Archive of Our Own ^beta

“So whose turn is it?” Hannibal asked simply when, long minutes after they seated themselves in the living room, Will still refused to address an elephant in the room, more intent on petting Winston’s head and staring out of the window than in any way acknowledging Hannibal’s presence.

The elephant, a grotesque enormous thing rotting in the corner and filling the room with a stench of decomposition, being the fact that one of them wasn’t leaving this house on his own two feet.

Hannibal's tone stayed mild and light as he posed the question, sounding, for all intents and purposes, like he was asking what’s for dinner today. Will thought grimly that in some way that’s exactly what he was asking.

Unlike the beginning of their acquaintance, they rarely fought these days. More often than not they simply sat like this, talking it out and making arrangements that suited them both as much as possible in circumstances like these. Almost polite. Will could have laughed if this joke hadn't gotten old many years ago.

“I have a nice house, a job I don't hate and seven dogs,” he forced himself to say since silence was getting them nowhere, and in all his annoyance Will did want this resolved, preferably sooner than later. “Would you take care of my dogs?” he didn’t know if it came out more like sarcasm or a challenge.

“You know I did last time.”

Will sighed inwardly. He did. Though it was probably the last thing Will would have expected of the impeccable doctor, he actually did. It was the first time Will allowed himself to adopt animals, only to be forced to leave them a year later. He had been so anxious then, but when they met fifteen years later it was to two of his dogs buried under rose bushes in Hannibal's garden and Zoe still alive, trotting persistently after Hannibal despite her old age.

He preferred not to look too closely at all the emotions that rushed through him at that moment.

“Last time there weren't seven.”

“I would argue Zoe should count as at least three,” Hannibal’s eyes started to show first signs of amusement, just the slightest crinkling at the corners, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. Will was.

“You surely must have been feeding her for three, judging by how she looked when we met,” Will felt the corners of his mouth lifting in sympathy despite himself.

“She was somewhat more appreciative of my cooking than her owner,” at this Hannibal's tone regained all of its seriousness and it made Will smile some more.

“Do you want to cook for me so badly?” he teased with a quirked brow. There has been only one time Will had ever accepted Hannibal's dinner invitation, upon their very first meeting, when he got his throat sliced for it. Hannibal didn’t renew it until many incarnations later and by then Will’s reasons for declining were extended by the knowledge of what would most probably be served to him.

But since, as he has also learned, Hannibal was genuinely a very passionate chef, he has been asked again quite regularly.

“You Americans seem to have a prevalent fascination with last meals, considering the amount of media coverage they consistently gain. They are not only a tradition but a socially acceptable way to partake in mortality. However, the vast majority of the population would never know their last meal as they consume it. So although we both have a considerably more honest relationship with death, we could indulge simply to celebrate our unique position of foresight.”

“There… There is some fish in the freezer I caught yesterday,” Will began reluctantly. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to do this, but since in these circumstances he wouldn’t have to question where did the meat come from and it would be changing the setting into more favourable for him, he supposed there was no harm in it. “I can’t promise the other ingredients and my kitchen will be up to your standards but…” he trailed off with an awkward gesture, not sure how to finish this sentence. As he surveyed the contents of his kitchen in his mind some uncertainty started to crawl into it. He has never seen Hannibal cook in anything less than a spotless kitchen straight out of a five-star restaurant and usually just as important as the cooking itself was the show accompanying his dinner parties. Maybe Will’s offer was foolish or even insulting, maybe Hannibal's secret ingredient was the only reason he wanted to feed him. But Hannibal was quick to dispel these doubts with a simple and, Will noticed with more than a little amazement, entirely earnest assurance.

“It will be my pleasure.”

“Yes,” Will couldn’t help but smile as the relief that flooded him restored his confidence, “and it would be a favour,” he added boldly but Hannibal only nodded in agreement and got up from his armchair.

“Care to assist me?”

Because usually, dog food was the only thing cooked in this kitchen, the dogs instantly gained interest and Will had to shoo them back into the living room, where they situated themselves on cushions and carpet, peeking curiously from time to time at the stranger who moved around their master’s space.

Will was assigned the task of mincing garlic as Hannibal took care of the fish, and soon they were working in perfect harmony, moving seamlessly around each other as if they’d done it all their lives.

Will had just finished peeling when Hannibal broke the silence, “The FBI was getting too close to me anyway, I would have had to move to Europe soon,” Will raised his eyes as the meaning behind the words dawned on him. He had been sure it would take a lot more negotiating.

“You’ll save on tickets I guess,” their gazes met and held, and Will felt something alarmingly close to longing, that he stamped down on immediately.

“How did they manage without me?” he asked humorously, mostly to distract himself. “You gettin’ sloppy with age, doctor?”

“They involved some new trainee who turned out quite brilliant,” Hannibal's tone conveyed his usual nonchalance well enough but there was something more there, some story Will at the same time wanted to know and was unsettled by.

He didn’t understand why he felt so disquieted at the notion that soon he might no longer be the only person able to catch Hannibal and even less what to do with this feeling, so he dropped the subject. After their little last supper it wouldn’t matter anyway, he supposed. And he still would be the only one to kill him.

They ended up eating baked fish with garlic and some sauce put together from ingredients Will didn’t even know he had, sitting on the porch with dogs lazily exploring the front yard, Winston splayed on his side next to Will and the last rays of setting sun making everything seem as if viewed through an orange filter. He has never seen Hannibal look so content at any of the lavish, high-society dinner parties, be it his own or the ones he attended as a guest, and Will found himself unintentionally clinging to the sight.

Will travelled to Paris mostly to prove to himself that he could, that the past, no matter how horrific, wasn’t traumatic to him anymore and didn’t hold any sway over his present life.

The city was for him a place of many associations and none of them were pleasant. He remembered the French words he had worn on his skin for eighteen years; remembered imagining the first meeting with his soulmate and taking French classes to one day be able to better communicate with them; remembered finally the trip to France his parents found him from their savings to 'maybe help the luck' and how that trip ended. Paris was the place where he died for the first time.

He didn't manage to see much beyond the Eiffel Tower then so this time he set to explore more thoroughly. And if he found himself avoiding some particular streets or sticking to communicating in English as much as possible, it didn’t spoil his sense of accomplishment.

But fate, as usual, had an ironic sense of humour and so Will was now standing on Alexander III Bridge with Hannibal leaning on the white ornamented railing beside him.

No one noticed them. The city kept buzzing around them, the sun shimmering in the water and reflecting in the sunglasses of passing pedestrians.

"I have a sister in this one," Hannibal confessed, just as one of the cramped tour boats disappeared under their feet.

A confused 'oh' was all Will could manage in immediate response. A family was a strange concept to him. Something he, at least partially, did blame on Hannibal. After so many lives and so many everchanging houses, he’d been thrown into, the families assigned to him inevitably started to feel more like a repository than anything else, his family members becoming not-parents and not-siblings in his head. He always supposed that for Hannibal it didn’t really matter as he’d never attached much significance to his family in the first place. But his sister, Will knew, was different.

"Is she…" he halted, unsure of what he actually wanted to ask.

"She’s well. She turns twenty-one this year," Will had heard Hannibal mention his sister from the first incarnation once, had caught glimpses of buried deep emotions that just the thought of her evoked. This felt so flat in comparison.

"She can never know," Will concluded, because wasn’t that the reason all of these people felt so fake and the connections with them so surface-levelled. He wondered if this occurrence could make Hannibal understand more.

"I protected her even if I could never bring myself to love her," Hannibal's tone was still that of a detached resignation, his eyes fixed on some distant point on the horizon, so Will looked as well. From where they stood there was a clear view at the Bridge of Concord, something Hannibal surely must have smiled at once he noticed, situated just before the riverbend.

"You never told me what happened the first time," Will probed carefully.

"You never told me about your father," Hannibal countered because of course he wouldn’t give Will anything without making him work for it.

