Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The door to the store clanged open. Bell ringing, announcing him as he stepped through.

The air was thick with the scent of wood: sawdust and citrus oil, old pine, polish warmed by heat. A low hum of silence clung to the space. Not absence of sound, but the kind of quiet built deliberately by soft lamps and careful light. Pools of gold spilled from the lamp shades, warming the walls and making the shadows long and soft.

Wooden tables of varying shapes and sizes lined the floor — rectangular, round, oval — their surfaces glinting faintly with fresh or matte oil finishes. Some were smooth, others bore the texture of reclaimed material— uneven in purposeful ways. Chairs surrounded them, mismatched but somehow cohesive. High-backed. Carved. Slatted. Along the far wall, small objects lined narrow shelves: large clocks, cutting boards, candleholders. All in wood. All deliberate.

The floor beneath his feet creaked gently.

To the right, an open arch framed a darker space. From inside came the sound of clacking, shifting — the unmistakable rhythm of work. Something being moved, polished, adjusted. It wasn’t industrial, but more intimate than that. The sound of a person moving back and forth. 

Hannibal glanced down at the card in his hand again.

W. GRAHAM 

FURNITURE & more

Baltimore 

It had been shared with him at the Opera weeks earlier. Budge had been awfully enthusiastic about the furniture. He had acquired a chair and spoke about it with reverence usually reserved for rare wine. Told Hannibal he’d be a fool not to go.

Hannibal had been skeptical. Budge’s taste bordered on offensive. Ornate where it should be subtle, clunky where it should float. However, Hannibal was not a fool.

Looking around the store now — the space, the proportions, the quiet pride of each piece — he had to concede the possibility that Budge had not, in this rare case, been entirely wrong.

He allowed the door to close behind him. Moved toward the open arch and the sound. Rounding the corner, he stepped softly into the next room. No signs warned against entry. No barriers. It felt open, accessible — not out of carelessness, but confidence.

The air here carried more bite. Warmer. Sharper. The scent of resin mixed with oil. A workroom. Not pristine, but curated chaos. Scattered shavings littered the floor like curled ribbons. The kind that stuck to socks and sleeves. Panels of wood leaned against one wall, and a large workstation sat central — scarred, stained, layered with tools and open grain.

And seated in the middle of it all. A woman.

Her hair was long, curly and dark brown. Gathered at the nape of her neck in a low ponytail. The ends fell in soft waves down her back, catching against the fabric of her shirt. Protective glasses sat on the bridge of her nose, slightly askew. 

She was seated low on a wooden stool, one leg stretched forward, the other bent. A polishing tool buzzing in her hand, loud and moving in steady strokes over the wooden surface in front of her. 

Her clothes were dusted with wood particles. A large, checked flannel shirt hanging off her frame, sleeves rolled up, creased at the elbows. Loose, light blue jeans and Birkenstocks, which were not only dangerous but also horrendous. 

There was nothing neat about her — but nothing careless either. Her frame was long and lean, but the way she moved made it obvious: she was strong. Not in the way of gyms or training. The kind of strength that came from work. From knowing the weight of things. From making them.

The scene somehow made Hannibal pause. The juxtaposition between the slim, lean limbed woman and the roughness of the entire station and equipment was oddly tantalising. 

He stood in the doorway, watching. Perhaps sensing the weight of his gaze, after only a moment she glanced slowly up from her work. She didn’t seem particularly surprised at his appearance. 

Icy blue eyes with thick lashes and strong eyebrows. Hot red lipstick. She was oddly androgynous, yet not — feminine in a particular way Hannibal could not set his finger on. 

The tool in her hand powered down with a groan. She lifted her goggles to rest on her forehead, hair spilling wild around the frames.

She leaned back, nodded his way in something like apology. “Sorry,” she said, then stood — brushing wood dust from her shirt with quick, practiced swipes. “Didn’t see you there. Hope you haven’t been here too long.”

She didn’t sound especially sorry, but Hannibal appreciated the apology all the same.

“No need to apologise,” Hannibal replied, voice smooth, almost warm.

“Okay,” she shrugged and Hannibal felt slightly disgruntled at the fast dismissal of manners. “Now, how can I help you?” 

She stepped forward, offering her hand. “Graham, by the way.”

Hannibal stepped closer and took her hand. “Lecter. Hannibal,” he said. “And I’m in desperate need of a dining table.”

“Desperate? That’s no good,” she said, and there was amusement in the words.

She gestured toward a small sitting area — a low coffee table, two mismatched chairs. Hannibal followed her lead and opened his suit jacket as he lowered himself into one of the chairs. It was more comfortable than it looked. The grain of the armrest smooth beneath his fingers.

“I’m afraid not—“ he began, glancing curiously down at the wooden armrests. Then after a moment, he looked up and added “I’ll be completely transparent. I’ve been searching for a new dining table for the past six months, and I’m afraid to say none have caught my interest yet.” 

“Good—I enjoy challenges,” she replied, flashing a cocky grin. Then, with a tilt of her head. “Coffee?” She waved a hand toward the machine in the corner, not far from where Hannibal was seated. It was beautiful. Polished chrome and matte black. The kind of machine that promised great coffee — if handled with love and experience.

“Let’s see if I’ll order anything first,” he added, a teasing glint in his eye. “And yes, please.” Steeling himself for disappointment.

She laughed loudly, the sound jarring against her otherwise slender frame and composed face. Odd, but somehow the contrast worked. “Of that I have no doubt. I’m the best at what I do.” Then she turned to the machine and began working through the steps with a kind of fluid ease that caught him entirely off-guard. No hesitation, nor missteps.  Clean, exact, and practiced.

He could do nothing but watch, quiet and stunned, as she moved through a process he himself had spent years refining. At one point she turned, lifted an eyebrow in question. 

