Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Do you think pink is cliché?”

If he wanted to be completely honest with Hannibal, he thinks a lot of things about this nursery are cliché. It doesn’t match the rest of their house, the wild eccentricity of it. Hannibal’s hard set designs, animal heads, dark wallpaper – Will’s trinkets, muddy boots, and hand-crafted furniture. This room is decidedly soft and delicate. Even the crib, which Will painstakingly made, is designed to look as warm and welcoming as possible. It’s like walking into an entirely different universe.

Not that he minds. Kids need warmth and security and softness. Bright colors and room to grow and play in a place that doesn’t look like two middle aged cannibal serial killers live there. There’s never been an idea in his mind of what a nursery for their child might look like (he’d all but given up on the idea), but if he had thought of something before, he doesn't think it would’ve been this.

As a child himself, his room was cold, only in emotion. The trailer they lived in was poor quality and the insulation was thread thin. Louisiana summers are hot, and he’d often find himself sweltering. Their child, blessed and cursed to devour like her fathers, wouldn’t have to know the sticky heat of a Southern summer night. Maybe one day they could visit, but it wouldn’t be for a long time.

Where they live now, with its temperate climate and lack of brimstone is comforting for them all. This child will be loved and comforted and cared for and horribly cliché. It may be the most normal part of her childhood.

“It’s not just pink, it’s dusty roses, and it is classic,” Hannibal corrects.

He’s just watching him paint. He isn’t much help these days, fatigue wears him down, but Will doesn’t care. He likes doing things like this, it makes him feel useful. It makes him feel like maybe he can be a good dad.

(Maybe not. They both remember that they should know better than to breed, but when his hands touch Hannibal’s little belly, the first true visible sign of their daughter, he can’t help but feel horribly selfish. They both are.)

“It’s still pink.” Will swipes the roller over the wall again. It’s coming together, warming him up with joy. “I’ll be happy to have it done so I can get everything in here finally.”

“You have problems with patience,” Hannibal chastises softly. “You wish to rush through everything, something I’ve never noticed before.”

“Right now isn’t the time for a lecture.” Will laughs, “Or therapy.”

Hannibal sighs in mock offense. “I have no intentions of doing either.”

It’s likely he does. Since they discovered his pregnancy, Hannibal has been trying to dissect Will’s mind more and more. An ill attempt at making him come face to face with his trauma, the horribleness of his mother’s death, and then the abuse laid out by his alcoholic father. Will isn’t him, maybe he drinks like a fish, but he isn’t what his father was. So, he avoids the discussion altogether. Just as Hannibal avoids talking about the vile deaths of parents and sister, and then the death of his uncle, and the sequential relationship with his aunt. (Although, he isn’t very shy about that part.)

Will cuts his eyes at him. “Only because I said not to.”

Hannibal sits in silence for a moment, eyes closed. Breathing through what’s likely a wave of anxiety. “When you talk she moves. She likes your voice.”

“Well, I hope she does.” He puts the roller down, comes to kneel in front of him, and rubs his belly with his rough hands. “Hey, honey. Are you giving your papà a hard time?”

Her feet kick up against his hands. She’s a strong little thing and kicked earlier than usual. Already ahead of the curve, just like they expected she would be.

“That’s our sweet girl,” He whispers gently, smiling. “You need to be nice.”

Glancing up at Hannibal, he moves a hand to cup his cheek. He loves him, more than anything, and he’s fulfilling a dream Will thought could never be. His adoration for him rivals that of Jacob to Rachel. He would go through their trials again, he thinks if it meant he could have this exact life.

“She’d like you more if you let me go with you tonight,” Hannibal tries, turning to press his lips against Will’s palm. “I could just observe.”

Will glances back down to his belly. He knows how badly he wants to go with him, but it’s simply not something he’s willing to risk. Hannibal doesn’t like to hear that he’s in a delicate way; his body is strong, dedicated. He doesn’t deny him those things, of course, but he is not letting him go out and to get hurt. He’d never forgive himself.

“She’ll like being safe much more.” Will stands, stopping halfway up to kiss him. “And I’ll like keeping you both safe.”

“I don’t enjoy being so coddled.” He rolls his eyes. He’s Hannibal Lecter, a supposed god among men, and here he is, denied the pleasure of even observing a kill. “It doesn’t feel right for us.”

It doesn’t, but Will knows that even though it doesn’t, his protectiveness pleases Hannibal greatly. Maybe not enough to completely offset his own upset about being more or less homebound, but enough that he can find little pleasures. That he’ll actually listen to him.

“Well, you’ll have to wait this one out.” It’ll knock him down a few pegs, which’ll be good for Hannibal. He needs to be reminded on occasion that he isn’t god. He’s designed in his image, but he’s just a man. “But it won’t be too much longer.”

Hannibal gives him a look. They both know that isn’t true. With a baby things will just become more complicated. (They’ll hire a babysitter, Will has insisted. Whether that’s plausible or not, he doesn’t know.)

“I just want to keep you safe.” Will picks the roller back up to finish the layer of dusty rose paint against the wall.