"Which one?" Will asked just to be bitter but Hannibal seemed undeterred.

"The only one you ever called that beyond the first," Will smiled inwardly at the memory of the face Hannibal made when sometime away back he slipped during one of their conversations, calling one of his parents his 'not-mother' – a term that took a permanent residence in his mind in the beginning years of all of this. Later, he realized that Hannibal wasn’t yet aware of Will’s ability to remember his previous incarnations at that time but nevertheless, the psychiatrist in him must have had a blast.

"Quid pro quo?" Will offered, knowing that’s a proposition Hannibal won’t be able to refuse.

"Quid pro quo," with a nod Hannibal agreed as expected and turned back to the river. His next words didn’t come immediately, the weighted pause telling Will how much it took him to utter them. Looking at Hannibal’s uncharacteristic fight with himself Will started wondering if maybe this was the first time he ever said them aloud. "Her name was Mischa," the words reached only Will's ears, drowned in the street noise around them, but Will felt the whole reality dissipate with them. Boats vanished under the water, cars and pedestrians dissolved into thin air and the bustling city fell silent until there were only them and the river, the only two people in Paris. As Hannibal continued his tone became less hushed, talking made easier after overcoming the first barrier, "Derived from the Hebrew rhetorical question 'who is like God?', it had been enticing me with an idea of greatness, only to teach me no one is as scornful and cruel as Him."

Will didn’t really believe in God, the idea took too much responsibility away from people and simplified too many things to appeal to him. Even if He did exist, Will's and Hannibal's match surely hasn’t been made under His jurisdiction. And Mischa wasn’t one of His cosmic jokes as well. Will long since deduced it must have been people who took her, not an illness, accident or disaster, but the Earth’s most scornful and cruel.

"How old was she?" he inquired after it was clear that Hannibal wasn’t going to add anything more.

"Turning seven, I was eleven at the time," Will allowed himself a moment to imagine Hannibal as a child but it turned out to be more difficult than seeing other people usually was to him. In one moment he was sure Hannibal was a very serious child, from the youngest years living up to his title and displaying interest only in books and knowledge; only to in the next see him laughing with his sister, as he never did today, and engaging in some silly ideas to trick their parents, always skirting the lines of what was and wasn’t allowed to them.

“It’s such an outlandish thought now, that there really was a time when our age matched the number of years we lived through,“ he said at last.

“Yours didn’t when you lived with your father.”

“No, I think that’s the main reason I was able to like him as I did. He was the only one who didn’t freak out when all the memories rushed back to me,“ through all his lives it always happened the same way. He was reborn with no recollection of who he used to be and then regained all of his memories at once in a quick but awfully painful process when he was only a few years old. The reactions he got when this happened varied from fear and shock to straight-up denial, but even families that tried to act compassionate in these moments were then quick to solve the problem by stating that it just wasn’t possible and Will should stop talking about it. His father was the first one to truly listen and believe him.

“Did he have a soulmate?“ came Hannibal’s next question, making Will smirk bitterly.

“His wife was his soulmate. Didn’t help them build a healthy relationship or stop them from separating.“

“I see,“ Hannibal mulled this over silently for a moment, Will fancied he could almost hear the missing pieces clicking into place in his head. “How much did you tell him?“

“Eventually? Everything that was important.“

“That is a lot to take in, even for a person who doesn't blindly share all of society's beliefs on soulmates. How did he react?“

“Quietly. Way quieter than I expected. I felt his anger but he never let it show,“ Will knew that his father was in some ways relieved upon learning about his past. The perspective of raising a child alone was making him terribly scarred, so Will turning out to be already formed and damaged not because of his mistakes was relieving him of that particular burden. But although he knew, Will couldn’t find it in himself to begrudge him that. Because even if he wouldn’t have been the ideal father of a five-year-old he turned out to be a very good friend and Will never had an abundance of those, if any. “He wished he could protect me and even more that I'd be able to protect myself,“ his father started teaching him: survival skills, self-defence, everything he knew, everything he thought could be useful. “He didn't live long enough to fulfil the former but I wanted so badly to make him proud of the latter,“ the incarnation in which Will was under his care was the first where he fought back, the first in which he was the one to kill Hannibal.

“He would have been,“ Hannibal assured softly, trying to meet Will’s eyes.

“I believed the same then.“

“And now?“ Will didn’t respond beyond looking away with a scoff but Hannibal continued, “I was proud. To see a fledgling spread its wings and take a flight for the first time.“

The words were meant to be comforting, maybe even something more. Will didn't want to look at them too closely, they were already too much. And so he snapped without thinking, “Tell me more about Mischa,“ after the words left his mouth he looked at Hannibal somewhat anxiously, worrying that maybe he shouldn’t have used her name but Hannibal didn’t show any outward reaction to it and in a moment indeed resumed his story.

“She was born without a soulmark. I thought it the biggest blessing then, despising the words written on my own wrist,“ Will swallowed. The sentiment wasn’t personal and wasn't exactly new, he already knew that. Yet hearing it put so plainly wasn't easy, even as he reminded himself that this story wasn't about him and returned his focus to its real hero. “I was envisioning a long and blissful life for the two of us, our bond too strong for any stranger to compare or intervene with it. I never anticipated that I could fail to protect her, that her unsullied hands I admired so often, would turn out to be the very reason I wasn’t able to find her in another life.“

Will’s chest tightened painfully. To be born without a soulmark wasn’t unheard of but it was extremely rare. In all of his years, Will heard about only over a dozen cases like this though of course, it was entirely plausible he had encountered more simply without knowing it. He remembered being amazed in his first life that he wasn’t one of them, that somewhere across the world actually existed a person who could not only accept but also understand and maybe even cherish the convoluted mess that was his mind. He used to look at and touch his mark compulsively throughout the day to assure himself that it was still there, that it had existed in the first place.

“The longer I live the more acutely am I aware of just how little time was bestowed on her. Sometimes I feel like that may be the reason for the anomaly in my incarnations, like my unnaturally long life is a reach for balance.“

Will felt tears well in his eyes, “How gladly would I have given her my years.“

“Will…“ Hannibal sounded pained but Will refused to look at him.

“What did they do to her?“ he whispered desperately.

“It was a very harsh winter,“ it didn't explain much but was spoken with such decisive solemnity as if that alone conveyed all the tragedy of that time. For a moment Will feared he wouldn't be given more but it seemed that now that the gates of his memory had been opened Hannibal didn't require more coaxing. “Our parents have been long gone at this point, I didn't know exactly what happened but I was convinced they were dead. When Mischa asked, I didn't want to tell her,“ Now that the burden of attention wasn't on him anymore, Will wanted to offer Hannibal the eye contact he always searched for, but found his eyes distant and unfocused. He still tried to convey as much encouragement through his own as he could master. “We barricaded ourselves in the deepest part of the castle but our supplies were dwindling, I didn't know how long we would be able to last. If I was alone I would probably have braved the few hours' walk into a nearby village but as it was… I stayed strong for her, I had to ration our portions but I did my best to distract her from the cold and our empty stomachs. I told her stories of faraway places of abundance and joy, made up little games for us to play by candlelight, hid all my worries from her, and, in the secrecy of my mind, begged and prayed for an early spring.“

Will didn't have much experience with raising kids, but even with how little reference he did have, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to stay as calm and composed, especially at such a young age. Children’s unfiltered emotions always overwhelmed him even in day-to-day situations, regressing his own feelings to the times of being distressingly small and unprotected. He dreaded to imagine taking care of a child in such dire conditions.

He felt wetness gather behind his eyelids at the thought of how much worse it was going to get and trembled as Hannibal inevitably said, “But then the men came.

“The only thing I knew about them was that they were Russians and that like all of us, they were hungry. They combed every corner of our home in search of shelter and food we didn't have enough left to satisfy them. When they found us instead, they threw us into the basement, with not a thing to eat and no way to start a fire, and locked the door. That was when I grew certain we were going to die. The only hope I had was that we would go together, or at the very least that I wouldn't leave her first.”