“Espresso?”

“Ah—yes, please,” was all he managed.

A few minutes later, Hannibal was served a perfectly heated cup of espresso in a dark green porcelain cup. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled softly, revelling in the aroma. A sigh slipped from his lips, unbidden, at the first sip.

He heard her laugh quietly. Glancing up, he saw her finally sitting on the opposite side — a watered-down double espresso in a large mug. An offence, certainly, but one he was willing to overlook, considering what she had just served him.

After another sip, he settled for, “I’m not certain I’ll be back for the furniture, but the coffee is certainly worth another visit.”

Graham seemed delighted, as though she’d just proven herself right. “We’ll see—” she said, leaning over the table and pulling out a large pamphlet, stacked thick with pictures. “Now—a dining table.”

Hannibal leaned in as she flipped skilfully and fast through the first few pages. He was sure there were a couple of dining tables worth considering, but she passed them by without hesitation — clearly knowing where she was headed.

“Considering everything—” everything of what, Hannibal wasn’t certain. He had yet to say anything about his preferences beyond the obvious. “I’d think your taste in dining tables would be closer to—” another flip, then she stopped. Opened the pamphlet wide and pushed it across the table. “This, or no?”

Two pages filled with images. Large dining tables. Dark wood. Simple, yet not. Clean lines. Considered details.

Hannibal felt oddly seen.

He swallowed and studied the pages. Each design was different, but the overall style — the sensibility — was exactly what he’d been trying to find. Still gathering himself, he nodded slowly. “Beautiful pieces, for sure. However—”

“More streamlined, right?”

He wanted to be annoyed at the interruption, but found himself incapable. “Yes…” he settled on.

She nodded, already drifting into her own mind. Her eyes glazed slightly, fingers tapping once against the table — then movement. She reached for a blank sheet of paper and pulled a pen from her pocket.

“I’d imagine a bit longer board. So, like picture number two, but not so compressed. Apart from that — something like picture number four, right?” She spoke as she drew, sketching fast, without hesitation. The design came together in minutes. Clear. Balanced. Easy to understand.

“Spectacular,” he said, the word slipping from his mouth before he could stop it.

She paused, clearly caught off guard, and brushed a hand through her hair. Tangling it slightly.

Hannibal caught himself. “I apologise. Your considerations are just... very astute. If not eerily accurate.” And he meant it.

A soft laugh slipped over her red lips. The earlier cockiness returned. “I did tell you I was the best.”

He laughed — open and unguarded. “You did.” Then tipped his head slightly. “I think I’ll have to order that table — just to see if you can create as well as you imagine.”

A sharp grin. “Deal.” 

Will watched Hannibal leave through the arch and then heard the door swing softly shut behind him. The smell of espresso still lingered in the air. 

He leaned back in his chair and took a large sip of his now cold coffee. The bitterness settled on his tongue with soothing familiarity. 

The sketch beside him was grasped and studied in silence. There were a few adjustments still required—small and almost invisible. However, necessary to make the other man completely satisfied. Not that Hannibal was aware of these details—not at this very moment at least, not consciously.

Will had long since learned to give people more than they could name. More than they knew to ask for.

He let the sketch fall back on the table. The edge already curling slightly from the handling. Leaning forward, he pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes until stars bloomed behind his lids. 

Behind his eyes. In his head—antlers. 

Large, bloodied and caked with soil and dried moss. They pressed inwards as though they would press through the back of his skull. Break bone and force themselves through the soft fatty tissue of his brain. 

A deep seated hunger and perfectly drawn lines. A pendulum swinging tight between chaos and control. 

A low groan pushed itself though his painted lips. He exhaled slowly as his fingers twitched—restless. The need to make something or possibly ruin something. The impulse wasn’t entirely his—he knew that. 

Will reached behind himself and pulled the elastic from his hair, allowing it to settle over his shoulders and down his back in protective, curly waves. A delicate, beautiful barrier against the noise inside and outside. 

He leaned back into the chair, feeling it creak beneath him, as he tilted his head back to stare up into the white ceiling above. Allowing himself to step—slip—inwards. 

Wading into the quiet stream. Leaning into that fluid movement and capability so ingrained in the feminine. See, hear and feel, yet not become. 

The water of the river felt cold and clear. Moving fast against his leg—around his tights. Icy tendrils curling around the back of his knees. Smooth stones beneath his bare feet. 

A warm breath rustled against the back of his head. 

Will turned curiously, but not out of fear. He had long learned not to fear his own mind, unless he’d want it to consume him. His guest was an odd one. Neither animal nor creature. Stag-like, but not quite, with a body closed in dark, downy feathers and antlers that seemed both too wide and too large for its body. Weathered antlers, blackened with dirt or something else. Both grotesque and utterly majestic. 

He could do nothing else than stare in wonder for a moment, before trying—as he always did at unbidden visitors—to let the river carry it away. It had never failed him. Not before now it seemed.  The creature remained—stubbornly but impossibly still. 

He took a couple of steps back before stopping about an arm-width away.

Aren’t you a stubborn one, he thought. The creature merely blinked slowly at him. He hadn’t really expected a reply. 

It was, after all, part of him. It may have been brought in from the outside, but the shadow left behind — inside him — no longer had anything to do with the origin of it.

It was just a very well-created shadow—a mirror of another person. 

Of a monster.

Will pursed his lips and tilted his head. He felt like he had seen the other man clearly, but clearly something had been overlooked. A clear answer did not appear and the creature simply seemed to stay, not particularly interested in explaining itself. 

He sighed after a moment and closed his eyes. The river had been intended as a retreat—and he wasn’t feeling particularly social. The persisting shadow left him feeling jittery and far from calm.

