn't working in his favor. "Rain tonight," Hannibal repeats himself and then even has to clear his throat because he needs just one more moment. Willyoumarryme? "I've ideas for the other nights but given how I already know you are with little sleep, I thought best to venture you far past the hotel lobby on our travel day."
Will can barely look at him from over his menu. He isn't even trying to hide the fact that he's trying to hide. "I'm not that bad." He's feigning offense but they both know it's very much real. "But thank you."
Hannibal's more than pleased. "You're welcome." His eyes are on his menu now, almost ready to lay those cards on the table just like at the hotel. The protein scramble. "They have breakfast for dinner."
The agent perks up at the idea, elbows on the linen of the table even though he knows he's not supposed to. At least not in fancy places.
"Yeah?" He asks and his eyes are on his own menu, the irisies scanning up and down. "What's it say it has?"
Hannibal ends up reading off practically the entire menu because Will makes him, makes him order his food for him too because, well, banana french toast or not, he's still in a mood.
They both order breakfast for dinner and Will eats more than just a few bites. He practically eats half of Hannibal's plate too.
The hostess, just like the flight attendant, minds her damn business. "I brought some other toys for you too."
Though maybe it is better if she did mind the business. "Hannibal," Will says through his teeth. They still have to get through dessert. "Not here. Not at dinner."
(And it's not even the first time, not least of all when Hannibal has told him no. But a no from Hannibal is not really a no, not a true no, not least with all the things like Gods and forgiveness and all those silly little things that exist out there. They'd been bent over the desk at the far back room of their house, all fresh and new from moving in from the place before, the reckless ocean that ate them and spat them both back out. Hannibal had four sheets of paper in one hand and Will had the rest of them in his, trying to make a point for the ninth time. "So basically no matter what happens, I can't go back until I'm nearly fifty. Not even if my dad died." He'd said it because he hadn't even mentioned ageplay yet, hadn't even thought of it with the stitches of the sea still fresh in his skin and Hannibal's mouth hot on his neck for the very first time. Hannibal only spoke against the same neck, showed him nothing like forgiveness and acted only like a God. "Forty-five, Will," he had answered because he was anything but a liar, Atlantic or not. "And not even then, no." Said no like it hurt him to say it, so Will just kissed him and brought all the silly little things instead.)
But fuck if he didn't like toys. Hell, he hates no's too.
But it doesn't really bother Hannibal. He doesn't see a problem with it. It's not like he's up and discussing diapers or pacifiers or even their only once, briefly, discussed plans for potty-training. At least not over dinner. "I brought a telescope too."
Will's eyes light up like the stars you'd see through one of 'em. "A telescope?"
He didn't even notice the sliced dessert arrive, not even with their small little forks on the side. Silly little things.
"A small one yes," Hannibal's face is glowing now that the night has fully settled. "But completely capable of seeing the stars. I know it's cold but the worst of the rain is still miles out. Would you like to try?"
He knelt to the ground and—
*
It's rather cold out and while it's usually just the rain this time of year, it's a mix of both cool rain and damp drizzle tonight. A type of cold where they both have to wear more than just a coat and they both have to keep their scarves wrapped up tight.
Hannibal keeps bunched up the most though, both hands tucked into his pockets with one tight around the square pink box.
The small telescope rests inside the smooth-backed satchel, criss-cross along the wide of his chest.
It's just a small thing really, but it's meant for the stars.
"You probably picked a bad time of year to go stargazing," Will admits. His own hands are jammed into his own pockets and he's trying not to think about Olive not being here with them. She usually keeps his hands warm when it's cold. "It's kinda cloudy too. Pretty moon though."
He wonders if she's going to be okay without him, if she needs her blanket that he got her for Christmas, that Sinterklass got her in her tiny little shoe he'd left out. Wonders if she doesn't have it if she'd catch a little puppy cold because daddy said that puppies get those sort of things super-duper easy and Olive was still a baby.
She didn't even have a vet.
"Probably," Hannibal admits. He's got his coat collar turned up so that his neck is protected against the breeze. His hairs longer now too, all olives and grays, touching near to his shoulders. "A quick stroll wouldn't hurt either. A chance to look at that pretty moon you mentioned." And he knows he's biding his luck but he adds it anyways, "and maybe we can see about those other toys too."
He keeps his stride but his face shows it's fury of thoughts from top to bottom. "Maybe."
They make it to the back half of the hotel, where the sidewalk swindles off and they're left with a road that leads further down, close to where it looks like it lets off into a park. Something with a lot of trees a least, something that looks peaceful in the dead of night.
The former agent doesn't really think you can see stars under all of these trees but he's a former agent for a reason.
Hannibal is holding him at the elbow, closer now that they're close to crossing a street. The city would be buzzing with noise if it weren't a Thursday.
"You know you don't have to be little to enjoy things about it." He's still got the cornered joint between his fingers even after they're passed the perpendicular lines of parked cars. "You are allowed to enjoy it even when you're not feeling that way."
The leaves under his feet make a wet crunch as he walks. "I know." He does know and he knows all of it's happening very rapidly. That it's happening more and more each and every day of the week.
