Chapter Text
“That bitch is going to die.” Will stormed into Hannibal’s study, flinging his tablet at Hannibal’s desk. Hannibal, scribbling impossibly neat notes in the margin of an article, looked up in time to catch the tablet and set it carefully aside. He held up an imperious finger, and continued his writing.
Left standing silently in front of Hannibal’s desk, like a chasten child awaiting the principal, Will seethed. He marched over to Hannibal’s newest overpriced couch. He launched himself over the back, landing firmly on the cushions as the ancient frame groaned in protest. The plaintive wail from the couch finally drew Hannibal’s attention.
“Will, that settee survived the Glorious Revolution, will it survive you?”
“I’m hardly a Jacobite, so it’s got a chance.” Holding Hannibal’s gaze, he propped his worn boots on the antique velvet arm, listening to the wooden joints creek. Hannibal’s lip twitched. Will grinned in triumph. “What are you doing, anyway?”
“Our dear friend Frederick has been published in the American Journal of Psychiatry,” Hannibal finished writing and neatly closed the journal. “As expected, it’s poorly researched and filled with ridiculous assumptions as well as outright falsehoods, beginning with the photo of the author.” Hannibal stood and stretched, looking feline as he rolled his tight muscles loose. He strolled over to his precious settee.
“I imagine a current photo of Dr. Chilton might put some readers off,” offered Will. “Not everyone wants to read research compiled by a melted Ken Doll.” He smiled as Hannibal gently lifted his legs and sat, taking care to keep Will’s boots off of the ancient upholstery.
“I assure you, there is no actual research in the entire piece,” Hannibal sniffs. “I have no idea how he passed a peer review, as my rebuttal will outline.”
“I’m sure your piece will make him cry, if he still has tear ducts. Now, can we talk about my thing?”
Hannibal hummed, untying the laces of Will’s boots before neatly setting them on the floor. He dug his thumb into Will’s arch and smiled as the empath moaned softly. “You have my undivided attention.”
“Seen the latest issue of Tattle Crime?”
“My morning has been occupied refuting Frederick’s dubious writing. Is there another Murder Husbands exposé? What perversions has Ms. Lounds accused us of now?”
Will jerked his feet from Hannibal’s hands and moved to the desk to retrieve the tablet. He thrust it into Hannibal’s hands, taking pains to sit gently on the settee.
Tattle Crime’s homepage featured a giant banner reading “MURDER MOON” in lettering that seemed to drip blood. Beneath it: Click here to see the images too hot for the homepage!
“A murder moon? I assume you want to kill her for what she’s done to the English language? This font is horrible.”
Will snatches the tablet from Hannibal, pulls up a photo, and shoves it back.
The photo was clearly taken at a distance, but with a high resolution camera, the details were stunning. Will’s lower back was arched over the railing of a balcony, their hotel in St. Barth’s if Hannibal had to guess. His little mongoose had his head thrown back, mouth agape and eyes screwed shut. The muscles in his arms were pronounced as he desperately gripped the railing. Will’s calves were resting on Hannibal’s shoulders, the cannibal’s teeth sunk into the delicate flesh just above the ankle. Hannibal marveled over the advancements in cameras, he could see the drops sweat glistening off of their bodies, making them appear glow in the early morning light.
“I fucking told you balcony sex was a terrible idea.”
“Let’s not let one photograph-”
“Thirty-two. There are 32 pictures in that gallery.”
“Really?” Hannibal began swiping through the pictures, completely oblivious to Will’s rising ire. When he finished perusing, Hannibal looked up. “Do I always snarl like that?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? She followed us to St. Barth’s. She knows where we are!”
“My love, now is not the time for panic,” Hannibal raised a hand to soothingly stroke his husband’s arm, but his eyes remained on the tablet.
“Can you goddamn focus?” Will snatched the tablet out of Hannibal’s hand and turned it off. “Freddie Lounds knows where we are.”
“As I recall, that particular morning occurred in May, several thousand miles from our current location. It’s been months, darling, and neither Freddie nor Uncle Jack have come for a visit. It’s possible that she was contacted by a third-party looking to make some money.”
“This is the second time it’s happened! Remember the photos of us in Lucerne?”
“I believe we were clothed in those photos, were we not? Though your hand was down my pants.”
Will grabbed Hannibal’s chin. “Stop deliberately missing the point. I’m worried. If she can find us twice, how long will it take for Freddie to find us here?”
Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will, cradling him into his chest.
“We could always reconsider the move to Dubrovnik.” Hannibal pressed soft kisses behind Will’s ear. “There will be plenty of boat motors to play with at the seaport. Croatia’s extradition policies would give us a little breathing room. The dogs would love it, I’m sure.”
“I suppose it’s better than waiting for Freddie to pop up in our bedroom.” Will melts into Hannibal’s embrace, angling his neck so the cannibal can trail kisses to his shoulder. “I don’t want to lose this. She’s getting really close, Hannibal.”
“Darling boy, we will not be separated again. I promise you, not even the considerable reach of Freddie Lounds will change that.” Will turned in Hannibal’s arms and wiggled until he was straddling the good doctor. The settee creaked piteously, but Hannibal didn’t seem to mind the furniture abuse.
“I still want Freddie dead. She basically made us porn stars.” Hannibal returned his attentions to Will’s neck, sliding his hands into the back of Will’s jeans.
“I hardly think a few salacious images are going to ruin our reputations at this point.”
“One of the commenters called you Hung-ibal.” Will grumbled. He could feel Hannibal’s mouth stretch into a smile against his shoulder.
“How crude.” Will shoved himself back, glaring. Hannibal’s eyes were dancing. Will smacked him solidly on the chest.
“Oh shut up, it was just a good angle.”
Hannibal’s smile widened. “Was it? I’ll make note.”
“You’re impossible when you’re like this, you know that?”
“What’s to be done about that?” Will gasped as Hannibal lifted him up, heading for their bedroom.
To: [email protected]
Subject: Vacation Planning
Dear Ms. Lounds,
While I understand that keeping a low-profile is paramount in your brand of journalism, I was rather disappointed with the content of your latest article. I believe we agreed that I would be photographed from the left, did we not? The next time I spot a photographer in a non-agreed upon position, you will be receiving his liver instead of your precious photos.
I am sorry to report that my darling boy did not enjoy the content of our article as much as I did. In spite of the fact that he is quite photogenic, he’s rather upset with you at the moment, Ms. Lounds. I will re-direct him to a more worthy canvas, but I would suggest you refrain from writing about us for a few months.
Sincerely,
HL
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Vacation Planning
You certainly married a delicate little flower didn’t you? Does this mean the photos in St. Croix are off? Let me know before I send Davis down there. I can hold the photos for a few months like I did this time if you think that will make a difference.
As per our usual agreement, I’ve attached a zip file with the high resolution images. I also included the re-touched photos we used on the website. You’re right, it wasn’t quite your angle, was it? At least for your face.
Feel free to buy a t-shirt from the Tattle Crime store, I’ll even spot you 40% off (discount code: MrdrHubs). You’ll be happy to know the Hung-ibal Lecter t-shirt is almost sold out. I’ll keep one on hold for you. Are you still a large?
~Freddie
BTW, Crawford came by today. He screamed at me so long he turned purple. You might want to change emails again, just to be safe.