A soft exhale and he allowed himself to fall back into the water. Icy water enveloped him and darkness consumed him softly and lovingly. And, as always, the dreams streamed in. 

Women. Oh, women. 

Women had always fascinated him. 

The reasons were multiple. Some obvious, others harder to explain. Completely superficially, Will could name numerous reasons why the other gender had always captured his attention so wholly.

Skin that seemed designed to be softer than his own. A certain quality to the way they moved — different from men, though he couldn’t always say how. Sizes and looks that filled every range imaginable. Tall, short, narrow, broad. Sharp-edged or full-bodied, or both.

And no matter what, they all seemed to have it — that internal glow. Subtle, but unmistakable.
Not light, not beauty exactly — but presence. The kind that couldn’t be manufactured.

It could only be named the feminine.

Not expressed in one way, but in many. Sometimes conflicting. Sometimes converging. And always a force to be reckoned with.

Will had few memories of his mother. Not enough to build a full picture. But enough to hold onto something. The ones that remained were of her light, loving eyes — when they were loving. The distance in them was rarely about him. It had more to do with his father.

He remembered her dresses more clearly.

There were so many of them. Long and short. Fluffy and elegant. Soft ones with flowing hems. Others stiff and tailored. Fabric that changed depending on the season, the mood, the music playing in the trailer that day. They seemed to fill the whole space sometimes.

Delightful in their many shapes and forms. Beautiful.

And, of course, her chest.

That was where safety lived. The sound of her heartbeat beneath layers of cotton and perfume. The warmth that never required words.

Of the few memories of her, he remembered looking up at her glowing form, asking softly if he was a boy or a girl. She had merely shrugged in quiet disinterest, telling him it really didn’t matter. 

He supposed he could blame her for his fluid concept of gender.

If he had to blame someone at all. 

Will had inherited neither his father’s square-jawed masculinity nor the correct reproductive organs. However, the feminine traits of his mother had won out, quietly, in the womb. And so he had grown — long-limbed, narrow, strange.

As a result, Will grew up looking like neither a boy nor a girl. Often confused for one or the other — had it not been for his father’s desperate attempts to cut his soft, curly hair down to the roots and dress him in the most boyish clothes they could find and afford.

Will hadn’t minded. Clothes of either gender would’ve suited him just fine.

And then, his mother had left. His father had never quite been able to explain why she had left them. Will, unfortunately, knew all too well why. The bottles of hard liquor and their home—a trailer. His father’s perpetual low mood.  Will had seen the decision in his mother’s movements and eyes long before she, herself, had properly decided.

It was years later, at the tender age of ten or eleven, that — alone at home — he’d found her wedding dress in the back of his father’s closet. He still wasn’t entirely sure why, or where the impulse came from. It wasn’t because he felt like a woman, not entirely. 

Nonetheless, he had pulled the wedding dress out of the closet and draped himself in it. It had hung loosely from his thin shoulders, warming his cold skin. 

He had stood breathlessly still in front of the mirror. The caress of the silk pushing and moulding him, until he felt transformed.

In a world where everyone’s voices and thoughts and wants were so impossibly loud, Will would often feel like other people consumed him. It all seemed to calm in that very moment. Like he had draped on a protective armour of silk and quiet strength. 

Will had put it back in the closet with trembling hands, closing it slowly, promising never to retrieve it. Better to let it be forgotten in the darkness, along with the tempting silence it had given him.

Luckily, the world would have it otherwise and he found himself again—only later in life. 

“Will?” A soft hand on his shoulder.

Blinking, disoriented, Will tilted slightly, ignoring the impulse to shake the hand off. He glanced up.

“Beverly,” he began, then relaxed under the palm. “Sorry. I was just taking a break.”

“It’s 8 o'clock.”

A quick look out of the small window into his workspace revealed a darkening sky. He hummed quietly in response, then added, “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

“No shit.”

“Good thing we agreed to meet on the other side of the road,” he said with a sly grin, groggily shifting in the chair and brushing a palm over his blurry eyes.

Beverly snorted. Her phone buzzed, and she looked down at the screen. “Let’s get going — Brian and Jimmy just ordered us a couple of shots.”

Will huffed but complied, standing and walking over to get his jacket. He changed out of his Birkenstocks and into a pair of high-heeled black boots.

Beverly stood perfectly still, fingers moving over her phone with precise swipes. At Will’s raised eyebrow, she lifted a palm for him to wait.

Then a nod. “I’ve made sure there will be snacks.” She strolled after Will, who opened the door for her.

“Or—?” he asked as she passed.

“They’ll never hear the end of it,” Beverly huffed.

He switched the lights off and closed the door behind them, locking the store with a jiggle of his keys.

They strolled slowly across the street. It was slightly chilly — early fall. On the other side stood a small pub. Long windows lit with warm light. A few seats outside, occupied by huddled figures with cigarettes in hand. Carpets and jackets wrapped tight around their shoulders.

Beverly and Will stepped through the front door, into a dimly lit, cozy interior. As they entered, Beverly turned sharply to the right and pulled off her jacket, sitting down at a table with a single candle in the center, four shots and a bowl of chips. 

Two men were already seated, hunched together, whispering hurriedly and staring furiously down at their phones. They looked up at their entrance.

“Beverly,” Brian said. “This is utterly unbelievable.” He pushed his phone toward her.

Beverly furrowed her eyebrows and leaned closer. A second later, she gripped the phone and brought it up, seemingly not believing her eyes. “That fucking bitch.”

Will slid into the seat beside them, glancing curiously at their angry looks. He reached toward a shot on the table and took a soft sip, hoping it would wake him up. “What?”

Grimacing, Beverly gritted out, “This fucking nasty witch — the one that always manages to sneak past the freaking police tape and take pictures — did it. Fucking again. I can’t believe it.”