There just weren't enough of 'em. "I know daddy." He sighs loud this time, pulls away from Hannibal just a little, but only in a way that shows he's actually thinking more than doing. "I think I'm still trying to figure it out." His fingers play inside of his pockets. "It can be confusing."
Hannibal's matching his pace. They make it into an underpath where a low hang of trees seems to hold much of the drizzle back.
"Would talking about it more help?" He hadn't asked before, tries not to pry because he knows how scary it can be for Will, for even him.
"Probably." He's not a liar either. Not a good one at least. "I've thought about it."
They slow down with their steps because the coverage affords them too much comfort. It feels warm underneath. "I wouldn't make it like therapy. There wouldn't be a day and time." He speaks in a hushed tone because sometimes he's scared of this too, just like Will is. It's not that he doesn't know what to do with it— just that he's never had something so important before in his entire life. Not even when Mischa was alive. Not even her. "I won't push with it."
This makes Will laugh. He's stopped now, hands more on his sides than deep inside his pockets. "Yes you would."
The doctor stops too, turns to face him. He looks rather beautiful all a bit wet and messy like this. Like he was meant for the cold and the rain. "Only a bit."
They end up taking another path the long way down. Dublin is weird like that they come to find, all windy paths and no one around. Seems like it would be a good place for things like killing. Or proposing.
"What would you even want me to talk about?" He's got a leaf on his fringe but Hannibal can't get it off until they stop.
He has to at least consider this one. The stakes are just too high. "The shame." He can't just say everything because he can't say will you marry me? just quite yet either. "I'd start there. I'd like to know why you like your thumb so much that you fight me endlessly on it too, though that's for more selfish reasons than for self-improvement."
It'd be much less confusing on the empath if those things weren't just so vastly different. Probably with a bit more sleep too. And Olive. "Shame's weird." He's not going to open that box yet. "The thumb came from my dad. He caught me with it."
The doctor's able to pluck the green-tipped blade from between strands then. "Were you in trouble?"
They're stopped again now. The path just circles back a few meters up and they either have to make the full trek or u-turn back. "He just told me no." He's got his lower lip worried between his teeth. "But it's the first time I remember him telling me that."
"Certain childhood events can be very visceral."
Will's smiling at that, knowing it applied to not just him. "Feels like all of them are for me."
And Hannibal almost rips the pink box out of his pocket right then and there. Will at his raw was always going to be what does him in. "No wonder you're trying to make new ones."
His eyes fall glassy at that. It feels like straight impact to his heart, some superficial charge you'd get in v-fib when you're finally fighting for your life too.
He's looking to the ground when he talks. "He didn't make everything bad. He stopped himself." Will you marry me? "I think you know that."
"I know," is what Hannibal whispers because he does know that, yet he still he wants to know more. "He never did."
The night is almost pitch black out now and although the doctor hasn't checked his watch in more than a beat, he knows it's got to be closer to the last hour of the day than the one prior.
"He made himself stop." The agent's still looking at the ground, right down at the shiny black tips of the dress-up shoes that his daddy had laced up for him because he hates laces. "He never let himself do more than want."
The rain is starting to come down again. The trees can only do so much. "He never touched you."
"Not like that," Will all but whispers. He's looking up at Hannibal now under those long lashes. He looks like he could cry.
It all makes so much sense. "It's okay that he wanted, Will. It's okay to have wants."
He sobs before he says it, cries it out like he cried out for Hannibal after the cliff. "I think it made me want him back."
The doctor can't respond before Will's got both of his hands in his face, palms open and pushed against the sockets as if he's scared they might just pop out. "Baby."
Will's shaking in his arms and he doesn't know where this all came from but it's just like, here, this is all I have to offer, take what you want with it, I've got nothing else. "I wanted him back."
They stand there in the open of the rain, all those heavy pellets pouting out over them in the flash and the flood of the night. They're both probably going to catch a cold— this was probably a horrid idea, and not just for the lack of stars.
He's going to have to give up his coat sooner or later. The one with the ring buried deep inside the right pocket. "We should head back soon."
The younger's quiver is enough of an answer. "Yeah," and it's even more subdued. He's a bit pink in his next admission. "I'm soaked." He hesitates but gives up the truth anyways. "I've to go to the bathroom." And then barely a whisper, barely there at all, "small."
He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring and said—
Even out in the rain, in the middle of Dublin, on a Thursday, could the empath make him do something like this.
His fingers are pushing down the box at the same time he starts talking, pushing it down even though all he wants to do it reach in and take it right back out. "Come now. Even daddy's soaked. Let's get you back inside."
Will you marry me?
*
Will's more embarrassed than he's worried about being wet after he barely makes it to through the hotel door to relieve himself.
It feels like he can even hear the sound of piss burn into his brain for all the thirty-seven seconds it takes to get it all out. He just had to go so, so bad.
Nearby, Hannibal keeps the ring tucked under his coat collar where it lays across the bedside table. He's having a hard time focusing on anything else.
"You haven't changed?" Will's got his hair practically knotted into a towel, trying to dry it off.
The cannibal looks up, still wet from head to toe. "Was waiting on you."
The doctor dresses him in different clothes tonight, ones that drown his entire body to the ground below.