Will gripped the railing until his knuckles hurt, in an effort to stay grounded in reality. The sun was beating down on them and yet he felt as if his very bones were freezing.

“I don't know how long we've been there, clinging to each other to share body heat and growing delirious with hunger, but there was nothing I could do to calm her sobbing anymore.” Hannibal’s breath hitched and he made a fortifying pause to steady it, “When I woke up without her in my arms I thought it was a nightmare. I was too weak to go search for her, I couldn’t even stand up, I should have tried harder… I…” Will wanted to say that there was nothing he could have done, that it wasn’t his fault, he wanted to soothe this irrational wound of guilt, but any words and platitudes he could say got stuck in his throat, tying it into a tight knot. “I don’t even know if my screams were loud enough for anyone to hear them, but eventually, they did come back for me.” Hannibal’s eyes were cold as if they belonged to a man possessed. “They brought a bowl of soup with them. To this day I remember the smell of it. They laughed as they put it before me. I begged them to give it to Mischa but they just laughed even more. I thought that maybe if I ate I’d have enough strength to look for her, I… I ate it, Will, I swallowed it all, and the taste…”

“You don’t have to say it,” Will choked out, the tears running down his face in sudden understanding.

“There were milk teeth at the bottom of the bowl.”

Will was then struck with such a strong urge to reach out that his hand moved before his brain had any chance to make a conscious decision to do so. It hovered a moment over Hannibal’s arm, as if unable to choose between touching his shoulder or hand, and in the end, landed awkwardly on his forearm. Hannibal's eyes flew to it and Will had half a mind to immediately take it away, uncertain if this contact would even be welcomed but before he could do anything Hannibal's hand covered his own keeping it in place. His expression was complicated but Will believed he didn’t imagine it when he discerned mostly warmth there, at least among the feelings directed at him. He didn’t say anything and so they stayed like that, the river flowing silently under their feet.

Will felt eyes on himself as he sobbed silently, trying to slow his breathing. There was nothing he believed Hannibal would appreciate him saying, but his gaze was heavy on him, and so he looked back openly and let him take anything he wanted. ‘I see you’, he sought to express through his eyes, allowing Hannibal to drink in all of his raw emotions.

Will squeezed his arm, discovering he didn’t really mind the touch. Hannibal’s palm was warm and less calloused than his, slightly bigger as it lay on top of it. Will expected to be assaulted with a rush of memories of the pain these hands caused him, but it never came, and when Hannibal started rubbing slow circles into the back of his hand it actually felt nice.

He calmed down in increments, their point of contact an anchor to bring them both back into the world of the living and surviving.

“What was it that was so special about your father?” Hannibal asked after an undefined period of time, his eyes back on the water.

“He made me actually forget,” he made Will feel safe. There was no shadow of death and gore looming over their little cabin in the woods. ”I did still know about it on a rational level, but there were glass walls inside my head that allowed me to see how cold it was outside but enjoy the warmness of the inside, like it was the only reality that existed, and like the two of them could exist together, not being contradictory.”

The silence that followed was surprisingly comfortable, coming more from the sufficiency of what had already been said and a need to reflect upon it, than not knowing what to say next.

Finally, the sound of the church bells brought Will back to the present, making him aware of the passing time. Irritated at himself, he gathered all the resentment he could manage and pulled his hand away from Hannibal's hold.

“I was heading to the Grand Palais,” he said off-handedly.

“To the commissariat?” the corners of Hannibal’s eyes crinkled with amusement, all traces of grief gone from his face and tone.

“And who should I report there, you or myself?” Will deadpanned but Hannibal didn't answer, only looking at him with that same smile. “There’s a gardens exhibition I was hoping to attend.”

“Of course. Shall we?” Hannibal said, his hand extended in invitation.

"You’re an absolute fucking dickhead."

Hannibal allowed himself a small private smile when Will’s voice reached his ears, before schooling his features into something unreadable again. He savoured the feeling of warmth spreading through his body from a now throbbing soulmark and ignored the urge to run his fingers over it, gripping the pencil a little tighter instead, and focusing all his attention on drawing.

These weren’t soulwords a regular person would probably cherish, but, although Hannibal still kept them safely hidden behind a leather band wrapped around his wrist every time he left the house, they were so undeniably Will, that he couldn’t have helped but grow fond of them. The effect opposite to what Will hoped for, no doubt.

"You must think yourself so funny," he let a bit of fond exasperation register in his voice, still not raising his eyes from the reproduction of Primavera he was working on.

"Just truthful. You deserved a lot fucking worse for last time," Will sat down on a bench next to him and Hannibal took a discreetly deeper breath as his scent filled his nostrils. He didn’t detect any dogs this time, overlaying Will’s natural fragrance was only a smell of coffee, some cleaning products (still way too cheap for Hannibal’s taste, though there was a slight improvement compared to their first meetings), and a characteristic blend of museum air, a mix of wood polish, varnish and old paper. He wondered if Will took any detours to sightsee before finding him. He would love to show him more of the city though he knew with how Will's blood was boiling it would have to wait at least until the next time they met.

"I'm sure you'll soon compensate for that."

Will merely scoffed at that. Hannibal studied his profile for a moment longer before returning his attention to the drawing.

The last cycle took something of a detour from their routine, and, if Hannibal was being honest, he expected a lot more hostility than Will has shown him so far. In that incarnation, Will had a wife and Hannibal had a patient with the most fascinating violent tendencies. It didn't end well. Francis died on the spot and Will bled out on the way to the hospital. The woman lived and Hannibal suspected that was the main reason he was still sitting in the gallery and not being dragged outside or butchered right there.

"Besides me, was he the first person your wrath has fallen on?"

"The fuck do you care."

Oh, he cared quite a bit.

Last time they hadn't seen each other at all, Will succeeding in imprisoning him before it happened. Hannibal had been intrigued at first, waiting for him to visit, if for no other reason than to gloat and start the clock for them. But when three years went by without any sign or even a letter from Will, Hannibal came to the conclusion that his design needed a little push.

"Mere curiosity."

"Was it because of curiosity," he spat the last word disdainfully, "that you sent him after us?"

"Mostly."

"What was grating to you more, that I actually had a good life there or that for once I deprived you of yours?"

Hannibal wanted terribly to question the meaning of ‘good’ in that sentence. If what Will and that woman had was indeed so ‘good’ then why didn't he finish what he’d started by putting Hannibal behind bars? It was rare for people to settle for someone who wasn’t their soulmate and so that begged the question, whose words did she wear on her wrist? In all his pursuit of ‘good’ and normal, Will didn't want to grow old with her, they had been living on borrowed time and he did nothing to change that.

But Hannibal held himself back. There was something more nagging in Will’s sentiment that needed to be addressed.

"Will, I’ve never wanted your lives before our meetings to be of low quality."

"Oh, sure. Because all you ever did was schedule a meeting for us, divided from the rest of our lives so as to not affect it in any way, nothing personal."

Hannibal hesitated. It certainly had been that in the beginning, at least for him. Will's very existence had been an inconvenience then, one he tried to deal with quickly and efficiently. He didn't show much consideration for the boy’s side of the bargain, no more than he would grant a fly buzzing around his living room. Even learning about Will's ability to remember his past incarnations, though did manage to pique his curiosity, wasn't enough to make Hannibal look at him as anything more than a hindrance. It took Will fighting back, outmanoeuvring him, his darkness making a glorious appearance, for Hannibal to see him as someone more. Someone with potential, someone who one day could become his equal.

It was a startling realization, that these meetings with Will have turned from being just means to an end, to a goal in and of itself. It made him question everything he ever thought about society’s obsession with romantic pursuit. Maybe there was some method to this madness, a possibility for a soul-connection so profound that a lifetime with a soulmate could sound better than an eternity without.