“It’s quite impressive, in a way,” Jimmy added.

“Oh shut up, Jimmy.”

Will glanced between the three of them and frowned. “What’s the problem, though?”

Beverly looked furious. “What’s the fucking—”

“She takes pictures and shares them with the public. Obstructing justice and all that. And Beverly’s sleep,” Brian added helpfully, cutting Beverly off mid-sentence.

“It can’t be that bad,” Will muttered, reaching for the phone.

He turned the screen toward himself.

The photo was lit with hard flash. Cold and artificial. 

A body—a woman—pierced by antlers. No proper gore nor blood. The ground beneath the body alive — grass, flowers and a faint suggestion of moss. As though she had been placed on a throne, elevated, yet only to the superficial perceiver. 

Will stared at the image. 

The river pressed against his mind and the creature’s breath ruffled his hair.

Oh.

Chapter Text

The email was short, direct, and entirely inoffensive.

"The table is finished. Ready for pickup. – W. Graham."

Will hit send and stared at the screen for a moment longer, before slowly closing the laptop and leaning back in his chair, letting the familiar creak settle into the room. 

The mug of coffee in his hand had gone lukewarm. As it often did.

Outside, the morning light filtered through the windows in slanted gold lines, catching the dust. His shop was quiet, save for the low hum of morning traffic outside and the far-off tick of the large wall clock.

Will set his mug down and stood. Walked toward the back of the room, where the piece rested beneath a cotton sheet. He hesitated for just a second before pulling the cover away.

It was perfect.

Dark walnut. Simple, but not plain. Elegant without demanding anything. The legs—slightly curved, but straight in conviction. There was no flourish. No pretense. Only form, shaped with purpose and care. 

It had not been assembled, it had emerged—like it had been waiting inside the wood.

Will trailed his fingers across the surface.

There had been something about Hannibal Lecter.

From the moment he had walked through the arch of Will's workspace. 

From the deliberate movements, the posture, the mannered restraint that belied something else and much more dangerous beneath.

Will had seen the table in his mind.

Not the concept of it—but the whole. As if Hannibal had brought it in with him, hidden in the seams of his coat, in the quiet curve of his mouth, and Will had simply uncovered it.

He’d seen Hannibal’s hands: elegant, clean, careful. A craftsman’s hands. A killer’s hands. The kind of hands that didn’t tremble before bone. The kind that made art of what they destroyed.

Will only suspected, of course. Not with certainty, but with clarity.

It didn’t disturb him. Not really. 

It only helped the creation of his design. 

His phone buzzed.

A new email. 

Hannibal replied, timely.

"Tuesday afternoon. If that would be agreeable to you."

Will replied without hesitation.

"That's fine."

It was a few minutes past three a couple of days later when the bell above the door jingled.

Will stepped through the arch just as Hannibal entered.

The man was all impeccable lines—dark coat tailored to his frame, gloves in one hand, a faint trace of wind on his collar. His expression brightened softly when he saw Will.

"Good timing," Will said, and without waiting, turned on his heel. "Come along."

Will led him into the back room.

It was filled with furniture—some complete, some still in process. Wood leaned against the walls, organized by grain, color, size.

And in the center—the table.

Will didn’t say anything. He stepped aside, letting Hannibal approach at his own pace.

The man stopped a foot away. His hand lifted, hovered, then fell gently to the surface.

He traced the line of the wood with a single finger, slow, deliberate.

Will tilted his head. “Good enough?”

Hannibal’s gaze never left the table. “Yes,” he said, quiet but certain. “More than.”

Then after a moment, he added. “Tell me about the process."

“Of what?” Will knew of course, but wanted to hear it nonetheless.

“Of creating this wonderful piece.”

Will stepped closer and ran a palm along the edge of the table. “It was completed in my mind long before I made it. From the moment I saw you, I knew how it would look.”

“The sketches? The questions?”

“Performative.” Will shrugged. “Yet necessary. I like making sure I'm right.”

Hannibal smiled and looked at him with quiet intrigue.

“And I always am.” Will added with a grin.

“Quite impressive. And quite right—in this case.”

Hannibal’s gaze lingered on the table. His fingers traced one final line down the center seam, then lifted slowly, deliberately, as if releasing something fragile from his touch. There was a moment—quiet, reverent—where he simply looked at the table. Then he looked up at Will.

“You’ve given it soul," he said, the words soft and rare, like a confession.

Will said nothing, just raised an eyebrow. He leaned a hip against the table, casual and curious.

Hannibal seemed to decide something, subtle and unspoken. 

“Tell me, Will—do you enjoy opera?”

Will shrugged. “No idea. Haven’t been to one before.”

“That must certainly be a jest?”

“No.” Will replied. “Am I missing out?”

“Oh yes.”

A pause, and then Hannibal straightened himself, tilted his head in quiet interest. “I have two tickets to Aida,” he said. “Two weeks from now. I hope this isn’t inappropriate. However, I’d love it if you’d join me.”

Will lifted his eyebrows in surprise. He knew the man was intrigued, but hadn’t expected the invitation.

Seeming to misunderstand his expression, Hannibal scooped his own and added, “Of course, I would understand completely if this isn’t of interest. This must not be the first or the last time, I imagine, a customer tries to invite you out.”

Will was flattered. A homicidal killer of Baltimore seemed intrigued by his art and wanted to hear more. It was quite the compliment. Yet—he studied Hannibal for a moment. Knowing exactly what the other man was seeing in him.

Long, lean limbs. A voice that was neither male nor female and could be interpreted either way. A woman.

He tilted his head and instead of confirming, said, “The W. in W. Graham is short for Will.”

The other man didn’t flinch—just tilted his head, the way someone might when hearing a favorite song played slightly out of key. The pause in him was brief but exquisite. A flicker behind the eyes. Not confusion, not offense. Just... recalibration. And then, quite seamlessly, understanding.