The sweater— Hannibal's sweater— nearly eats him whole. The red threads remind the empath of the color of the Red Sea, all bloody and dark, the one that his daddy had an entire picture book on.
It's so large on him that he can barely see his pull-up hidden below it, barely peeking out between his thighs. His fingers try and work the hem down to hide it down the remaining stretch. "Come on, come on. I'm done, I'm good." His fingers are all over the doctor's trying to pull up his pajama bottom's— those, too, Hannibal's— pull them up even faster than the doctor can manage. "I'm good daddy. Daddy, I'm good. You change now, come on. Your turn."
Hannibal's barely got his own button down off before Will's already on the television, fingers tapping fast to flick through channel after channel.
He's even wearing a pair of Hannibal's socks. Gray ones that run too long on all ten of Will's toes. "Not tonight sweetheart. It's too late."
His fingers are still clicking though. He's got to find it. He just has to. "It's not even midnight." And then he's got an index finger in his mouth. "They've got the Disney channel here, daddy."
"And it will be here in the morning." His voice comes from the bathroom, just through the doorway. Will can't see him though, not when his eyes are on Mickey-freaking-Mouse. "Off. Not tonight. We can order breakfast in the morning and you can have your cartoons then."
The doctor's at his side, knee to the edge of the bed, chest bare, and his mind still bearing the weight of the last willyoumarryme?
"Oh come on." His sigh is heavy, eyes now more intent with the dissatisfaction peaking mild. "I'm not even going to be able to sleep, Hannibal. I napped almost all day. Let me watch for an hour." And of course he's looking over at the doctor with fucking doe eyes when he adds: "Please?"
The politeness almost makes him give in. Almost. His thumb glides over the backside of the monitor. "I said tomorrow, Will." The screen clicks black. "Let daddy brush your teeth for bed. Come now."
But even more than he hates when daddy brushes his teeth for him, he hates when someone turns off his cartoons. His Mickey Mouse cartoons. "What the hell, Hannibal."
The doctor still has his back turned when the remote goes flying, just to his right, smack into the wall.
It takes the same amount of resistance to not fall onto his right knee that it does to not take the boy over the other one right then and there.
He never thought he could love someone like this, not this side of the ocean, not the other, not like Mischa.
His eyes are hooded when he does turn around, watches as Will sits cross-legged, arms folded, and looking really pissed off on the center of he bed. Never.
"William." It's the first time Hannibal has ever used his name like that. "Come here."
But Will absolutely resists. He doesn't move at all, just sits there in the middle of the bed all drowned out in the doctor's clothes. He's got both his hands tucked into fists at his sides, bunched up, with the right still coated in a bit of his saliva from earlier. "No." His bottom lip is still slick and shiny from his spit too. "Don't want to."
The agent's hair is still all a mess too, wet and damp and stuck up every which way. It's a hard choice between giving it all up to put it back in place or to just put the boy in his god damned place.
There's very few things that Hannibal finds as interesting. Not a single thing more. "I'm only going to ask one more time, Will." His arms are crossed too and it's probably because it's nearly midnight and he still hasn't proposed that he's more than just a little out of patience. "Come here."
But he's not a fucking dog. "No." And to prove his point, the brat throws a pillow into the wall too. "I said: I'm— not— gonna."
The air in the room is different now, much more electrified than any of the other times they'd played. They'd done things, yeah, but even times like this were very far and few in between.
The doctor would only need a single hand to count the number of times that Will had been punished. And if that ain't that just a terrible thing. "Will," he says it because it really is, "you have three options and less than a minute to make it." Hannibal's closer now, arms at his side, parallel to the bed and to him. He's got that electrifying feeling pasted all over, even with that slicked-back hair that makes him look just a bit boyish too.
"You may safeword out if you need to, with your safeword." Their eyes match at that and Will's got his mouth parted because there's only so much that even he can take on a Thursday. "You can run if you'd like, though I will be twice as angry when I catch you." He stops again and that's probably the biggest mistake he could make because—
"What's the third? I suck your dick?" Those cheeks are red now, burnt all the way to his chest below. "Will I get cartoons after then, daddy?"
Yeah, the air is just fucking gone now. "Corner or else so help me I will drag you there myself." He's truthfully probably never been this angry with this Will before. Not even when the heathen put cornstarch in his hair. While he was sleeping. The day of the opera. "Now." For fun.
Will's got his hands by his side now too, all bunched up in the white duvet as if he's angry at himself for even listening to his daddy in the first place.
His bottom lip barely quivers when he talks and it's his slight-of-hand that carries more than his self-admitted guilt. "Fine." He's already off his bottom with his legs hanging off the edge of the bed. His feet barely touch the floor and the bottom edge of his training pants peek from below his— Hannibal's— sweater. "How long?"
"Now." The force of it and the lack of an answer is enough to make that quiver from earlier stay in fucking place.
The thrill of defying Hannibal is completely gone by the time his face is tucked towards the corner of the room. He wants to ask about the amount of time again but the narrow space in front of him is making his thoughts feel all weird and funny.
He wants to but all he can do is fight the urge to not put his thumb into his mouth. "Daddy."
And as if the heathen wasn't fucking whimpering while he was trying.