But words to describe any of that evaded him.

"I’ll wait outside", he watched in silence as Will stood up and left without so much as a second glance, his steps echoing in the gallery hall.

"Your Italian is improving," Hannibal addressed Will for the first time, as the opera director finally left them in peace, to mingle with the rest of the gathered socialites instead. If he was being honest he had to admit he could have dealt with the pushy intruder much quicker if he simply spoke with the man himself, but observing Will in a social setting was too much of a personal delight to pass on.

"Probably from reading all those articles about my display," Will, in his usual manner, cut right to the chase.

"I admit it was somewhat discourteous of me," Hannibal has learned quite early on that Will found the perspective of becoming one of his tableaus much more disconcerting than dying itself. And, even though Will would make a beautiful centrepiece for his art, he respected his wishes. For the most part, "After seeing the chapel painted with your blood I couldn't help myself but finish what has been started."

"For how long have you wanted to do this?" Will was on edge tonight. Hannibal watched his eyes shift nervously through the crowd, fingers drumming erratic patterns on his glass of champagne. He usually got like this when he tried to hold on to his anger longer than it lasted. He wanted to abhor Hannibal as much as he did in the beginning but his ire was slipping away, leaving only this twitchy frustration behind.

"Not as long as you assume, I imagine. I always preferred keeping you to myself."

"Good for you I guess," Will downed the rest of his drink in one go, head tilted back, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Running around creating tableaus with the same guy over the years would draw too much attention," he put the empty glass on the bar and turned away to make his way out of the theatre.

Hannibal indulged for a moment in watching his retreating form, dressed way more smartly than he was used to seeing him, his grey evening wear hugging his body snugly. Hannibal thought he would look even lovelier with some blue accents. Maybe next time.

Will didn't slow his steps, didn't look back but Hannibal still felt powerless but to follow.

"I would rather avoid prison for foreseeable lifetimes, yes," Will was clearly in a rush to leave and Hannibal matched his gait to him. He ignored all of the patrons who tried to get his attention upon their departure.

"That was a fun ride, I'd have to try it again sometime," how far they’ve come for Will to delight in his cruelty so openly and be so brazen about it with no fear of consequences. "I was surprised you didn't just kill yourself though."

"That would be against the rules of our game, wouldn't it?"

"Didn't realize we had any, or that you would ever care about them," Will threw over his shoulder as they stepped out of the building into the massive steps over the stone platz. The summer air engulfed them in asphyxiating heat, surprisingly hot despite the late hour. Will didn't linger, heading down towards the cobble streets and Hannibal followed him into the dark.

"It was much more interesting to see how much would it take to escape," Hannibal allowed indulgently.

"Of course it was," Will smirked. They walked straight ahead through the dark streets, neither of them truly leading, the way making itself known the moment they chose it. "And how do you rate the challenge?"

"I find myself somehow amazed they managed to capture me at all, even with your intervention," that earned him a full-blown laugh from Will, his pearly teeth showing and eyes crinkling with mirth. Hannibal observed the light of the streetlamps dancing on his expressive features and committed every sound to memory.

"I swear each time your arrogance only gets worse."

"Hard to blame me when we've practically become gods among men," it was a wrong thing to say. Will's laughter died just as abruptly as it started, replaced with a solemn determination.

"You made us outcasts among men, stuck in this limbo of our own sins," it seemed that no matter how much Will delighted he always found ways to obfuscate the core factors of his enjoyment.

"Sins you are just as guilty of," Hannibal reminded him patiently.

They have already wandered off the beaten, more crowded paths into the belly of the city, finding their way into a deserted back alley where they paused in unison.

"Would you prefer me to stay a guileless lamb, always willingly going to the slaughter?" Hannibal huffed at the return of Will's teasing. He usually took his quips as a good sign but then there were moments such as this, when his humour was an escape, an easy way out of confronting himself more than anything else.

"Not at all," and still, Hannibal allowed it time and time again as Will could only be made to talk once he decided he would.

"Would make things easier," he argued and Hannibal's eyes crinkled at the corners.

"And so much less interesting."

With a quick flick of his wrist, he removed a scalpel from his jacket's sleeve and handed it to Will handle first. Will's brows furrowed questioningly.

"Like I said, I had been discourteous with the display."

Will blinked. There were countless options of what he could say to that, many words to express the same conviction, that he didn't need Hannibal's sentiments or his weapons, that he was prepared enough without them, that he felt insulted. Hannibal saw all of them flicker behind his eyes and then the moment they all died on his tongue. Will accepted the scalpel.

The voice was higher pitched and less controlled than he was used to but there was something unquestioningly familiar in it. He turned around carefully and felt his heart swell at the sight of a skinny boy with chocolate curls and bright blue eyes.

Will.

Barefoot and covered in dirt, with grass stains all over his clothes, the boy was running and jumping around joyfully with a hairy dog at least twice his size. He couldn’t be more than five or six years old which made this version the youngest Hannibal has ever seen. Usually, they didn't run into each other at least until reaching their teenage years which was the most common age for people to meet their soulmates.

The boy laughed and Hannibal's heart skipped a beat. He had never heard Will laugh like this before. It reminded him of the very first time they met, of Will trusting and open, genuinely happy to have found him and excited for their first dinner together.

He wasn’t able to appreciate this side of Will then and he hasn’t seen it ever since. He wasn’t even sure it existed anymore. But apparently, it was being reborn with Will every time, if only for a few short years before his memories came back to plague him all over again.

Hannibal angled his chair to be able to see the boy without looking over his shoulder awkwardly, so as not to appear suspicious to the other park-goers. He turned the page in a sketchbook he had been drawing the park’s flora in and set to filling it with this Will’s likeness. He observed his gaunt limbs and captured them midmotion with soft lines, the bouncy curls he smudged delicately at the edges, the wide eyes without dark shadows underneath or furrowed brows, he was so used to seeing on older Will’s face, he traced tenderly with the tip of his pencil.

Will's caretaker was nowhere to be found. Apart from his canine companion, the boy seemed to have come to the park all on his own.

It would be so easy to kill him now. If Will hadn’t yet regained his memories Hannibal could probably just convince him to come with him without any protest. But something in him rebelled against that notion. Though this child has been born with Will Graham's brain and body, it hasn't yet become the Will that Hannibal knew so well. It was a creature of an altogether different kind of beauty. Of unrestrained smiles and carefreeness, of boundless empathy not yet tainted by hurt and self-preservation, and of naive childhood hope and trust.

At that moment Hannibal knew that turning the joy on the boy's face into a grimace of pain would bring him no satisfaction. Taking those few short years of happiness away from Will would almost feel like stealing, and, in all of his depravities, Hannibal wasn't a thief.

And so the only thing he allowed himself to take were a few more secretive glances, before he closed his sketchbook, gathered his things and headed in the opposite direction to leave the park. He had some planning to do.

It wasn’t the first time Will showed up at his doorstep, but it was the first time he did it in such a state.

"Will," Hannibal paused with his hand on the doorknob, taken aback by the sight that greeted him upon opening the front door. Will was paler than usual, his normally alabaster complexion taking on a sickly grey shade with dark circles under bloodshed unfocused eyes that had yet to meet Hannibal’s own. They shifted nervously between his hand, vest and the doorframe, like Will couldn’t stand to look at any element of reality for too long, like it burned him. If it did, it would at least explain the redness of his swollen eyelids and the dampness of his cheeks. Hannibal hasn't seen his tears for a long time. Will's newly tailored person suit fit him more and more with every incarnation, accentuating his strength and smartly hiding all the weaknesses. To now stand before Will's visibly shaken form, anxiety and despair reeking from him on every poorly restrained shiver, Hannibal was struck like a knife in the stomach with images of his younger versions, showing vulnerability even before being forced to but dying repeatedly at Hannibal's hand regardless.