Then—a shrug.

“A beautiful name. Will.” Hannibal replied, the name soft on his tongue. He smiled then, small and deliberate. “Still, I’d like it if you’d join me. The offer stands, precisely as before. Though now with even greater interest.”

Will held his gaze. Then chuckled. “Cool. I’d love to.”

He pulled a pen from his back pocket, scrawled his number on a spare slip of paper, and gave it to Hannibal, saying, “Unless you’d prefer to keep it over email?”

Hannibal took the number delicately. Tucked it into his coat.

“No. This is much better.”

[HANNIBAL L.: Not to be too forward and at risk of being impolite, I believe this is the time I ask for your pronouns?]

[WILL G.: Possibly.]

[HANNIBAL L.: Any preference? Language is easy to adjust.]

[WILL G.: No preference really.]

[HANNIBAL L.: None?]

[WILL G.: Yeah. Most use He.]

[HANNIBAL L.: Traditional. Would letting the situation decide be of issue?]

[WILL G.: No. That would be enjoyable.]

[HANNIBAL L.: Wonderful. Friday in two weeks?]

[WILL G.: The opera? Sure. I’ll clear my evening.]

[HANNIBAL L.: Good.]

Friday evening arrived with cool and clear weather. 

Will made sure to arrive deliberately late. Or not enough to be rude—just enough to stir the other man ever so slightly.  If his suspicion was right, it should poke the man in just the right places. Not that he had been wrong before.

But it was a good idea not to get too cocky.

He wore black slacks, a sleeveless silk top in pearl white, and a fitted blazer. Polished high boots. A long coat. The fabric shimmered faintly in the light—soft, fluid, hard to define. Woman, if you wanted. Man, if you paid attention.

Hannibal was already there, waiting outside. He stood under a marble column like something carved and timeless. 

When he saw Will, his smile was small and unhurried.

“You look extraordinary,” Hannibal said. 

Will smiled slightly. “Thanks.” He glanced at Hannibal’s gorgeous suit. “Not looking too shabby either.” A tilted smirk. The man definitely knew and really, no need to boost a big ego further. 

Hannibal only chuckled. 

They entered together. The lobby, ornate and candlelit, absorbed them.

Their seats were central. Velvet. Ideal.

The opera was Aida. Tragic. Soaring. Will watched the stage occasionally. Mostly, he watched Hannibal. The way he sat. The way he listened. The way his lips didn’t move, but his mind seemed to.

Halfway through the last act, Will leaned in. “You enjoy a spectacle.” An observation. 

Hannibal’s eyes didn’t leave the stage. “Only when it’s earned.”

Will looked back at the stage and murmured. “And this? Is it earned?”

“Aida always earns it,” Hannibal said, voice low. “It’s about inevitability. Beauty, sacrificed to power. Grief that becomes music.”

“Romantic,” Will murmured.

Hannibal turned slightly, just enough to catch his profile. “Operas are romantic. That’s their design. Blood, heartbreak, and loyalty disguised as melody.”

Will looked back to the stage. “Romance doesn’t usually end with tragic deaths.” He couldn’t help but remember his father’s heartbreak after his mother had left. In a way, that had been a tragic death. “Or maybe not—I guess all romances do.” He added softly. 

Hannibal glanced down at him, quiet for a moment. “Yes,” He replied. “All the honest ones do.”

Will brushed his hair behind his ear and saw Hannibal follow the movement before looking back into Will’s eyes. Subtle. Will smiled widely but didn’t say anything. 

The rest of the last acts came and went. The applause roared afterwards. Hannibal stood along the others and Will followed suit. When it died out they moved slowly out from the seats. 

“Something to drink?” Hannibal asked, guiding Will in front of him with a soft hand on his lower back. 

Steady and sure. 

Will felt the shadow of antlers looming over him. He felt only quiet interest and nodded, glancing up at Hannibal through long eyelashes. “Sure.”

They made their way towards the bar. Hannibal moved them through the crowd with practised ease, soft greetings and smiles to almost every other guest. They seemed to look after Hannibal as they passed.

Will chuckled. “Popular?”

A soft smile. “I’m social.” 

Something else wasn’t said and Will looked back at Hannibal and raised an eyebrow. 

At that, the other man added. “And I might host particularly popular dinner parties.” 

That raised Will’s eyebrows further. “You cook?” He wasn’t sure why that was even a surprise. 

“Yes,” A soft look entered his eyes, but Will saw a vicious hunger flutter underneath. “One of my many pleasures.”

Will was intrigued and wondered what he’d have to do to be invited to such a dinner. 

They arrived at the bar and Hannibal ordered them a couple of glasses of fluttering, soft bubbles. Wonderfully light. Soft and feminine. 

Standing close Hannibal studied Will and said. “Did I mention how stunning you look?” 

“You did.” Will said. “But I always appreciate repetition.” 

A soft pause and then Hannibal murmured.  “It’s odd.”

“Odd?”

He seemed to consider Will. “Not that it matters, but you seem to flutter between the male and feminine. One moment there’s no doubt in my mind. There’s only a gorgeous woman and the next the man slides in. It’s all quite beautiful.” 

Will smiled warmly. “Thank you.” Because the other man had only meant it as a compliment. That much was obvious. He added. “I appreciate your lack of trouble. It’s a wonderful talent to relax in the in-betweenness and not be confused.”

They smiled softly at each other. A bubbly, warm feeling fluttering in the air. 

Will quite liked this man. 

Hannibal opened his mouth, words at the tip of his tongue, but then—

“Dr. Lecter.”

They both turned towards the voice. Budge came striding towards them, black suit and controlled movements. He stopped close to them, lifting his glass towards Hannibal. 