"Will. Quiet."
He stays there and counts the seconds that bleed into the first minute and then the ones that bleed into the second. Somewhere between the sixty-fourth and sixty-fifth, somewhere in the background, his mind starts to bleed into something else completely.
It makes him settle down.
Behind him, Hannibal is hunched over and tired looking at the very bare desk. There's nothing on it besides the collected remote and Hannibal's heart in a box, sat at the center of the desk.
He's had his eyes on Will's back the whole time, more curious about the chaos than fascinated by it, which says a whole lot more than he'd like to admit. He was used to Will battling back, wanting that last word and wanting things his way, but not at the extreme of throwing things. He'd never cursed at daddy either, only because.
The doctor speaks at the same time that he's got his fingers on the ring box again. "Five more minutes."
He'd only been there for maybe five already but that seemed just unfair. "Five more?" And now Will's looking over his shoulder, looking with narrowed eyes and flushed cheeks from whining every second of those first five. "That's not fair. My legs hurt." He's got his index finger in his mouth too, all that fight from earlier completely gone. "Daddy please."
But Hannibal wasn't letting him out of it.
Thursday was his favorite days of the week after all.
He stops his pointer finger from moving when the tip rests against the shiny top-layer of his mother's mother's mother's pearl. He's got it pulled closer now, near the edge of the desk where he can just about tuck it under and hide it if he needed to. "You may get the pillow you threw to sit on for the remainder, but you are to stay put."
Will all but growls from the back of his throat, giving Hannibal an urge to teach even old dogs new tricks. "Get it now otherwise you are standing for the rest of the time."
The air conditioner from above clicks off at the same time that the empath marches over and snags the white-linen pillow from the floor.
His steps are stuttered because he can hear the tell-tell rustle of his plastic-baked training pants under his pajama bottoms— again, Hannibal's pajama bottoms. It takes everything in him not to reach down and hold onto his groin as he walks.
But it takes him even more to not murder the fucking psychopath first. Or at least not to not just jam the rest of his fingers into his mouth because he's just so fucking over it.
He throws the cushion to the floor with a little more force than necessary before sparing Hannibal just half a glance. He's about to say something, something about this being dumb and how they're supposed to be on vacation and that it's just not fair but the doctor takes all those words away from him when he answers first.
"We're resetting the timer to five minutes from this point. On your bottom." And it's not a toy, not like the toys that Will thought Hannibal brought over, but still, it's a god damned timer.
The white chef's timer sat where the ring box once was, dead center on the writing table where the glow of the desk lamp gave it it's own story.
Will can't even come up with a retort because the air in the room is drowned with the static sound of time moving.
He blinks twice and then whines against his index and middle finger. He's still not pointed to the corner and he can't help but squeeze his thighs together so he can feel the bulk between his legs. He can't help but let out a little tinkle either, not when he's sitting in the corner. "Daddy. That's not fair."
Not that most of life was anyways. But ageplay wasn't about being fair.
Hannibal has the plastic electronic back in his fingers, holding the little pointed knob in place to stop time as he stares at the younger. "On your bottom." He's got that ridiculous thing, that timer, under the glow of the yellow and white light, ready to make Hannibal's Friday too.
If only Olive had been here, maybe then, maybe then, this wouldn't be such a fight.
But then the thought of the forgotten plush dog all but makes the rest of Will's resolve crumble.
The former agent sits on the rectangle-shaped pillow with his knees pulled to his chest and his arms hugging them like he's scared of letting go. He's got his nose pointed to the corner too, just like he's supposed to. Like daddy said.
Hannibal's got the ring in his hands again too, just without the box. The shiny little gold and silver thing that he doesn't even know will fit Will's finger because even though he knows the empath's ring size, even though Will is his, he's still never asked. And that's not even his biggest problem, not when there's only thirty-six minutes left of Thursday.
(They'd barely been inside the new house for more than three weeks when Will had told him no, absolutely not. That there was no way in hell, no way on either the left or right of the Atlantic-fucking-Ocean, that he was just going to throw his— his and Molly's— wedding ring into the ocean. "She doesn't just get erased from my history, Hannibal," and he'd been so angry, so rightfully pissed the fuck off outside the jewelry shop, all dressed up just how Hannibal wanted him. He'd hated the whole endeavor but he could tolerate it if Hannibal had just made fucking sense. "She doesn't just go away because I'm here now. She isn't yours." And maybe yeah, it had taken a lot of balls for Hannibal to ask Will to remove the gold little band just to replace it with one of his own, one he picked out, but it didn't mean he had to be a dick about it. "Give it back," Will had said just before, ripping the piece from an open palm and tucking it back into his pocket because Hannibal didn't quite have all of his heart yet, not yet. It was marriage by the way of paperwork and rings and last names but it was only when Will slept on the sofa bed that night that Hannibal realized he hadn't even asked to begin with.)
Not his biggest problem when Will's just all like this.
The empath is quieter now, nursing heavily on his thumb with time lost and forgotten just after the start of the seventh minute on the noisy little timer. He's still on his bottom, all curled in to himself with his chin nudged into the dip between his knees.