Will actually begged him then and revisiting those memories was bringing with it a strange mix of emotions to Hannibal. Will's suffering was always a thing of haunting beauty but looking back at the extent of it he witnessed, it felt like it was done prematurely, like taking part in a holy experience without any knowledge, understanding or ability to act respectfully. It wasn’t earned, not like this older guarded version made him work for every little moment they shared and every secret truth he learned. Yet despite all of the changes they underwent, this present Will was coming to him without his armour and Hannibal’s curiosity was peaked.

"Come in," he stepped to the side, inviting him with an outstretched hand.

Will slid inside, keeping his head bowed and eyes skittishly on the floor. He paused in the middle of the foyer unsure how to proceed, fidgeting with his hands and coat.

"What happened, Will?" Hannibal asked carefully, moderating his voice to sound groundingly calm but not indifferently cold.

Will opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it, chewed on the inside of his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut and that seemed to finally give him the courage to blurt out, "They took her, they took her Hannibal," he shook his head jerkily. "I shouldn't have, I was so scared you would… and now it all doesn't matter."

Will's face contorted with a silent sob, his eyes squeezing even harder. He hugged himself tightly and Hannibal felt an answering pang in his chest, a long-forgotten instinct to take him in his own arms instead. He took a moment to marvel at the feeling, less because it was unfamiliar and more because he had believed it lost to him for so long.

"Will," he debated with himself if he should come closer or if, with their shared history, it wouldn't agitate Will further, but when Will failed to react to his calls he decided to go to him anyway. After all, it was Will who came to his house first. "Will, look at me."

He was careful to take slow, tentative steps, signalling his every movement. He came to stand directly in front of Will and extended one of his hands to rest lightly on his shoulder. Will gasped at the contact.

"Breathe. Inhale and a long exhale," Hannibal kept his hand there, the pressure solid but gentle, and felt Will’s shaking gradually subsiding until it became a humming undercurrent instead of a raging storm. "That's it."

"I adopted a daughter," Will’s voice was small, barely more than a whisper. "Did you know I adopted a daughter?" he managed to lift his gaze at last and Hannibal held it steadily.

"I didn't."

"I don't know why I thought you might. I…" he shook his head again and Hannibal rubbed his shoulder with his thumb to shush him. "I knew better than to have my own but she needed me and I thought that maybe…"

Something in this statement tasted bitter to Hannibal, something in him bristling at the notion that Will didn't feel like he could have everything he wanted. He tucked the feeling away to examine later.

"She needed you so you took care of her."

"Ye-yeah. She was the daughter of a killer I was investigating. Minnesota Shrike? He was all over the news."

The name brought with it recognition and a flash of pride.

"You killed him, didn't you? Cunning boy, I've read articles about it."

"I did. I saved her I guess. Barely, but she lived, I… since then I felt this… obligation, I felt responsible for her."

Will has calmed down substantially but his eyes were still red-rimmed and glistening with tears. Hannibal ran his hand up and down his coat sleeve feeling the coarse fabric and Will's tense muscles underneath it.

"What happened to your daughter, Will?"

"She killed a boy, right in front of the FBI. I wasn't there to help her, if I only came there with her…" Hannibal squeezed his shoulder in reassurance to stop the impending spiral of guilt. Will sighed before continuing. "She could plead self-defence, he was sour on her, most people were. My boss suspected her of participating in her father's crimes, I didn't believe them, I didn't want to believe them, but she… she butchered him," the statement hung there, heavy in the air between them, with all of its ugly implications. And yet the truth it unveiled wasn't the real reason for Will's distress. "I don't want her to escape the cage her father put her in only to be locked in another. If anyone deserves a second chance it would be her."

"And we know all about second chances, don't we?" Hannibal felt something alarmingly close to hope stir inside him. If Will was ready to overlook the crimes of another in the name of family then maybe, just maybe…

He took the liberty of brushing Will's curls out of his forehead. His hairline was sticky with nervous sweat, his scent stronger than Hannibal had smelled it in years. He wanted to press his nose to Will's throat and breathe it directly from the source.

"I need your help," Will burst out with a humourless laugh, a tear escaping his eye. Hannibal swept it away with his thumb. "I didn't know where to go," there was shame in the admission that Hannibal felt the need to soothe. As much beauty as there was in Will's pain, he never wanted him to feel ashamed. Especially not of coming to him.

"How can I help?" he asked readily.

"You got out of prison before, much higher security too," Will was no longer looking at him and Hannibal tilted his head trying to catch his eyes again.

"You want me to arrange an escape for her."

"Please," it was a whisper, desperate and mortified. "I never asked you for anything and I never will again. But please…" Will's breath hitched. A newfound determination filled his words. "You can have the next five times."

"Oh Will," Hannibal couldn't do much more than stare in wonder.

"Ten? How many do you want?"

And Hannibal couldn't resist the urge to embrace him any longer.

"Shsh," he pulled Will close to his chest, ran his fingers through his curls and buried his face in them. And Will let him.

The next few days were for Hannibal something to be cherished. Will spent most of his waking hours in Hannibal's house, as they planned and strategized together, leaving only to organize things that couldn't be arranged otherwise. They shared space, meals and conversation, and small innocent touches Hannibal occasionally stole. He had never spent so much time with Will from one incarnation and the switch from having no Will in his life to having him almost all the time was making him dizzy.

He was intent on making the most of it, though he knew it would serve him well to remember the reason they were there and the time limit on it. Will was under duress and Hannibal wasn't going to take advantage of that. Yet it was so tempting to pretend, and to push just a little bit harder. To sit nearer and lean closer, to offer one more drink and ask another question. Will didn't comment on any of it, giving them both plausible deniability, but with how he looked at him every time Hannibal invaded his personal space or touched him unnecessarily, he knew Will was aware. And yet he never pulled away and so their dance continued.

At the airport, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the vast apron, watching Abigail climb excitingly into the small private plane Hannibal secured for her. She had smiled and hugged both of them respectively, playing her part perfectly.

She could have been Will's daughter even due to her physique and looking at the two of them interact has caused a wave of warmth to flood Hannibal's heart.

And a very weak voice to whisper that maybe, just maybe, this could be their reality, raising a daughter together. He let himself imagine it for a moment. How it would feel to finally give Will something he could call family without the negating prefix, to help him connect to the concept, make him smile freely again. How would it be to grow old and do it with his soulmate by his side.

He didn't manage to ask.

"Five times, starting from the next," Will said, removing a knife from his stomach.

He could still hear the whirr of a plane engine in the distance as his body hit the ground.

Will stayed true to his word and didn’t fight him. Hannibal almost screamed at him to do. There was no beauty to be found in how bloody and unrecognizable he left Will's corpse. For the first time in his many lives, he felt sick looking at his own crime scene. And so he didn't hide the body, didn't get rid of the evidence. He simply disappeared into the night, as he felt too reckless to stay anyway.

When they met again, Will didn't mention his loss of control. In fact, he didn't talk at all. He followed Hannibal in silence, resigned to his fate as he entered his car. When Hannibal drove them to his house, ushered Will inside, and led them both into the kitchen, he could just about catch a glimpse of some witty remark hovering at the tip of Will's tongue. But despite how he longed for Will to voice it and for them to fall back into their friendly banter, it never happened. Will swallowed it down and, with furrowed brows, took his place on the kitchen stool without a comment.

Hannibal took all of the dinner ingredients from the fridge and laid them out on the counter.

"Would you mind tearing the basil?" he tried to get Will out of his reverie.

"Would I be marinating myself?" Will's eyes were distant, looking more past than at him but Hannibal still felt the corners of his mouth lifting at the question.

"Considering that everything we eat changes the bacterial flora in our bodies and…"

"Forget I asked."

Hannibal's smile fell.

"There’s pork in the oven. I bought it yesterday, it's pork."

Will absorbed this information but if anything it seemed to make him even more guarded. Nonetheless, he went to retrieve the potted basil from the island, a knife from the knife block, and stood behind the counter awaiting further instructions so Hannibal considered it a success.