“Wonderful performance, no?” He asked, an undercurrent of arrogance.

“Yes, quite.” Hannibal replied softly, then he glanced at Will and added. “It was all very enjoyable.”

Budge followed Hannibal’s glance and the recognition came swiftly. 

“Graham.” He said in slight surprise.

“You clean up well,” Budge added. His gaze dipped—crude, measured. Too long. “Didn’t recognise you.”

The man mistook arrogance for charm. Subtlety was clearly beyond him. 

Will gave a small nod. “Budge.” And then. “Hope you’re enjoying the chair.”

“Oh, yes. People ask about it all the time. Looks like it walked out of a museum. Or maybe a chapel.” Another long stare into Will’s eyes. “Beautiful.”

Will said nothing. Felt more than saw Hannibal adjust his stance. Something shifting. 

Budge had no such sixth sense and continued.“I always wondered where you learned to work with your hands like that. Such skill. Rare for a woman.” 

Oh god.  Will’s eyebrows lifted in a mix of shock and disbelief.

The worst part was—Budge probably thought it was the biggest compliment he could give. 

And all of a sudden Will was standing beside the stag again. Large antlers and hunger. He glanced slowly away from Budge and at Hannibal, who just seemed to be smiling softly. Polite and composed. 

Will swallowed. 

Budge noticed Will looking back at Hannibal and added. “Apologies.” Will was certain it was too late for that. “I didn’t mean to disturb.” Then a tilt towards Hannibal, a poor attempt at politeness and a smirk towards Will. “I’ll be back for more furniture.” 

He tipped his glass slightly and walked off, shoulders straight.

Will watched him go.

“He was flirting,” he said flatly.

“Yes,” Hannibal said, taking a sip from his glass. “And poorly.”

Will nodded softly in agreement. 

After that they finished their drinks, soft conversations, got their coats and walked outside. 

As they stood outside the Opera, people sweeping past them in slow arcs, Will allowed himself to lean in and plant a soft kiss on Hannibal’s lips. “Thank you for a lovely evening.” 

A smile. “No, thank you.” Hannibal replied. 

“I’ll write. We have to meet again.” Will said certainly. 

Hannibal seemed relieved at his certainty. “Good.” 

Another soft kiss, this time from Hannibal. It lingered just a moment longer than the first. Will felt the tension in his spine ease, a quiet hum blooming beneath his ribs. It wasn’t affection exactly—it was acknowledgment. Invitation. And a warning all at once. 

“Good night.” 

Will allowed it to end at that. Caught a taxi and allowed Hannibal to open the door.

As the taxi drove away, Will saw Hannibal standing outside of the opera. Still. Looming.

He allowed a soft sigh to escape his lips and brushed a hand through his long, soft hair. 

Budge was in for a problem. 

Hannibal pulled off the surgical gloves and looked down at the body.

Budge's body was transformed. His throat had been carefully slit, exposing the trachea—laid bare like a windpipe reimagined, waiting to be strung, a grotesque overture to something more melodic than human. A grotesque sculpture—beautiful, really. 

Elevated from something crude to pure art. 

A satisfied sigh left his lips.

The platform had been lined with surgical plastic. Clean cut edges. Corners taped down. No wrinkles. No compromise.

Now entirely clean, not a spot left. 

He glanced at his watch.

It was time. 

He moved without hesitation. Another pair of surgical gloves. Light off. Door locked. No trace. Out through the rear corridor. The hallway was empty. The exit quiet. No cameras. 

Rain on the pavement. Distant streetlight. His car waiting in the darkness.

He slid inside and started the engine. The night swallowed the sound.

The road was narrow. Dark and sleek with rain. Trees moved past the window in heavy shadows. Leaves catching in flashes—pale silver, then gone. His headlights stretched the world in ribbons. The interior of the car was quiet. Still.

The realisation came softly.

Not a jolt. No panic. Just... presence. Like a heavy object finally set down in the bottom of his stomach.

The murder—not necessity. Not design. Not discipline.

Impulse.

Budge had been impolite before. Crude. Predictable. He’d crossed lines in conversation, in humour, in habit.

And still—Hannibal had always left him alone. Out of logic. Out of caution. They moved in the same circles—galas, invitations, polite company. Budge was tolerated. Not touched.

There had always been a line.

And, Hannibal had acted on impulse.

Like an errant butcher, thoughtless and inelegant. The very idea repulsed him.

He shifted his grip on the wheel. Adjusted slightly. Exhaled through his nose. Let the thought wash over him.

Too late.

The act was done. It had already happened.

Still. This was dangerous ground.

He couldn’t blame Budge.

Not really.

It was her.

It was Will Graham. 

With his beauty and tantalising mind—undefinable, disruptive—entirely too compelling to be safe. 

And Hannibal, being Hannibal, could see only one solution to such a dire problem.

Chapter Text

[HANNIBAL L.: Dinner this Saturday?]

[WILL G.: I’d love to.]

It was unfortunate. A regrettable predicament, Hannibal thought with restrained displeasure.

Will Graham was spectacular. In more ways than one. Beautiful—without a doubt. Sharp—unnaturally so. A shapeshifter, but never uncomfortable, always at peace in body and soul.

Hannibal brushed a palm over the dining table.

Such a pity.

Yet Hannibal was, above all, a creature of self-preservation—and the notion of another human being triggering such a loss of control was entirely unacceptable.

Of course, that didn’t mean they couldn’t share one final meal together.

At that and wth a soft smile, Hannibal left the dining room and got to work in the kitchen.

The hours slipped by in quiet, meditative rhythm. A sharp knife slicing through vegetables. The satisfying sizzle of meat on a hot pan. A few contemplative sips of wine. Time ceased to matter.