He's practically rocking himself on the pillow and his pull up is damp all over. He can't bring himself to look down and see if the pretty little flowers are there though, because daddy rarely puts him into the corner and yeah, he knows it's supposed to be good for him but he just hates it.
Mostly because when he's feeling this little, he just wants his daddy. "Daddy?"
Hannibal looks up from the ring, eyes dark from something more than exhaustion. "Still quiet time, honey."
At least the pet names were back. Much better than William. "How much longer?"
"Less than a minute, Will." He answers, voice quiet against the late of the night. "Silence until."
Will gives a little whine against the wide side of his thumb, nudges the digit in deeper to slurp around it and try to surrender himself to the punishment instead. He knows it's supposed to help.
And that's probably why by the time he's got less than twenty seconds left in the hotel room corner that he's all but a squirmy mess on the pillow. He's nearing absolute bliss with his diaper all yellow-tinted and his mind all puffy with one of his very rare chances to taste subspace. He just usually can't get there that good, not without someone holding his hand.
Not without daddy holding his hand. "Daddy," he's mumbling, saliva leaking from his lips and down his chin. "Daddy— daddy."
Daddy's already at his side though, timer in his hand with the last few seconds winding down. He's got the ring too, but that's tucked away in his pajama bottoms, all the way at the very bottom where it's not even in it's pretty little pink box to keep it safe anymore. Not that anything belonging to his mother's mother's mother would need to be kept safe.
Hannibal watches that trail of saliva collect at the base of his jaw, right between the stubble.
The ring feels heavy, even to the cannibal, but he's thinking about licking it off instead. Thinks he understands how Will's father must have felt, how much he must have fought tooth and nail every single day, because Lord knows that Hannibal wouldn't have been able to resist.
Thinks that Will might not have wanted him to. "Hi honey."
Thinks that must be where weird came from.
"Daddy?" Will mumbles out. Those doe eyes are back as he gazes up, all glazed over and sloppy in the face. His hair's still even a little wet, just at the crown where the rain really got him. "'Ah-nnibal?"
"Good boy." He says it quickly because even though he doesn't mind the idea of Will's father giving him more, he just wants his little boy's father's father to take that word weird right back and put it where it belonged. "Daddy's here. You did very, very good."
Even though Hannibal's on his heels, balancing and bent at the knees, Will has to crane his head up to be able to meet the doctor's eyes.
"Daddy?" He asks again. He's not been crying, not anymore, but his eyes are lost and spacey, all ready for Hannibal to mold.
He finally touches the empath after he places the little buzzer on the floor by his foot, takes Will in his hands between index finger and thumb, takes Will by love in a way that the boy's daddy never did. "Slowly, baby. Go slowly."
And so like always, just this time with a little less hootin' and hollerin' as his father had once labeled it, he listens.
He's slow to unfold when he does it too. It kind of reminds Hannibal of looking down at Mischa after she was born. Not when she was fresh out of her mother's stomach and not when she was crowded by his father, but when she was all sweet and sleeping his arms. All his.
She'd made all kind of little noises and he could barely hold her in his little arms but she was utterly perfect from head to toe. He couldn't keep his eyes off of her. Had to fight the nurses in the tiny little hospital room away.
He didn't even mind the lights then. He wasn't looking at them when he was looking at her.
"Hannibal?" Will's voice is firmer now, more in tune with his surroundings and much more self aware. His thumb's still in his mouth though and from this angle, Hannibal can see the remains of saliva too.
The empath still hasn't turned away from the corner but neither of them think he's ready to anyways.
"Hello Will." He's still got Will's wrist between his fingers and his thumb slides along the curve of palm, reaching up and through the gaps.
He doesn't need to measure to know that the ring will fit. "Time's it?"
The older laughs a little, more than curious how his counterpart arrived to that as his first question. "Quarter to midnight and well passed your bedtime."
Will's still so floaty but still very much there. "Napped all day daddy," and it's the most lucid thing he's said so far. He lets his thumb fall from his mouth but it doesn't go far, settles right against his knee and leaves a string of spit in it's wake. "Hannibal?"
His index finger and thumb tighten a hair. "Will? Darling?"
The younger blinks a few more times, coming back to reality by the second. "Dizzy."
Hannibal moves to hold him at the back even though he's far less steady than the empath. "Here, come to daddy."
Will only shakes his head, doesn't move from his spot on the pillow. Everything feels warm below him, from his pink and purple pull-up to his stomach, where it's doing that funny flip-flop thing that it always does when Hannibal does all the crazy, silly things.
It's just the last thing he actually remembers is Mickey Mouse and he still just doesn't know what to even do with subspace, with ageplay.
He doesn't even know how it's all of a sudden midnight. "Think I might need some air."
"Are you okay?" He knows a human's heart is heavier than a ring but he's never felt his like this before.
But Will's answer is more humor-filled than anything. "Yeah," he whispers, a small back end of a sob following after, something that felt like relief. "I'm fine. I promise. I just— that," and he's smiling in a way that matches the approaching hour, all sleepy and ready for all the cozy pillows and all the warm comforters. "That was really, really strong."
He gets it then, knows what the younger means and all of a sudden his heart is as light as the pearl in the very middle. "I'll say dragon if you need me to, but I'm really just asking if I can take a quick walk."