After the cooking and plating were finished, Will didn't give him much at the table either. He accepted his dish with a nod and distant eyes. That he wouldn't make this easy wasn't surprising in any way but Hannibal expected more of his usual thrashing and angry sarcasm. Cracking through this absent shell Will locked himself in required a different approach.

"I've never asked how was your daughter," he said, refilling Will's wineglass for him.

"She isn't my daughter anymore."

"Only formally. I'm sure you kept an eye on her."

Will was slow to reach for his utensils and even slower to start eating. He turned a cut piece of meat on his plate, dipping it in sauce over and over again before finally putting it in his mouth. He paused after the first bite, sighing quietly, clearly reluctant to give Hannibal any sign of appreciation. He took it as one anyway.

"She's fine," Will said, washing the food down with more wine.

"A vague statement," Hannibal mused, allowing himself a first bite as well, now that Will was partaking.

"Are you asking because you're curious or because you want to check if I'll tell you the truth?" there it was, that spark in Will's eyes as they met Hannibal's own. Though it needed some redirecting, it was a start.

"Neither, both. Her fate interests me as long as it affects you," Will mulled that over, working his jaw in discomfort. "We can talk without intermediaries if you'd prefer."

"That's not the reason we're here," Will was fully present now, disturbed by the changes in the script.

"We can be here for any number of reasons we want," Hannibal coaxed, raising his own wineglass to his lips.

Will's brows twitched, a crease forming between them, "What are you suggesting?"

Hannibal tested a few phrases in his mind before landing on, "A mutually beneficial truce of sorts."

"What are you suggesting?" Will ground out through clenched teeth, knuckles whitening around the knife and fork he gripped with way more force than necessary.

"Merely that you would benefit from conversations with someone to whom you could talk about your authentic past experiences."

"A therapy," it was almost a whisper, but, with how much shock and disbelief Will spoke it, the quietness only added to its gravity. "You're offering me a fucking therapy."

"Whatever you're most comfortable with calling it. It doesn't need to…"

"No," Will cut off, to the metallic sound of his utensils landing on the plate. Hannibal narrowed his eyes but said nothing. "I’ve kept my word, now it’s time for you to keep yours."

"Haven't I?" he made sure to exude only calm but refused to back down. Something between them had to give, the zero-sum game they’d been playing had already run its course. And, since Will himself had offered him means to change it, he wasn't going to waste that. "Abigail is living a happy life far away from prison."

"No. No, no, no," Will chanted as he stood up, backing away from the table. He was acting like a deer in headlights when he clearly wasn't one and Hannibal was intent on making him acknowledge that, "you can't turn it, use it like that, you can't."

"Will, please," he quashed the stirring strings of that compassion only Will was able to awaken in him. He had to wait his outburst out if they were to come to any constructive conclusions, "sit down and finish your dinner."

"No, just no."

Before he fully registered what was happening Will fled from the room. Hannibal hesitated for maybe half a second if he should follow immediately or give the boy a moment when a loud clattering sound coming distinctly from the kitchen made the decision for him.

Will stood in the middle of the room, knife in hand and desperate frenzy in his eyes.

"You were the one who said we had rules," his voice sounded like gravel, unshed tears clogging his throat. Hannibal looked at him with fascination and a growing feeling of unease. It wasn't quite horror but it was getting much closer to it than he would like. He miscalculated. "So if you won't follow them, I will."

Consciously Hannibal was preparing himself for an attack, for a familiar sight of Will running at him with a knife. But deeper down he already sensed he wouldn't be the target for Will's blade this time.

Vibrant red oozed from two symmetrical gashes on Will's wrists and Hannibal rushed to his side. The knife made a metallic cling as it hit the tiles.

There had been times, mostly at the beginning of all of this, when the words on his wrist changed before his intervention and Hannibal had suspected that at least some of them weren't due to natural causes. To see Will act now, so unhesitant and efficient, confirmed these suspicions and Hannibal's chest ached at the ends of desperation his carelessles had brought his boy to. Was still bringing, it would seem.

Hannibal caught him as Will collapsed, arranging them both on the floor with his back against the cupboards and Will cradled in his lap. He whispered soft words of comfort Will would never allow him to say under different circumstances and massaged his cuts so they wouldn't close.

Will tried to cling to him but his body was already too weak with a blood loss to do it properly so Hannibal tightened his embrace for them both. He had the most irrational thought that he wished he could have been there so Will wouldn't die alone the other times, but he dismissed it as absurd the moment it occurred. Fear of meeting him was the exact reason that drove Will to these measures.

He held Will through it and long after the last spasms stopped shaking his cooling body.

Will lay lax in his arms, soaking everything in fresh blood. Hannibal was distantly aware of the amount of cleaning he'd have to do but there was a more savage and illogical part of him that hoped he wouldn't manage to remove everything, that Will's blood would leave a permanent mark on his house and skin.

He turned Will's wrists to look at the deep red gnashes through which his life had escaped. The one on his right hand has been done first and was visibly deeper, inflicted by a one not yet weakened. It ran parallel to his veins, right through the middle of his soulwords like some form of macabre strikethrough. Hannibal wondered if he had done it the same way the previous times, or if he ever went further, cutting off chunks of skin in a futile attempt to rid himself of what they symbolized.

An image of bringing Will’s wrist to his mouth and licking away the blood flashed through his mind, but it felt too invasive of a gesture to be done without Will’s awareness and permission, and so he satisfied himself with caressing with his thumb what he longed to kiss with his tongue.

It took him considerably more time than he’d like to admit to force himself to let go of Will’s body and move away from him. He had work to do.

He was arranging the meat in the freezer when new words sealed themselves on his skin. He paused to run his fingers over the mark, closing his eyes with a small sigh of relief. It hurt a little, a distant ache, burn in nature but much milder in intensity. Next to the one caused by Will's hands, it was the most exquisite pain. Most people would never experience it and Hannibal relished it every time. Will has been reborn.

It was always impossible to tell how long the process would take, it could be anything from a few hours to many months. He vividly remembered an instance when Will made him wait a whole full year, to the point where he started to question if he finally succeeded in preventing him from coming back permanently. How foolish his younger self had been to feel hope at the thought.

Now, though he would never call it anxiousness, he was always somehow disquieted before it happened. He was reluctant to admit it, even before himself, but being the one to die and leaving Will powerful and breathing was quickly becoming the more preferable option. Who was truly foolish here he could no longer tell.

Will found him this time. Hannibal was telling the truth when he claimed to want a good life for Will proceeding their meetings and so he made it a point to never look for him before fate decided it prudent to reunite them again. Will had no such qualms. Hannibal understood his reasoning, at first, it was mostly to gain some sort of advantage but with time it became more complicated as everything between them. Will would seek him out in lives good enough to protect or miserable enough to want to end, but Hannibal's favourites were the ones that turned out too boring.

Will was on edge then, his bloodlust, awakened years ago, rearing its head after being ignored for too long. Hannibal suspected he was searching for him in these moments to prevent himself from killing someone else, in his eyes less deserving, whose demise wouldn't be so easily justifiable. Will would never admit it but Hannibal always sensed his recklessness, so intimately familiar to him, coloured with Will's unique brand of righteousness.

He was buzzing with it now and Hannibal had to contain his own excitement at the sight. He had been in the middle of plating supper when Will marched into view, snow melting on his boots and cheeks pink from the cold. He didn't really try to stay silent as he broke into the house but, recognizing his presence, Hannibal carried on, waiting for the situation to unravel.

"I wasn’t expecting company and so I’ve only made dinner for one," he explained apologetically. "But if you give me a moment I can improvise us something."

Will didn't move from his spot on the other side of the kitchen island, clenching and unclenching his fists, "I don't think I'll be staying that long."

