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Hannibal doesn’t care much for winter. At best, it’s an annoying time of the year, causing the traffic to slow down, chipping time off of peaceful evenings with his husband. Not to mention the icy mud dragged into their home by bustling dogs. At worst, it brings back whispers of childhood memories, faint pictures of hunger and death. Hannibal is immune to flashbacks, to panic attacks or spiraling into a state of despair. He holds control over his mind as much as his body, without being blind to his inner functions and drives. The mandatory therapy he underwent in his training as a psychiatrist only cemented that ability. He carries his control on his sleeve, broadcasting to his patients that he’s the rock to lean on, to his social peers that he’s the bachelor to be wanted and admired, to his colleagues that he’s to be feared in competition.
However, one shouldn’t confuse the poise and control with a lack of emotion. True, he doesn’t hold remorse, rarely knows fear and lacks the experience of shame; nor does he cling to common concepts of guilt and morality. Still, he is human, a social being, and when it comes to Will, he’d learned to live without his person suit.
Will had not asked for it, hadn’t even asked for permission to look behind the layers of Hannibal’s person suit. Will all but stumbled behind the veil. Hannibal would prefer to say that he’d let Will know him, see him. Truth is, he’d already swallowed the bait before Will himself even knew he’d cast one. And when Will got closer and closer to the truth about Hannibal’s more secretive hobbies, the cannibal had already been head over heels, unwilling to harm Will through lies of omissions or direct actions.
Hannibal didn’t let Will do anything. Will had happened to Hannibal.
Will, who is more than capable of not only recognizing Hannibal’s darkness, but the darkness within himself. His violence is different, it’s lead by a very own set of rules and morals. Being rude is just not a standard that he uses when deciding on a victim. Instead, Will’s murders work on a personal brand of justice. However, when it’s about Hannibal’s safety, he kills without discrimination or second thought.
* * * * *
Hannibal doesn’t care much for winter, and this evening is witness to an especially nasty storm. The trip from his office to their home was a blur of traffic light and thick snow behind the hectic working of his Bentley’s windshield wipers. At least, he knows Will to already be at home, having opted to not drive to Quantico in the morning but grading papers and writing lectures in his home office. One could say many a thing about Jack Crawford's style of leadership, but he was accommodating when it came to remote work and the safety of his employees in a weather like this.
Hannibal being his own boss had no such luck and opted to drive to his office to tend to his patients – to the two out of five that even turned up despite the blizzard. He sighs and mentally inserts the one who didn’t bother to call him into a recipe. He knows Will won’t allow killing a patient (“It’s too obvious, Hannibal. Relationships thrive on compromises, Hannibal.”) but a man can still dream.
Hannibal is cold, despite his thick woolen suit, long underwear, a fashionable yet warm coat and the heated seat of his car. But he can’t shake the uncomfortable feeling of a bone deep chill on days like this. It’s an irritating feeling. He can bear it, of course, but Hannibal still wishes it was spring already.
When Hannibal finally arrives at home he’s greeted with the smell of “pork” roast stew. He recognizes this specific blend of spices instantly. It’s the recipe for pozole Will brought with him from their vacation in Mexico. The scent of the browned meat hangs heavy in the air and makes Hannibal’s stomach rumble, the bite of the chile peppers promises warmth and a flashback of Will’s laughter when he learned about the ancient ceremonial pozole containing long pig. After recovering from his laughing fit, Will had made sure to learn the best way to prepare the dish. Every now and then, when it's Will’s turn to cook and he doesn’t opt for fish, he prepares it.
Hannibal feels already a bit lighter and goes to greet his husband after hanging up his coat and scarf. Will’s face lights up when Hannibal enters their kitchen, and oh, of course his precious mongoose did predict that Hannibal wouldn’t be at his best today. There isn’t much between them anymore that the other doesn’t know.
“Hi darling” Will says and before Hannibal can answer Will shoves a wooden spoon in his face, prompting Hannibal to taste the stew. Hannibal obliges, closes his eyes and lets the flavor burst on his tongue. He contemplates briefly.
“Add another pinch of cinnamon and it will be perfect”. Will laughs and pulls the spoon away, replacing it with a short peck on his husband’s lips.
“What is it with you and cinnamon?”
Still, he adds more of the powdered bark and stirs the stew.
“Go get changed, dinner’s almost ready” he orders Hannibal.
They eat at the kitchen counter, the air humid and warm from the cooking. Will dips his tostada in the stew and watches Hannibal juice a lime slice into the pozole. Hannibal licks his fingers clean with a raised eyebrow, both remembering the heated Mexican night when Will first licked the lime juice from Hannibal’s fingers and then proceeded to lick other parts of his husband’s body until both of them were spent and too tired to move a muscle.
The memory warms Hannibal, as does the spicy soup. They talk about their day (Will annoyingly confirming the “we don’t murder patients” rule), and the storm outside becomes more distant with every minute. The “pork” melts on his tongue and fills his belly (on days like this, Hannibal tends to overeat, his hunger more prominent than on other days, but Will lets him and doesn’t comment on it).
Will showers while Hannibal does the dishes (a rule they set from day one – one cooks, the other does the cleanup, unless they do both together), but he does so quickly and when Hannibal is finished, Will already has a fire going in their living room and lounges on the couch, a tumbler of Whiskey in one, a book on decline in insects in the other hand. They often spend the evening together, reading, writing, sketching, every now and then commenting on an idea or sharing a thought. Hannibal joins him, picking up his copy of Ricordi’s Filosofia della Commedia di Dante. Time becomes irrelevant when they are like this, and Hannibal likes to imagine that Will and he are in a little bubble while the rest of the world stopped existing and it’s only them.
They stay like this for a while, only interrupted by their dogs sniffling the carpet until Winston settles with a happy sight on the rug in front of the fire. After a while, Buster joins him, using Winston’s tail as a fluffy pillow.
Will discards his tumbler and scoots closer to Hannibal, tugging at his trousers until Hannibal uncrosses his legs and puts his feet in Will’s lap. He sighs when Will starts massaging his toes, the pressure of his husbands strong and capable fingers enhancing the circulation and warming him. Hannibal puts his book on a side table just within his reach and closes his eyes. A tiny ember of arousal flickers in his core from Will’s touch, who has started to softly stroke over Hannibal’s taut calves and shins. But Hannibal’s belly is full of spiced food, the warmth finally seeping in too heave to get hard. Maybe he’ll fuck Will later, when they are in bed, or maybe he will wake up tomorrow with Will’s fingers and tongue inside him. For now, though, he just savors his husband’s food in his belly, his hands on his legs and lets himself be dragged into a peaceful nap.