"Of course," he's hovering higher but has yet to let go of Will. "Let me get our shoes."
"Just me for a moment— if that's okay." The younger's more turned now, outwardly facing the opposite with eyes much more warm than earlier. His words have more confidence than he's felt before with this. And it's not like he doesn't know where it came from. "I promise I'm okay, Hannibal."
Will's out the door just ten minutes to the hour. He let Hannibal tie his shoes and while that restored a little vote of faith for the former surgeon, he still looked out the window as if he was in his own little corner, waiting for his timer to go off.
When it does, exactly at 11:57, just as Will had set it, Hannibal's out the door with the ring still jammed at the bottom of his right pocket and his heart once again feeling much more heavier than it should be.
Will you marry me?
*
"I'll be honest," he starts. "This was the first time I considered saying tupperware."
Will looks up, eyes all aglow. "It's a pretty good one." Of course it is, he was the one who picked it. "Before or after the timer?"
The younger is sat on his buttocks, stolen pajama bottoms and all, with his knees bent over the edge of a top half of a levee. It goes on for miles both ways and the water below goes right along with it for even more.
The rain's still lingering, but it's all but a drizzle now. "After." He says it when he's sitting right next to Will, though his own pants are anything but stolen. Not that wearing pajama bottoms outside is beneath him or anything. "Hello, Will."
The younger looks up when he hears his name and the rain pelts at his teeth because he's wearing a smile alongside those stolen striped blue bottoms. "Hi." The smile's right there in his response too. "You're still in bedclothes."
And the stars in the sky aren't the only thing that has the cannibal's attention. "That I am."
The stars and galaxies are endless out there. They travel the miles and miles just like the waterways and the flood walls throughout the inner city. They go where neither of them can see anymore and then they just keep going.
It's colder now too, so much so that they can see their own little puffs of breath when they pass words between.
The gloves on Will's hands can't keep the chill out so he has them folded against his lap, eyes forward. "I wasn't running away this time."
"Quite the opposite." Because Will wasn't running away for once, wasn't saying no.
(Hannibal hadn't even gotten the opposite sock on a left foot when Will hadn't told him no, when Will told him something else entirely. "Just five minutes, okay? I promise you I'm fine— I just need some air first." Hadn't told him no, just told him to wait. "You can come out after. I won't go far." His hands were jammed through the sleeves of his coat and the string along his waist pulled tight as Hannibal fixed the boy's outer layers. "It's cold though," had been all the doctor had been able to come up with. Fucking cold. "You could get sick sweetheart." But Will had already fiddled with the timer and made the tiny little thing stare the doctor back into his own headspace, left alone with the remaining question of what was a father supposed to do when their child had done everything right for once and why he didn't already know the answer. The only question he knew right then and there was willyoumarryme? but the timer was going to end at 11:57, exactly how the agent had left it, dead-center on the writing table, and there was just absolutely no way, even if the answer was yes, even if Will had said yes, he was going to make it.)
Their shoulders touch as they sit. Both stare forward and they can see the moon's reflection against the dark of the water. The waves make it move with little ripples.
It's surprising to neither that Will's the one to open up this time.
"I would run away because I wanted dad to punish me." The admission is powerful even though it's something that Hannibal's already very well aware of. Will's just very textbook classic in the grand scheme of things. It's just he handles it differently now. Lets Hannibal handle it too. "It's the only way I could get him to touch me after he knew that.. I knew too."
His tongue is heavy between his lips. "What age did you find out?"
Will spares a glance, looks over with the same doe-like eyes from the hotel room when he was on the floor, on the floor knelt down just like a good boy. "Seven."
The surgeon hums his response but doesn't bother for words. He's at a chrysalis again, a brand new one. Only a little different because it's one he's helped birth.
The waters move with Will's next words and all Hannibal can do is listen, just like the empath wanted his dad to. "He never really hurt me like that, Hannibal." He's smiling again, not scared of the shame anymore. "He wore his scruff like I do— the way you like it." Not scared of anything really. "He never let it get too long though, said it was itchy, bothered him. But it made him look older, like a dad should be." In between, his hand has snuck across, left one gloved hand behind and found Hannibal's instead. He holds it and Hannibal holds all the fingers right back. "He was good at storytelling and always knew how to talk to anyone. I think it's why he liked the bars, liked the people. I think he was a little too empathetic too."
Hannibal's looking far out into the distance too, whispering his own words to mother nature herself. "Like father, like son."
Behind them, back where the hotel is and just across the pedestrian crossroads, the roads are quiet all the way down. There's a dive bar or two, maybe half a restaurant still serving drunks, but it's a Thursday.
Well. 12:08. Friday.
"I think I'd be a little less messed up if he had touched me."
12:08 with the ring still at the bottom of his pocket. "Hardly 'messed up', Will." A ring that would fit. "And like I said before, it's quite alright to want things. We all have them. Even wants like that."
The younger looks over, eyes full of stars. "Even you?"
"Even me." The doctor doesn't see them because his own wants are displayed in his and that's a vulnerability that they hadn't even broached yet. "Come now. I fear you may need yet another change."