Then, before he knew it, two firm knocks on the front door.

Hannibal paused and turned the heat down on the sauce. Removing his apron, he set it aside and slipped into his suit jacket. Regardless of the evening's intentions, he was genuinely looking forward to seeing Will.

He strolled toward the door, his thoughts drifting quietly to the drug in his cupboard—a comfortable death.

Will deserved nothing less.

No crude theatrical statement.

He gripped the doorknob and twisted it open.

Yes, Hannibal would honour him.

The cold barrel of a hunting rifle pressed against his face.

Hannibal froze, momentarily caught off guard, and just as he prepared to twist away—strike and damage, he heard:

"Don’t move."

Sharp, unshaken, and unmistakable.

He stilled, swallowed slowly and didn't move. Glancing past the gun and at none other than Will Graham.

Will held the rifle steady. Fingers rested on the trigger, perfectly still. His long, curled hair was pulled into a bun, a slight stubble shading his jaw. A striped shirt, loose jacket, jeans, and low boots completed the look. The stark masculinity of his presentation threw Hannibal off further, as if the world had tilted and come undone—quietly, without warning.

"Turn around," Will commanded, a glint in his eyes.

Hannibal hesitated, wondering if a quick grip at the gun and a twist would—

"Don’t even think about it—I’m this close to blowing your head open. Which would be a pity, really," Will murmured, fingers tightening on the trigger.

Not one to take chances—or at least not yet—Hannibal turned slowly.

"Go to the dining room." Another order.

Hannibal walked slowly, aware of Will following at a measured distance behind him.

Clever girl.

As they entered the dining room, Will gestured sharply and said, "Sit down."

Hannibal reached for the closest chair. "No," Will corrected. "At the other end of the table."

Mouth twitching with irritation, Hannibal obeyed, walking to the far end of the room before turning and sitting down. Will remained stationed at the entrance, rifle steady.

Hannibal leaned back in the chair, studying the man before him, then said evenly, "I must say—this is unexpected." He gestured toward the rifle. "And entirely undeserved."

The gun didn’t waver, but Will chuckled. "We both know that’s bullshit."

Hannibal had no response to that. It made no sense—absolutely none.

Of course, he had made meticulous plans to drug, kill, and consume this man’s flesh. The basement was already prepared. Yet when they had parted after the opera, even Hannibal hadn’t fully grasped the danger Will posed to his control. It was only after Budge's end that the realization had struck him.

Will grinned at him. "Confused?"

Not seeing the point in being vague, Hannibal nodded. "Yes," he settled on, before adding, "I see no reason for this—behaviour."

A moment of silence.

Then, it became all too clear.

Will had intended to kill him from the start.

Yes, that was it.

Just like Hannibal—or perhaps not entirely—but the man was, without question, a murderer, and Hannibal was his next intended victim. Will knew nothing of Hannibal's own designs—this was merely a coincidence: two predators drawn to each other, both ready to strike at the same time.

It was the only logical explanation.

Then Hannibal heard a snort. He glanced at Will, who lowered the rifle slightly—then, even before Hannibal's body twitched at the opportunity, raised it again.

Odd.

Will shifted his stance. "You’re wrong."

"Excuse me?"

"I didn’t plan this—not entirely."

Hannibal—again—felt lost.

A horrid feeling.

And he couldn’t help but be in awe.

Will sighed. "Hannibal. Don’t be fucking stupid."

"I beg your pardon?" Hannibal asked, affronted.

"I like you. And the reason I’m here with a freakin' gun is simple."

It didn’t feel simple to Hannibal. He was still adrift.

Will continued, either ignoring or not noticing Hannibal’s confusion. "I make furniture," he began, explaining nothing. "And I’ve become an expert at seeing what my clients—you included—want long before they know it themselves. Whether it’s an excess of mirror neurons or some twisted empathy disorder—it doesn’t matter." A soft laugh. "It just makes people ridiculously predictable—even you. Are you glorious and intriguing—yes. Predictable—always, but in the best way."

Hannibal wondered if clairvoyance was a thing.

"And really, I have no interest in being killed—no matter how you’ve planned it—" Will continued, then grinned widely. "So quite simple, no?"

He was at a loss for words.

All he could do was stare—confounded and... charmed?

Will tilted his head, lowered the gun, and placed it calmly on the dining table. Hannibal tracked the movement, but the impulse to strike had vanished. He remained seated.

Will approached slowly along the table’s edge, coming to a stop before Hannibal, who sat impossibly still—uncertain which direction he wanted to take.

Then, with quiet boldness, Will placed a hand on the armrest and slid onto the table, settling on its edge in front of Hannibal. The doctor stiffened ever so slightly. Will tutted, then leaned in and cupped Hannibal’s face, brushing his lips against his in a kiss—brief, featherlight.

He withdrew, their lips close, staring into Hannibal’s eyes, and added, "I’d rather eat at your table than be on it—unless this is the arrangement."

The words tipped Hannibal over the edge. He stood abruptly, hand clamping around Will’s throat and slamming him down against the table with ease. Will’s head struck the wood with a pained grunt—but he didn’t resist.

Hannibal hovered above him, hand resting on his throat—a silent threat. Looming, while Will merely chuckled.

"You are quite the presumptuous brat."

"Don’t I know it."

"Confident of you to assume I won’t kill you now, Will," Hannibal said coldly. "It would be easy—the throat is softer than you’d think. One precise press and the trachea would—" He applied slight pressure with his thumb. "Cave."

Silence.

Hannibal loomed over him. Shallow breaths.

But still—no panic.

Will raised his hands, gripping Hannibal’s wrists, applying slight pressure to the one at his throat. His eyes were alight. "What’s stopping you now?"

Yes, indeed.

What was holding him back?