"Very well," adjusting his plans for the evening, Hannibal reached into the cupboard to retrieve a roll of plastic wrap. "May I finish?" he asked, raising the roll in his grip.

Will shrugged and made a noncommittal 'go ahead' gesture with his hand.

Hannibal made quick work of securing the food and putting it away in the fridge. Passing the sink he mourned all the dishes he wouldn't have time to wash, before he turned his attention back to Will, "Please, feel free to help yourself into anything," he started and almost forgot to add, "if you'll be the one standing once we're finished. You lost an unhealthy amount of weight again."

Will didn't dignify his invitation with any verbal response. The moment Hannibal stopped talking he pounced at him, his tense muscles finally springing into action. Hannibal ducked and dodged, using the small space to his advantage as he struck from behind and threw Will onto the fridge. He didn't take the opportunity to grab a weapon. He simply watched as Will caught himself on the fridge, giving him time to reorient himself before advancing in turn.

Will has come a long way since the first time they met. He would never be as strong as Hannibal but he learned how to make all of his other characteristics work in his favor. He was swift and light on his feet and for Hannibal, there was always joy to be found in their sparring for how evenly they were matched.

After one of Will's especially lithe manoeuvres, Hannibal found himself pinned down, his back flat on the counter and Will’s hand raised above his chest ready to plunge a knife into his heart. He blocked the strike, taking hold of Will’s wrist and spared a thought to appreciate how close Will’s body was pressed to his own, while snaking a leg around him, preparing to throw him off balance and reverse their positions. But at that moment their eyes met and something in Will’s eyes shifted. It was gone too quickly for Hannibal to fully decipher but it surely affected Will for he stopped pushing down with the knife, bringing it to the side in a loose grip and slowly lowered his head instead. Hannibal held his breath in anticipation as Will’s face came to a halt mere inches from his own.

Like this, he could feel the warmth of Will’s every exhale on his skin, share his air on every inhale, count his eyelashes on every blink and memorize the exact pattern of variously shaded blues and greens in his irises. Will tilted his head in consideration and Hannibal was all too aware of the racing of his heart that was now beating faster than at any point of their fight and that inevitably Will must be able to feel as well at this proximity. And then it threatened to stop altogether as Will parted his lips slightly and closed the remaining distance pressing them to Hannibal's own. He moved hesitantly as if testing something and Hannibal found himself unable to move at all, struggling to remember how to breathe, overwhelmed with the myriad of sensations he long ago lost any hope of experiencing.

He had apparently laid there unresponsive for too long for Will started to pull away and that was truly unbearable. His hands flew to Will's cheeks, stopping his retreat. He guided him back softly, returning the kiss in earnest now that he knew it was coming. Will's stubble was coarse beneath his fingers, his lips chapped and dry against his own. It was perfection. He moaned quietly as Will’s tongue caressed the seam of his lips and licked boldly inside. There was so much to focus on. He was torn between experiencing every sensation as it came and cataloguing them all to try and preserve every glimpse of paradise he wasn't so naive as to, even now, believe he would be permitted to enter.

Although he was prepared for Will’s retreat at any moment he still couldn't help a shocked gasp that escaped him at a sharp pain that pierced his shoulder. Will took that minute parting of their lips as an opportunity to pull away.

Hannibal was left panting, with a knife through and through his shoulder, securing him to the counter. He licked his lips, focusing desperately on ghosts of sensations to prevent them from drowning in all-encompassing pain.

"Is this what you want now?" Will whispered, still close, so close. "Have you changed your mind?" he was going for mocking but his eyes betrayed the tumult these words were causing in him as well. "You could have had it, that very first time," Will's voice broke at the end, his left hand twisting the knife viciously to distract him, Hannibal suspected, from the unsheared tears gleaming in Will's eyes. His hand that wasn't pierced through twitched to reach out, "but you made a different decision," Will blinked, clearing his eyes from tears, and he was the ruthless god of revenge again. "And decisions have their consequences. Those of usurpers of God in particular, for as made outside of time their consequences last eternally," Will's hand tightened around the knife's handle and then he pulled, dragging the blade out in a fountain of fresh blood.

But as Hannibal lay there he thought that Will was only partially right. He did want this, the Will who kissed him, the tender intimacy and affection but he also wanted the Will who looked at him with a sadistic spark in his eyes, who delighted in denying him so cruelly, the intimacy in violence and connection through shared pain. His last coherent thought as his vision faded to black was that he would endure any kind of pain if it meant those lips returned to his own. They didn't.

"Going my way?" he asked lightly, but when his voice came up more hopeful than flirtatious, he realized with a start that he was genuinely asking. If Will told him their game was over, would he listen and drive away, simply because that was what Will wanted? He didn't know. What he did know was that he terribly didn't want Will to turn him away.

The wind picked up, beating against Will’s jacket and sending his curls into disarray. A car beeped behind them before passing the Bentley and Will's eyes trailed after it but Hannibal paid it no mind, waiting patiently for Will’s decision. It took more of the drivers demonstrating their displeasure and thunder rolling in the distance for Will to finally sigh and enter the car.

Hannibal turned up the heating as they made their way through the more densely populated streets in the direction of the suburbs.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Will relaxing bit by bit, undoing his jacket, a soft breath leaving him as his body warmed.

What he didn’t expect was Will reaching into his inner pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes and feeling his jeans for a lighter. Will had always been prone to alcohol but Hannibal wasn’t sure when had he picked up smoking as well.

"Will, don't smoke in the…" he started but Will only turned to stare at him unimpressed while ostensibly lighting the cigarette he’s been holding and blowing the smoke in the direction of a centre console. Less rude than in his face, Hannibal supposed. He knew what Will would say, about how ridiculous it was to be concerned about such matters in their situation. But Hannibal prided himself too much in his etiquette and control and was too closely acquainted with death to ignore his rules even in her looming proximity. He sighed, returning his eyes to the road.

"Open the window, Will," he compromised in a defeated tone. Will hesitated a moment longer but eventually did roll it down.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, with only the static buzz of traffic and sped-up air providing background noise for their individual thoughts. The wind kept blowing, dark clouds gathering in the distance, but the storm never came.

Hannibal parked in his underground garage. He turned off the ignition and took out the keys but neither he nor Will made any move to leave the car. They both stared at the wall ahead as the automatic doors closed themselves with a dull thud.

Will was first to break this muted stillness they have been suspended in, "Go, sit in the living room. Wait for me," his voice was calm and steady but its authority held a myriad of dark promises that made it harder than usual for Hannibal to maintain his placid demeanour. He gave a polite nod before exiting the car and heading to the stairs that led to his foyer.

He took his time taking off his coat and hanging it up with the scarf, removing keys and wallet from his pockets and depositing them in the intended place on the nearby dresser. He then straightened his clothes and, with measured steps, made his way into the living room, flicking the light switches as he went. He sat in the middle of a couch, making himself comfortable with hands folded on his lap.

It took Will several minutes to emerge from the garage. Hannibal listened to him undressing in the hall and to his approaching steps, but when, instead of coming to sit next to him, he took a turn to the kitchen, Hannibal turned his head to glance at him curiously.

"Eyes straight ahead," Will threw over his shoulder and Hannibal's breath hitched at the commanding tone. Ever since their kiss, which had become one of Hannibal's most treasured memories, Will has been getting bolder and more confident as if finally realising the extent of power he held. He was evolving and Hannibal was intent on witnessing every step of his becoming. He obeyed momentarily, closing his eyes for good measure to better focus on the sounds of Will moving around the house.

He wasn’t really surprised upon hearing the liquid cabinet being opened and a glass filling with what was most probably whiskey. Will nursed it in the kitchen unhurriedly. Hannibal picked up the sounds of various drawers opening, interspersed with Will’s steps circling the space but his overall goal remained yet to be seen.

At some point, Will got himself a refill before prowling slowly to the living room and coming to stand directly behind the couch. Hannibal's pulse picked up just from his proximity and, not for the first time, he marvelled at the sway Will got to hold over him.