After the room is painted and they’re both pleased with the intensity, or lack thereof, Will goes to get ready. He won’t wear the usual get up, but he will wear something he doesn’t mind parting with. It consists of an old flannel that needs to be trashed, a pair of work pants from when he actually had a job, and old tennis shoes. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Is there anything I can get you while you’re out?” He asks as he comes downstairs.

Hannibal’s sitting on the couch, visibly tired but comfortable. He has warm tea and a blanket and a book – he’s so thoroughly coddled these days. It nearly makes them both sick with it.

He knows what Hannibal wants, his nostrils flare and his pupils dilate, but he’s not going to ask for it. No part of him wants to admit he’s developed a sweet tooth, and not for any true luxury.

“No, I’ll be pleased with whatever you bring home,” Hannibal tells him and sips his tea.

He kisses the top of his head and plucks his keys from where they’re hung up.

“I’ll make it quick,” He promises. It’s not a lie for once, but they both know how Will loves to savor a kill, much differently than Hannibal. It takes a lot for him to make anything quick. So, for him to promise a quick kill, means he knows just how upset Hannibal is about this whole thing.

Hannibal barely smiles up at him. “Be safe.”

Nodding, Will lets himself out of the house.

They miss killing together, even as Will gets into his truck he feels disconnected from the act to come. They may not enjoy it all the same, but it becomes a bit meaningless when he does it alone. It’s like going to battle alone, like David on the field without Jonathan, like Jacob burying Rachel on the side of the road and moving on. It’s been nearly enough to keep him from hunting at all, but neither of them can stand an empty freezer – even if it doesn’t get used until well after the birth of their daughter.

That’s exactly what this kill is for, the sake of their freezer. They’re running low, mostly because of Will. Unfortunately for Hannibal, he can barely stomach cuts of meat, even from the cleanest, freshest of kills. Even if they were slaughtered and burned for him. He still forces himself, but more often than not, he’ll end up sick. It’s Will that’s been running through their supply and only recently tapering off because of the upset it causes in his household.

Fried liver, kidney stew, thick cut steak. Hannibal looks at him with such disdain when he eats it, when he sees that his freezer is emptying and he isn’t the cause of it, that Will has moved over to fish. Hannibal’s his husband, the man he left everything for, so he respects that he doesn’t want him to eat it anymore, but god he misses it.

So, he’ll restock them over the next few weeks and he’ll be good. If only because he thinks Hannibal might kill and eat him, then throw him up wastefully, if he doesn’t. 

Hannibal’s stomaching lighter meats, fish, and (extremely upsettingly) snack cakes. And that knowledge comforts Will in the lonesomeness of this kill. Hannibal’s mad at him because of it, but it isn’t Will’s fault that on a rare occasion, he wants a processed, sugary, plastic wrapped snack and that the scent was just so appealing to Hannibal. Honestly, it’s what he gets for always huffing about how disgusting some of Will’s eating habits are.

Now he knows what it’s like to crave a box of cheap, sugary treats. Honestly, it’s a good punishment. Sick, kind of divine. Exactly what he would expect.

Halfway to the house of the woman he intends to kill, he pulls over at a gas station. It’s late, but it doesn’t close until 11 so he has a good 15 minutes. He pops in, lets himself through a few aisles to grab himself a blue Gatorade, and then finds a few packs of zebra cakes – Hannibal’s unofficial favorite. He’ll be happy about it, even if he pretends otherwise.

It’s his peace offering anyway. That and a full freezer. He’d burn a body on an altar drenched with incense if he had to.

“You must’ve bought every cake we have,” the little old lady says behind the counter says. She isn’t judgmental, having likely seen stranger things in her long life.

“My partner’s pregnant,” He tells her. That typically explains any peculiarities away.

She nods, knowingly and takes his cash. He gets 15 cents back, tells her to have a good night, and then dips back out into the poorly lit parking lot and peels out. His bag of snack cakes sits in the empty seat where Hannibal should be, and he hopes they’re enough to have his husband forgive him for denying his constant request.

(He’s seen Hannibal cry over a zebra cake. He really hopes they’ll make him happy enough to forgive this little indiscretion.)

The ride isn’t that long, but he drives around for another 30 or so minutes before parking up the road from her house. In that time, he listens to three songs by Johnny Cash and chugs his Gatorade. His phone is sitting at home, and he thinks about what Hannibal’s doing right now. Probably thinking about how much he regrets this.

He gets out of his truck and moves up the road with the sort of stealth he was taught in his short time in the Academy. That, and from the few years he stole food to eat as a young teen before he could work. Those kinds of skills come in handy now.

In a distant way, a way he doesn’t really feel but can acknowledge, it’s sad that her life is going to be cut short tonight. 27 and living alone, a good job. The news will talk about how absolutely tragic this is, how she had no enemies, and was loved by all. Sadly for her, she was rude to Hannibal in a grocery store across town. A grave offense that neither of them is willing to forgive.