Hannibal stilled. His breathing slowed as he gazed down at the man—woman—both. The uncomfortable certainty washed over him.

Will Graham, with all his impudence and cockiness, was spectacular.

He exhaled sharply.

Then leaned down, capturing Will’s mouth in a harsh kiss. Will opened to him immediately. Lips met—pressing, devouring—tongue grazing teeth, heat surging. Will groaned, attempting to rise and meet him, but the hand at his throat held him fast—unyielding. Present, but applying no real force.

Then, separating, their breaths came out in soft, shallow pants as they stared at one another.

Will chuckled. "Now, that wasn’t so difficult to accept, was it?"

Hannibal grinned—more of a twisted, animalistic expression than a real smile. With Will’s legs on either side of him, he stepped closer, hips pressing forward.

Will huffed and raised an eyebrow.

Accepting the challenge, Hannibal pushed up Will’s shirt and swiftly undid his belt. He paused, fingers curled around the waistband of Will’s jeans.

"Objections?"

"None."

Will lifted his hips slightly, allowing Hannibal to tug the jeans and underwear down to his thighs in one swift movement, revealing pale skin. He shifted, resting his legs—bound tightly by half removed jeans—at Hannibal’s right side.

Hannibal braced one hand beside Will’s head, while the other slid two fingers slowly past his lips. Will took them in eagerly, tongue wrapping around them with slow, practiced precision. Wet, obscene sounds filled the air—spit slicking his knuckles as Will gagged faintly, eyes locked on Hannibal's with quiet heat.

Then, as Hannibal withdrew his fingers, he replaced them with his mouth—soft, teasing kisses pressing lips to lips. His hand drifted lower, fingers gliding along the curve of Will’s ass before one slick digit breached him in a firm push.

Will hissed, breath catching. "Really? You of all people should know spit is useless."

Hannibal grinned, eyes dark. "Is it not the thought that counts?"

He pushed the finger in deeper, curling it slowly. The heat inside was intoxicating.

Will let out a low, breathy laugh, then hissed again and dragged Hannibal down into another bruising kiss.

A second finger joined the first, Hannibal fully aware of the stretch, scissoring them back and forth in deliberate rhythm.

"Shit," Will gasped. "Don’t stop."

Hannibal chuckled low in his throat, angling his fingers upward until he felt that velvet pressure give way. Will shuddered, groaning deep. "Appreciate the knowledge of anatomy, doctor."

After another minute or two, he added a third finger—twisting, pulsing, scissoring with careful, hungry precision.

Then, Hannibal withdrew. Opening his pants, he spat into his palm and wrapped a warm hand around himself.

He stroked his length in slow, deliberate motions, savoring the burn of Will’s eyes on him.

Will lay spread across the table like an offering—long hair fanned in a halo, skin glistening with sweat. His shirt and jacket were bunched at his ribs, jeans tangled at his thighs, boots still on. He looked utterly debauched and completely in control.

"Get to it," Will murmured, tilting his head with a smirk. Daring him.

Hannibal was no coward. 

He gathered Will’s legs in one arm, locking them under his arm and tight against his side—then, with a single, fluid thrust, buried himself inside.

Will’s breath caught in his throat, head thrown back. 

Hannibal huffed in satisfaction and, without pause, began to thrust—setting an unforgiving pace. His cock plunged fully into searing heat before dragging nearly all the way out, only to slam back in with unforgiving force.

Will groaned, panting, a laugh breaking free between gasps. "Yeah, that’s it."

The sharp rhythm of Hannibal’s hips echoed in wet, urgent slaps. Too hot. Too tight. A little too dry. But Will’s cock was hard, and his expression blissful—he seemed to enjoy it, possibly, even more than Hannibal.

The thought sent a shiver down Hannibal's spine, and he gripped Will’s leg tighter, snapping forward, punishing and relentless.

He drove into him again, hips snapping with a steady, brutal rhythm—each motion wringing out sharper gasps from Will.

Their pants and huffs filled the air, raw and rhythmic, growing more intense with every breath.

Will groaned and braced his palms against the table. Hannibal inhaled sharply, pushing his cock all the way in and thrusting shallowly. They both groaned, shuddered, and then, all movement stilled. Only their harsh breaths and sweat dripping remained.

Hannibal withdrew and tucked himself in, wincing at the sore feeling.

Will pushed a hand through his hair, then leaned up on his elbows, unashamed. A slow trail of come slipped down from between his thighs.

Hannibal swept a finger over the mess and pushed the come back inside. No blood, but Will's hole was lightly red. Definitely sore.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Hannibal gently traced the abused skin. He tsked. "Lube is necessary," he added. "Next time."

Will smiled widely. "So there will be a next time?"

Hannibal didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed.

He huffed and withdrew his finger, giving Will’s butt cheek a light slap. "Get up and take a shower. Dinner’s probably cold."

A sigh. "Such a pity," Hannibal murmured.

Will let Hannibal help him up and pulled on his pants with a grimace, adjusting them before trailing after Hannibal toward the bathroom.

After a quick rundown on where to find soap, towels, and something clean to wear, Hannibal returned to the kitchen to salvage the meal.

Drugs and murder excluded this time.

Roughly thirty minutes later, with something resembling dinner plated, Will strolled into the kitchen. Hannibal looked up, briefly pausing mid-motion.

Will had—of course—chosen one of Hannibal’s white shirts and a pair of black underwear. Nothing more. His long hair was loose and still damp.

He stepped to the kitchen island and leaned in, snagging a thin slice of meat off the plate and slipping it into his mouth. He hummed in approval, nodding.

"For a misogynist, Budge tastes pretty good."

Hannibal swallowed hard and accepted—he may have met his culinary and philosophical equal.

Or better, his muse.

And that might be entirely all right.

The End