Will holds the older's hand from the moment they stand to the moment they make it to the very first crosswalk. He doesn't really feel little but he's still sort of floating in that tangent of space he had been in for the last minute on the timer, the one where time slowed down and he could think about his daddy without fear. His real daddy without fear.
The rain's coming stronger now and the empath holds Hannibal at the elbow while they cross both lanes in heavy strides.
They can still see their little puffs of air even when they don't talk.
He's got a hand on Will's lower back, holding him near as they clear the last of two main roads back. It's still quiet, only a spare bit of music from a cover band just inside one of the dive bars on the right of the walkway.
They're playing Love Story and the ring hasn't once left the doctor's mind.
His mother's mother's mother's ring.
And if it wasn't going to be on the airplane, if it wasn't going to be after sex, if it wasn't going to be during dinner—
"What's for dinner?"—
"Never ask."—
"Will." He's stopped, let go of Will's elbow entirely, and his right hand tucked into his pocket. "Will."
"Hannibal?" The name is already out of his mouth before he even turns around. "Where are—"
He's on his right knee, pajama bottoms and all.
Marry me, Juliet, you'll never have to be alone. I love you and that's all I really know. I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress—
"I should have asked the first time." The ring's not in that pink velvet box. Not anymore. Instead, it sits inside of the Airpods box, the box from the airport. The cardboard one. "I don't think I'm the same person from then. Not anymore. I didn't know then, Will."
The rain's stopped now and the music is louder, piping right out into the streets with the lyrics of the great Taylor Swift trying to carry the rest of the proposal for the cannibal instead.
The cannibal with his mother's mother's mother's ring in the middle of an empty Airpod box, here on his bad knee just as Thursday's turned into Friday and the line don't be afraid, we'll make it out of this mess lays into the streets.
Here with all his wants because even he has 'em too. "You're not messed up, Will." He's standing up now and Will's shivering in the cold right in front of him. Doe eyes, wet diaper, fringe that needs a trim. He wants because Will's father could never have. "And nothing about you is neither wrong nor weird. You are anything but. Will, I am if all fascinated by you." The ring's still in the box and the cardboard's all wet around the trim. The pearl's shiny in the middle but Will hasn't looked at it yet. "And I'd like to be fascinated with you for the rest of my life. With all of you, Will. Even the weird parts."
Behind that heavy fringe Will looks wild. The same type of wild that took out the dragon and then took out the six bodies in between and probably could take out even more. Countless more.
The type of wild that Will's father resisted just so that Hannibal could have it instead.
The name has to climb it's way out of Will's throat. "Hannibal."
"Marry me, Will." He's looking down at the empath— at his empath. "I love you so very much. Marry me."
It's a love story, baby, just say yes—
They kiss before the song is even over and Will's got the little ring jammed onto his pinky instead because it doesn't fit his ring finger after all.
They kiss like they both want.
Like the ring fits anyways.
*
The Dublin International Airport on Monday morning is not dissimilar to actual hell itself.
And of course it's still raining.
Will's already got his earbuds in and he's flicking through his mobile device while Hannibal sits to his left, penning on his own paperback calendar spread across. The ring sits shiny on the agent's pinky while the doctor's free one lay right underneath.
There's Christmas lights still up at this airport too, red and green ones just like at home.
"Will?" It comes out half-fully there, more in after thought or simply to carry the empath from one conversation to the next. "Will?"
He's on his phone though, clicking through his music and not at all paying attention.
"Yeah?" He's tugging an earbud out a moment later and Hannibal's eyes are on him. "Sorry." He looks more than a little apologetic. "Time to go?"
But Hannibal's not looking at him. "The Nutcracker on Thursday?"
Around them it's much more busier than the Thursday before when they flew in. "Uh," and he has to blink back three or four times because his mind is still stuck on the fact that Hannibal proposed in pajamas. "Sure, I guess?" He blinks again, eyes on the doctor. "I thought you already had tickets— reservations, whatever we need."
"The matinee." He says it absentmindedly, like he's not all there himself, like maybe he's still on the streets in Dublin with his bad knee to the ground and his heart in a box. "At two o'clock. Is that still alright?"
The doctor's got his eyes on the planner in his lap now. "Yeah sure." Will's looking at it now too, earbuds in his hands and curiosity playing instead. "What are you doing anyways? Planning out the rest of our lives?"
And Hannibal can't keep his lip from turning up at that. "Planning out the rest of the week at least."
Will scans down the aisle of days for the first week and then the second. "I didn't know you were such a busy guy. Whose on the chopping block for Friday if Thursday's out of the picture?"
"Less of a who and more of a what." He can't get his eyes all the way back to Will's though, because he can't keep them off his mother's mother's mother's ring. Not when it's right there. "I thought the zoo."
Will blinks, doesn't say anything.
The crowds and patrons still move around them. Maybe ten or eleven minutes until they board and Christmas, Baby Please Come Home by Michael Buble is playing overhead even though it's not Christmas anymore.
Maybe airport officials just really like Christmas or something. "You really don't think it's weird?"
His voice is all hushed and his eyes and index finger sit on top of the tiny little pearl.
Hannibal had put it in the Airpod box. A god damned cardboard box.
