Work Text:
Will have always been aware that he and Hannibal knew each other intimately. But knowing someone else’s mind intimately wasn’t the same as sharing intimacy.
Neither of them were individuals of the prosaic, and neither was their relationship; they were the kind of men to focus on the complex, on the sharp-edged and blood-soaked details. But after their plunge into the Atlantic, just like them, their relationship evolved.
It was a complex way to say that they started learning the domestic, intimate details of each other. It was a poetic way to say that Will learned that Hannibal had a tendency to push his cold feet between Will’s thighs at night and that Hannibal slept almost pathologically on his back (because, otherwise, he would snore like a fucking bear).
Will knew Hannibal’s core, his mind in and out, every inch and little nook and cranny of his mind palace. And now, unlearning violence, sharing a life instead of only a mind, he was discovering details of domesticity, of intimacy and pleasure.
Will learned the little things; like which flowers Hannibal favored for centerpieces and the hours in which he would wake up during the night to go to the bathroom like a clock. He learned the specific heat of water that Hannibal used to shower with, and that was always a bit too hot for Will and made his skin turn red every time they showered together.
Will learned that Hannibal had to shave and cut his hair; that he woke up with the messiest bed hair known to man, and –this one had come like a revelation– that Hannibal had to brush his teeth, and that he had awful morning breath, like a human.
A shocking revelation.
But the most important thing that Will learned was that Hannibal Lecter was a romantic.
Well. That one wasn’t exactly a huge revelation, talking about the man that left him a corpse origamed in the shape of a heart at the feet of a church’s altar, or the man that had surrendered himself to the FBI after carrying him through the snow and tuck him to bed afterwards.
But that was Count Dr. Hannibal ‘The Cannibal’ Lecter, the VIII. Renowned psychiatrist, surgeon, serial killer, cannibal, socialite, etcetera.
Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham’s husband, was a man. A man hopelessly, nauseatingly, glittery-pink-hearts and dinner-at-candlelight romantic at heart. He was the kind of romantic you would find in a 2000’s rom-com movie; the protagonist girl that would throw away that important job application in France that she had been chasing all her life to stay with the love of her life in a small apartment in Manhattan.
(But the small apartment in Manhattan was a luxurious house in Argentina, and the important job application was a life of cannibalism alone without dog hair in his clothes. Oh well. Could be worse.)
Will learned that a kiss on the cheek at the right time (and right time meant any second of the day) would make Hannibal forget asking for a business card. That a kiss on his shoulder through three layers of clothing would have Hannibal stuttering.
Holding hands while walking down the street would put the stars in Hannibal’s eyes. Any gift, no matter how small, how cheap, how simple or ridiculous, would have Hannibal tearing up, holding and treasuring it like it was the most fragile and precious thing that he had ever seen (never as precious or beautiful as Will, he would insist, of course).
But the thing that Will adored the most, was Hannibal’s reactions whenever Will called him any endearment.
Every single time Hannibal would stop in his tracks, blink three times in quick succession, blush like a schoolgirl, cast his eyes down and fucking melt.
Every. Single. Time.
Hannibal’s reactions were so vast and adorable (and what a funny, curious word to use to define the FBI’s most wanted cannibal) and Will started learning them, classifying every little one. Putting them in neat little boxes and storing them in a specific shelf inside his mind palace made only to store them like snow-globe scenes.
Will learned that calling Hannibal love would make Hannibal stay stupidly giddy, fighting against a smile for the rest of the day; and if it was followed by a brush of Will’s fingers across Hannibal’s cheek or arm or hand, it would earn him the softest of kisses, Hannibal craning the back of his skull, and later a long night of slow love making.
He learned that calling Hannibal husband would make Hannibal look at him with star-filled eyes, and cancel whatever he had to do during the day just to stay in bed together and kiss Will silly and blind.
Darling would earn Will fleeting, enamored glances for the rest of the day; dear would earn him homemade ice cream, and –if timed correctly– movie night, cuddling together on the couch with the dogs.