She leaves her back door unlocked, comfortable, and safe in their seaside town. It’s too easy; she’s practically inviting him in at this point. He slides the door open and lets himself in through her cute, but tidy kitchen. Hannibal would like her if she wasn’t a raging bitch. Everything has its spot, it’s all very clean, and the refrigerator holds a total of three magnets (from places she’s been) and a picture of her and what can only be a long distance boyfriend.

The rest of the house is much the same. Tidy and pleasant to the eye. A woman who values cleanliness and aesthetic. He imagines she’s a good host to her friends. There’s a glass cabinet that just holds board games, and the other side has wine. Strange, but effective.

When he comes into her room, she’s already asleep. Tilting his head, he watches her for a while. She looks so… innocent. Maybe she was having a bad day when she screamed at Hannibal, but they’ll never know. Nor does it matter. She has to die, and Will has to kill her.

He puts a cloth over her mouth, which only barely rouses her, and slits her throat in one quick motion. Perhaps if she had done something worse, he’d have let her suffer, but his mouth waters for the meat deep inside of her, sewn in by a rib alone, and at home Hannibal’s waiting. He acts quick, precise, and keeps himself as clean as possible–his clothes will still have to be burned, but he already knew that.

Blood flows from her like a hot, red river. She’s been cursed, and there’s nothing to be done about it. She has to die, she is dead. She’s been a dead woman walking for days now. Like having a tumor, undetected, but just as deadly.

He drops organs into the icy bottom of his cooler. Liver, kidneys, and heart. He debates a lung, but he doesn’t need to get too greedy. There are a few others lined up, and he can get a lung from one of them. He does, however, cut thick chunks from her legs. Typically, Hannibal would insist that they bring the bodies home to take apart, but that can’t really happen right now.

There’s just too much at stake, so this will have to do.

They aren’t currently doing anything with the unused parts of the bodies anyway. Some, Will brings home for dog food, but most of the time he just dumps it in the river or the ocean or somewhere deep in the woods. It’s a waste really, but he doesn’t have the time to make an elaborate tableau. Maybe when the baby comes they can make a real to do about it.

He dumps the bits he doesn’t want in the little river near her house. They’ll find her miles and miles away from here, sucked out into the ocean and then spit back out, and by then, she’ll be waterlogged and rotting. It’ll take them weeks to identify her because of the jurisdiction change, and by then, no one will remember that she cussed Hannibal out in a grocery store over fucking milk.

He takes another way home. A faster way, and strips down in their front yard. What he’s wearing is tossed into a burn barrel and lit on fire. He doesn’t wait to watch it go out, just takes his cooler inside and puts it in the refrigerator to be handled in the morning. (The one thing he lets Hannibal do. It keeps him… sane. Or as sane as either of them can be.)

The zebra cakes and left on the counter, right where Hannibal can get to them with ease. 

The house itself is quiet, meaning Hannibal has made his way up to their bedroom. Will knows he’s not sleeping, he’s been having a lot of trouble with it recently, which has only made him hazy and sometimes a bit cranky. Fatigue and an inability to sleep just aren’t good things to mix. He gets that better than most people.

Will tries to be quiet, slipping through their bedroom to their bathroom to shower. He doesn’t even bother him, just takes to cleaning the blood from his hands and under his nails. His pajamas are already set out, something Hannibal has done for him since before the pregnancy, and has continued to do. A means of grasping for control that Will doesn’t try to take from him. Once he’s dry and dressed, he crawls into their bed.

“Hey.” He wraps his arm around him, kissing behind his ear. “You awake?”

“I’m trying to sleep, Will,” Hannibal huffs. “But yes. I’m awake.”

Moody. He’s always so moody. Not that Will blames him, if he couldn’t drink, couldn’t eat, and was growing a hyperactive little baby inside of him, he’d probably be inconsolably angry. To be fair, he thought Hannibal would’ve killed him by now, or worse, so he’s thankful that all he is is moody.

Will breathes him in, settling. His bones creak, and his muscles relax. He didn’t even realize it, but he’s been tense the whole time. Missing Hannibal every step of the way. “I’ll let you sleep.”

“You never let me sleep after a kill.” Hannibal sighs, but he isn’t upset about it. He sounds fond, just tired. “Neither does she. I feel like she’s going to take after you more than anything.”

“I’m sorry.” Will kisses his shoulder in a weak attempt at offering comfort. “I brought a good bit home.”

Hannibal relaxes as much as he can into his arms. “Good, I appreciate it.”

Will presses another kiss to his skin, then another. Buttering him up before he admits, “I also brought you the zebra cakes you love so much.”

Hannibal grunts as if displeased, but Will knows he’s happy. He’ll eat his little treats when Will’s away, and feel much more content than he’ll ever let on. His offering has been accepted, that’s what matters.

“I love you,” Will whispers into his skin. “We’ll kill together again soon.”

Hannibal puts a hand on Will over his swelling belly. They hold on to each other in this way a lot. It’s comforting for them both. “I love you, Will. I know.”

Their daughter kicks, soft little feet against their hands, and Will presses close against him. Finally quiet and home so Hannibal can rest.