"No, Will." His plans lay open to the world around just like the word ageplay had laid bare to the earth all those months ago when Will had wrote it down and brought it to life. "And I don't know if I would have thought to ask if you never told me about it in the first place."
Will you marry me?
"Dad asked her to marry him after about three weeks." Will's index finger and thumb was working the little pearl just like Hannibal's would work around his wrist, like he was scared everything could just up and go away. "He met her at the bar and brought her home the first night. On my birthday— my thirteenth birthday." He stops but only because it feels like everyone else has stopped around him too. "She wasn't awful or anything. She even cooked better than him." He's smiling at that thought, the little curve of lip that shows he needs more than just a shave. "Sometimes it felt like she liked me more than he liked me. Gave a crap about my life anyways— school, homework, dinner— that stupid stuff."
And Hannibal can't even keep up before the next admission dismantles everything else and makes all of it stop moving for him too. "I think he did it because he couldn't have me."
"Will," but it's all but a breath. "Will," and this one isn't much more either. "He could have but he chose not to. He could have but he still didn't."
Even if he could. "I know." Will chokes out half a sob, more just a laugh painted in little white lies. "It was really kind of shitty for her though. I don't think he loved her, loved her, not like that. But he still married her. I think she's even still with him. I don't know."
It's quiet after and the passengers all blend once more. It's hell on earth, yeah, or maybe hell below, but they're away and to their selves enough for even Will to feel safe to use his words. Hannibal has his planner closed now, both hands folded on the top as if everything inside was so very precious.
Will's got his eyes on Hannibal's wedding ring stacked at the very top of it all. They'll need to get new ones.
"You make me feel like it doesn't have to be weird." And the both know what the agent is really thinking about when he says the word weird. Where it all stemmed from. "Like you being my daddy isn't weird."
He doesn't know how he can say it like this, out loud, maybe Hannibal's mother's mother's mother's ring has something to do it, but he says it anyways because it would be rude not to.
Hannibal sits up a little in his seat, watches as Will watches the shine along the gold band. "It's really not. I've had patients come in with things far worse."
Well that's more interesting than talking about things like daddies and being weird and things he couldn't have.
"Oh yeah?" He's standing up though, long coat fallen down to his sides. "You did have a knack for the crazies. What did they bring in? Whips and leashes?"
The older stands too. He's not one to crowd a gate much but he understands Will's need to be ready. "Isolation. Poor communication. Shame."
Maybe there'd be an area with as few people over there too. He's rather fond of this conversation, of this side of will you marry me already.
Will doesn't even have to try and fake his rile. "Oh come on— I used my safeword. Leave my shame out of it." He smooths out his front while Hannibal lingers at his side, their little luggage right at the doctor's side. "Shame isn't weird."
"And neither are you." Hannibal's smiling with all the affection in the world. He's got one hand on the luggage and the other on a fold at the center of Will's coat. "Will, you really do worry about most unnecessary things in the world. Ageplay is hardly the strangest kink out there."
Will's looking a little more red in the cheeks with the opposite's words having more of an effect on him that he could handle in the middle of Dublin International Airport.
He can't even help but try and bunch his thighs together so that he could cling onto that faint trace of plush pull up between his legs. The one that daddy put on him this morning so he didn't have to have any potty breaks.
"Hannibal, come on," and that little bit of confidence from earlier is a little bit simmer now. "Now you're the one being weird." Probably nearly gone actually. "Let's go."
Christmas, Baby Just Come Home is playing all over again.
The gate agent's must have it on repeat or they just must really, really like Michael Buble.
"You and that word, Will." He says it while he's starting to follow Will's stride towards their gate.
The agent's still mildly happy though, even if his feathers are a little ruffled and his diaper a little more full. At least he looks it with that little sprig in his step as they barrel forward. Probably just that pull up all bunched up between his legs, urine soaked on the front and back.
"Would it help you at all to know that you're not the first partner to bestow the title daddy to me?"
This time though, the name doesn't have to crawl out of his throat. It's just way too easy. "Hannibal?"
Hannibal stops at the same time that Will does, just between gate 12A and 12C on the far end where British Airways should fly them back home.
Everything else around them is not moving once again, all the bright lights and Christmas music non-withstanding.
"I told you it was really not that unfamiliar to most." Or maybe they're just moving around everything else while it moves around them.
"Who?"
Hannibal is standing to Will's right with their shoulders brushed together and a steady flow of patrons making their way between.
He'd only intended to bring comfort, not anything else after will you marry me? was answered just like the song had answered it in two-thousand and eight. "Will." Hannibal hesitates because, just like throughout the other one hundred and sixty-six days since ageplay made her mark, he's only ever spoken without thinking first. "Will. It wasn't meant like that."
Their flight has already been called twice. They still have time to board but Will doesn't care. Not with this. "Hannibal. Who?"
"Will." Everyone still flows around them and they're still not moving. "Will, I only intended—"
They're still playing Christmas music too, all the way down to where there's no one left but them to board their plane. "Hannibal if it's her— I swear to God I will leave you for Molly just to spite you if you do not get on a plane and take care of it right now."
They get on a plane headed straight for Baltimore, Maryland the following Thursday afternoon.
Olive sits in between.