Babe would make Hannibal pout and frown at himself, trying and failing to stay mad (and Will still wasn’t able to decipher if Hannibal was trying to stay mad at Will or at himself) and send an exasperated glare towards Will that was too fond to be taken seriously.
The first time that he called Hannibal baby he saw the gears on that terrible and meticulous brain working, trying to understand why he liked it. It was the most amusing sight to watch Hannibal trying to hate it just to end blushing like a high schooler with a crush.
“Late experience of teenage years,” Will called it with a grin hidden behind his coffee mug. A grin so wide that he barely managed not to spill coffee through the corners of his mouth.
“I was a teen at some point in my life, Will,” Hannibal insisted, just as amused and trying to hide how much he adored the petname inside. Very deep inside. That soft spot where only Will reached.
“Doubt it,” Will laughed, because accepting that Hannibal had been a teenager would mean that Hannibal had been also a kid at some point. And if there was something more unbelievable than a teenager Hannibal Lecter, was a child Hannibal Lecter. “I’m pretty sure you popped out in the world already dressed in plaid with a psychology degree.”
Hannibal chuckled, and his laugh did so many stupid things to Will’s stupid heart that it should be considered illegal. But well, most things in their relationship had been illegal. Starting with dietary habits and courting gifts. Did he mention the corpse origamed into a heart? Let's not forget about the firefly man in Lithuania and the girl on the stag's head and the brainless and heartless judge and–
Hannibal dropped his head and it did nothing to cover the smile on his face. He huffed, blowing the silver bangs just to have them fall again on his face, and Will’s stupid heart missed like ten stupid beats.
But the cutest thing?
Will grabbed Hannibal by the hand, pulled him close and buried his face in the crook of his shoulder, murmuring, “You know you deserve it, right? Having the opportunity to experience teenage-like love?”
He kissed Hannibal’s shoulder, and he felt the man’s hands grip his shirt. And the soft “I’m–” that came out of Hannibal’s mouth was choked when Will parted to stroke his cheek.
“Just don’t pull my braids again, sweetheart,” and if Will had learned something apart from how to make Hannibal melt into a pool of cannibal mess, was that sweetheart made Hannibal tear up and smile every single time.
“Hannibal, my sweetheart,” Will muttered endeared to the bone, nuzzling at Hannibal's cheek, kissing the neatly shaved skin that from time to time, when his beard started to grow, left Will’s lips slightly irritated and a darker shade of red that had Hannibal’s eyes fixed on them for hours. “My love, my beautiful boyfriend…”
Hannibal would die before admitting out loud that he preferred boyfriend to husband. But of course, Will knew better. He just wasn’t as cruel as to point it out loud.
Will thought that he had discovered every single petname that turned Hannibal into a giddy, blushing mess. But it should never be said that Hannibal Lecter wasn’t full of surprises (and thank God, this one wasn’t a crime or a knife or a blade directed at Will).
It was winter, and sometimes in winter, Hannibal overlooked the three-piece suits altogether and replaced them with exquisite soft sweaters if he didn’t need to leave the house.
And that morning, Will –messy-haired and grumpy at being woke up un-spooned and rubbing a hand onto his eye until he saw colorful lights– padded down the stairs, following the smell of breakfast to the kitchen and found Hannibal wearing Will’s favorite sweater, the softest one; slippers and pajama pants framed by a spotless white apron.
It automatically reminded Will of old TV shows, with light orchestra music and laugh tracks and a short cartoon intro; he thought of Bewitched, with Elizabeth Montgomery as Samantha the witch, twitching her nose to cast a spell, turning herself into a normal-suburban wife, posing against the stove, offering her cheek to her husband for a kiss.
It was such a hilarious and insane thought, but the more Will thought about it, the more it made sense. Hannibal Lecter, my wife, sharing together a life of domestic intimacy, knowing the dark secret underneath. Will laughed again, entering the kitchen, thinking about 2000’s rom-coms and black and white 70’s TV shows, and how much they stupidly reminded him of his life with Hannibal.