Will took another sip of his drink (definitely whiskey, Hannibal decided on his next inhale), humming at the taste. After draining the rest of his glass, he put one of his hands behind Hannibal's shoulder on the back of the couch and leaned forward. Opening his eyes, Hannibal half expected to see one of the kitchen knives in Will's hand, but there was only the empty cup dangling in front of his face.

"Put it on the table for me?" Will asked in a saccharine voice, closer to Hannibal's ear than expected. His heart was racing freely at this point and Hannibal gave up entirely on trying to steady it. He accepted the glass handed to him, taking the liberty of brushing their fingers in the process, and put it dutifully on the coffee table in front of him. Will had both of his hands on the backrest now and straightening Hannibal angled his shoulders carefully to lean against them, ludicrously pleased when Will didn’t pull them away.

They stayed like that for a moment and if he focused enough, Hannibal fancied that he could feel Will's breath at the back of his head. He was just beginning to close his eyes again, lulled by the rhythmic sounds of Will’s breathing, when one of the hands propped against his back moved from the couch and up his shoulder. Hannibal inhaled sharply and then held his breath when this hand slid down his chest and to the left to rest over his ribcage, directly above his painfully thudding heart. It stayed there for some time, applying soft pressure to feel the life pulsating beneath. Even through the fabric of his clothes, Hannibal felt marked by the touch. He wished there were more layers to protect him, he wished there were none at all. When at last he had to use his lungs again, Hannibal's breaths came uneven and shallow. He was hyper-aware of every little point of contact they shared, of Will’s body heat seeping through his shirt straight to his heart, of just how much of him Will was able to see in this moment, how willfully he has put his vulnerability on display. But these thoughts, which would have undoubtedly frightened him some years ago, brought with them only acceptance now. After everything that happened between them, Will deserved to see, know and understand, and be allowed to make a conscious decision with access to all the information.

"You must find it ironic, the role reversal," Will commented softly.

"Fitting is the word I would use," he answered readily. His voice kept its usual calm and steadiness but it didn't matter at this point.

Apparently satisfied with that, Will moved his hand up again, this time pausing at Hannibal's collarbones. He splayed his palm wide framing his trachea. He was savouring their predicament, mapping Hannibal's body in a way that was making goosebumps rise on his skin. He encircled Hannibal's neck properly, not squeezing yet, just holding it between his fingers and stroking lightly with his thumb. Hannibal's eyes fluttered shut as he arched his neck a little, leaning into the touch to feel the promise of strength hidden in Will’s arms and exposing his neck further.

"If you could decide, how would you like me to do it?" Will whispered in his ear, low and seductive, lips suspended just short of touching, and Hannibal felt a shiver run down his spine. He didn’t have to contemplate his answer, he already had it formed and exceedingly thought through.

"Facing me," his voice came out more hoarse than he’d like and Hannibal swallowed thickly to steady it, his Adam's apple pressing into Will's palm, "so your face would be the last thing I see in this life. You would use only your bare hands," he paused, voice quieting with a slight hesitation, "maybe teeth. And, once you're done, you would at least eat my heart," he let that sink in before continuing. "Although, it's a shame that in all of ours above human inclinations, I would never be able to cook it for you," he meant for it to be lightly humorous but his tone betrayed too much breathlessness for it. Will tightened his grip on Hannibal's throat and pulled back for a second to press his cheek against his temple. "Considering the number of my own organs you would have already fed me if you were, I don't particularly regret it," his two-days stubble scratched Hannibal's skin, lips actually grazing his forehead this time and Hannibal fisted his hands in the fabric of his slacks to prevent himself from doing something foolish.

"If you ate it raw right after pulling it from my chest I might still be able to see it," he managed something more dignified than a rasp but it was a close thing. Will wasn’t restricting his airflow entirely but Hannibal still felt dizzy and a little light-headed with it.

"Do you have one of those fancy killing rooms of yours in here?" Will purred, his breath hot and burning on Hannibal's skin.

"I do," he confirmed without missing a beat. He realized he was rather eager to see Will use it, even if it had to be with himself as a victim.

"Show me," with that sinful whisper and one last squeeze to his throat, Will disentangled himself, leaving Hannibal uncharacteristically off-balanced and more than a little shaken.

Hannibal remained there for a second longer, closing his eyes tightly and clasping the edge of the couch while he tried to catch his breath again. Only once he was certain that his legs wouldn't buckle under him, did he stand up, leading a rather smug Will to the basement situated on the other side of the property than the garage.

They descended the concrete stairs in semi-darkness before Hannibal pulled the lever at the bottom of them, bathing everything in a harsh cold light.

Hannibal stayed in the doorframe observing as Will circled the room, running his fingers over stainless steel blats, opening cabinets and weighing deadly tools in his hands. His very soul ached at how perfect Will looked there, confident and entirely in his element, weapons of torture and destruction appearing as if specifically designed to fit his fierce grip. He committed every step and move to memory, certain that Will from his memory palace would show up to keep him company next time he was arranging his basement.

After finishing his tour, Will beckoned him to come inside and lay on the metal operating table in the middle of the room. Hannibal stripped to his boxer briefs to make his task easier but as Will secured his wrists and ankles with leather bindings, he was sure the constant tremors running through his body had nothing to do with cold.

"Have you kept count?" he asked softly when Will was in the middle of binding his legs.

"I did, at first," he was meticulously focused on his task, adjusting and checking the tightness of every leather strap. "When my memories began to fade I started writing journals."

Hannibal hummed in acknowledgement as Will took a step back from the table to admire his work. Will’s eyes roaming over his body felt branding, and good, and Hannibal thought that now he must undoubtedly look just as caught as he always felt.

"There is a reason people, in general, don't remember more than flashes from their previous lives," he mused when Will turned his attention to the next task. "These many lifetimes had to prove too much even for the brightest of minds."

"Have you been counting?" Will shot back, retrieving the tools that must have caught his eye during his earlier exploration. Hannibal looked away toward the ceiling. He preferred to be surprised.

"I have," he confessed, hearing the clinking of metal as Will laid out all of his instruments of choice on a nearby shelf. "I had to erase some memories of times preceding our encounters in order to preserve all of our meetings. I started with details, with less eventful periods of time and duller people. Now, in some cases, our interactions are the only thing I remember from certain incarnations. They are ingrained into the very stones that build the walls of my mind palace, remaining unmovable while I change the decorations and furniture."

Will rolled IV to his side and started to fill syringes with adrenaline. Hannibal hoped he would succeed in keeping him alive and conscious for as long as possible, wanting to feel Will's hands diving into his body, pulling and marking the inside parts of him no one had ever touched before, Will's form looming over him, covered in blood, victorious and magnificent.

"I lost count at some point," Will’s voice was hushed as it reached him, a stark contrast to the self-assuredness of just moments ago. "I realized it wasn't important."

Will’s head was hung when Hannibal looked at him, fingers drawing invisible patterns on stainless steel, his mind lost deep in thought. Moments of vulnerability were usually Will's brand of quiet before the storm but Hannibal still appreciated every one of them, no matter the anger that followed. Or maybe because of it.

"Have you been reading your journals?"

"Yeah, and all I felt was disconnection… Like I've sleepwalked my way through these lives and was now hearing someone else report it to me. And I… I empathized with them, as if that wasn't me to begin with."

"Is that why you stopped?"

"No," Will met his eyes at last, all of the deeply hidden emotions brimming in them, ready to spill at any moment. "They were doing their job I guess, fanning the flames of my anger. I stopped because I realized I didn't need anything to fuel them, they were burning bright and blistering all on their own every time I read new words on my wrist."

"Could they ever ignite a different kind of fire I wonder," Hannibal posed it as a question but a scalpel cutting into his skin was all the answer he received.

Will didn't eat his heart in the end, maybe he'll convince him next time.