Hannibal turned his head, looking at him over his shoulder, always attuned to Will.
“May I ask what is so funny?” He asked with a curl of his brow, diligently plating blueberry pancakes because Will had said last night that he was craving something sweet.
“Nothing, just,” Will shook his head with another chuckle, trying to throw the image off his brain but only managing to cement it further. Curls fell over his eyes, having his hair grown untrimmed for too long because Hannibal liked to thread his fingers through it, and Will liked to spoil him with those tacit small acts.
He hugged Hannibal, pressing his chest to the strong back, worming cold fingers under Hannibal’s sweater, playing with the path of pepper hair on his soft abdomen (that Will would never call tummy out loud because he really didn't want to get gutted again) and making the other man twitch (because he had discovered that Hannibal Lecter was ticklish).
Will kissed the spot between Hannibal’s shoulder blades, warming his fingers on Hannibal’s body heat and rubbing his face against the soft texture of his sweater.
“I was just thinking that you were making me breakfast.”
“Like every morning,” Hannibal answered, turning off the stove but not attempting to move away from Will’s embrace, or trying to suppress the smug tone in his voice.
“And I thought for a moment,” Will continued playfully, not suppressing the roll of his eyes, but leaving another soft kiss at the base of Hannibal’s neck, just above the sweater’s collar, cold lips meeting warm skin. “That you would make a cute housewife.”
Hannibal gasped. Small, fragile, almost too silent for Will to hear. But he did. And he felt the sudden twitch in Hannibal’s pose, how he straightened his spine, lifted his shoulders, tried to stitch his person-suit.
Will loved him so much it was so fucking stupid sometimes.
He guided Hannibal to turn around and face him, one of his hands on Hannibal’s waist, holding him by the apron’s strings; the other cupping Hannibal’s cheek as he kissed the line of his jaw on the other side.
Will was sure he was looking at Hannibal just as enamored as Hannibal looked at him.
“Hannibal,” Will whispered, trailing soft peeks on Hannibal’s cheek. “My beautiful, dutiful, wonderful wife, that takes such good care of me, always, all the time.”
Hannibal’s hand shoot directly at his waist, gripping it tight and pulling him forward until he was settled between Hannibal’s legs, and the counter was pressing against the base of Hannibal’s spine. Hannibal’s hands started shaking lightly, and his breath came out in meticulous, short inhales.
Will moved his hand cupping Hannibal’s cheek, slowly trailing a path down his throat until he placed it on Hannibal’s chest and felt his heart rabbiting underneath. He pressed their foreheads together, grinning against Hannibal’s lips.
“God, I love you so much,” Will told him, and Hannibal’s breath hitched with a gasp. “Let me take you out on a date tonight, please,” Will begged, brushing their lips together, a soft chaste kiss from which he didn’t pull away. “Somewhere pretty where I can show you off. Dress up to the nines, or to the tens. Dress up as pretty as you want, so I can tell everybody around us that this gorgeous man at my side is my husband.”
He kissed him then, and Hannibal draped his arms on his back like the biggest boa constrictor known to man. As if trying to touch every inch of Will as he possibly could at the same time and then some more.
“Let’s go to that restaurant you don’t hate,” Will said, brushing Hannibal’s hair back, placing fleeting kisses on his head while Hannibal buried his face on Will’s neck, probably hiding or trying to gorge himself on Will’s scent; reminding himself that this life was real. “I’ll bring you flowers. God, I will even let you decide my clothes, style my hair. I’ll go as far as to shave if you want.”
“Choose your cologne?” Hannibal murmured, playfully biting a tender spot of his throat, trying –and failing– to hide how overwhelmingly happy he was.
“Anything you want, love,” Will smiled, dragging him again for another kiss, feeling Hannibal relax the longer it went.