Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal.

Title: Moments
Summary: This is how they live: one day at a time.
Pairing(s): Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Warnings: slash, kind-of disturbing content but I think it's okay



It's summer when Will moves into Hannibal's home.

He does it because he wants to; because it always seemed inevitable; because Hannibal had asked and Will couldn't say no.

"Isn't this a taboo?" Will had asked as they finished packing the last box.

Hannibal had raised an eyebrow at him.

"This," Will had gestured to the packed boxes, the shirts dressed in trash bags like gentlemen in their fine suits. "I thought doctors weren't allowed to have relationships with their patients.

Hannibal had merely said, "You stopped being my patient a long time ago, Will."

By the time they're done, the sun is a bloody eye slowly closing as it sinks behind the bloated horizon, and even though they live in a city, Will's arms are swollen with mosquito bites. He collapses into one of Hannibal's chairs and scratches at them until the bites break open and blood collects beneath his fingernails. Hannibal clicks his tongue, stares at the wounds that Will created.

"Some aloe would help. I have some in the medicine cabinet located in the bathroom down the hall."

Will smiles at him, doesn't say a word and Hannibal understands.

I have to make sure this is real.

Hannibal nods more to himself than to Will and moves into the kitchen. Before the door shuts, Hannibal calls out:

"Take a shower; dinner will be ready by the time you're done."

The shower is hot; so hot it turns Will's skin red—red like angry sunsets, like cooked lobster or crab shells, like Hannibal's hands under the sink. He shaves because it's a fresh start for them both, because after everything they've gone through to get to this point, they deserve to be a little selfish. He towels off and leaves his hair a wild mess, dresses his skin with one of Hannibal's aftershaves. He pulls on one of his nicer dress shirts and rolls the sleeves up to the folds of his elbows and jeans.

Dinner is already at the table when Will enters the dining room: a pale slab of meat with a ruby colored sauce running over the fatty sides and pooling around like brains and blood around a shattered skull. There's a small salad and a glass of dark wine next to his plate. Hannibal's already at the table, dressed in a purple cashmere sweater with black pants that cling to his calves and thighs.

It looks good; it smells good. Will says as much, and it makes Hannibal smile at him from across the table. The distance between them is seemingly great, but Will has never felt closer.

As Will takes the first bite, he vaguely wonders who he's putting into his mouth.

"What's for desert?" Will asks around a mouthful of someone's . . . thigh, breast, forearm, calf? The list went on.

Hannibal takes a sip of wine before he answers. "I've made a tiramisu."

"Sounds delicious."

"It tastes even better than it sounds."

Will finishes his plate, and the food settles in his stomach like a comforting balm, and as he finishes his wine, he knows he should be disgusted, afraid, terrified. Instead, he's completely and totally in love.

And he's okay with that.


He still goes into Hannibal's office every day, at seven-thirty on the dot.

Hannibal is a man of routine, and since he's plunged into Will's chaos, Will think it's only fair that he tries to assimilate into Hannibal's order.

So he goes to Hannibal's office, but they don't really talk about Will's hallucinations anymore. They sit and eat a dinner that Hannibal cooked that morning; they talk about the bodies Will sees, the dinner the night before, Jack's pros and cons, frustrations that the day has presented so far.

It's all strangely domestic.

But neither one of them are really complaining.

This evening, they're eating liver with balsamic vinaigrette and sauteed mushrooms and onions on the side. Hannibal's poured two glasses of white wine and sips on his thoughtfully as Will talks about the latest murder.

"The murderer truly loves his victims."

"He guts them like fish, scalps them, and then positions them in their beds. According to Jack Crawford, this is hardly an innocent form of life."

"It's his way of worshiping them. He's showing both their inner and outer beauty by putting their organs and hair on display. These are the parts that he finds beautiful."

"Is there a pattern?"

"All of them are dark skinned with blonde hair, no tattoos or body piercings, mid-teens to early adulthood. He kills more females than men, but both genders meet his requirements."

"They are a personification of society's representation of beauty."

Will nodded slowly and finished his glass.

"Am I to assume you'll be in late tonight?"

"More than likely; I have to go with Jack to interview some potential suspects."

"Dessert will be in the refrigerator when you get back."

"What are you making?"

"Now that would ruin the surprise."

They kiss afterwards, long and slow like lovers were meant to. When Will leaves, he can taste blood and thyme on his lips.


Jack doesn't approve.

Not because Will's with another man, but because Will is with Hannibal.

He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to. Will can see it in his face, the way the muscles jerk and twitch beneath his cheek, the way his lips purse, the way he turns away with his hands on his hips. He looks like a petulant child trying to surpass a tantrum. It's actually amusing, and Will has to duck his head to hide the smile that's threatening to break out over his face.

"Jack doesn't like me being with you." Will tells Hannibal as they prepare dinner together: mincemeat pie with grilled corn dusted with parmesan cheese on the side.

"He doesn't like me." Hannibal says matter-of-factly.


"I've always given him, how do you say, the creeps."

Will laughs as he slices through a slab of meat. It's hearty, a little fatty, no doubt a thigh.

"I like you."

Hannibal looks over his shoulder and smiles, and Will wants to bite the corner of his mouth so red that it stains into the next day. Jack will have to meet his eyes then.

"I'm glad."


They share stories at night: happy, sad, something in-between. It doesn't really matter.

Tonight, it's Hannibal's turn, and he talks fondly about a little girl named Mischa while his head rests on Will's chest, one arm tucked beneath Will's back while the other is draped over his stomach, fingers lightly tracing nonsensical patterns on Will's flesh.

"She was my sister, and she was beautiful. She always saw the world as this beautiful, wonderful thing, even when we were forced to take refuge, she would smile and giggle, laugh at the birds, point at the flowers. She wasn't afraid of me like some of the servants were. She reach up to me when she wanted to be spun around, and she would laugh, and I laughed with her. I loved her."

"What happened to her?"

Hannibal falls silent, and for a minute, Will thinks he's fallen asleep, but he continues speaking softly.

"The family lodge was destroyed in an explosion, and then soldiers came and imprisoned us. They were starving and sick, so were we. Then, one day, they decided they were going to kill my sister and eat her. I fought to get to Mischa, but I failed. The last thing I remember before the door closed was seeing an axe raised above my sister's head."

Silence, and Will knows that Hannibal is back in those woods, in that house with snow falling all around, and greasy, foul-smelling taunt him and hold him tight as they drag his crying sister out into the blinding white of the winter day.

"Did you kill them?"

Hannibal nods and his hair makes a soft shushing noise against Will's flesh.

"I made sure of it."

"And yet you can't stop."



"Because I like it too much; I'm sorry if this disappoints you."

Will kisses the top of his head, relishes the scent of his shampoo and says:

"It doesn't."

Hannibal waits for a moment before he speaks again:

"I see her in Abigail Hobbs."

Will nods slowly and wraps his arm around Hannibal and wills the ghost of Mischa Lecter back into the darkness.


Will Graham wouldn't say he has an innately dominate personality.

He knows how he must look: khaki's, navy-blue and brown splashed with grey; no real color of which to speak, a picture of blatancy that's in juxtapose to how he acts around other humans. He's skittish and he can feel the muscles in his body twitching as he's spoken to. He can't look in their eyes because every sin they've ever done, every wrong they've ever committed, will be right in his eyes. He's the type of obedience Jack needs in his line of work, and Will wants to be angry at him for it, but he can't because he can understand it perfectly.

When he's with Hannibal it's a different story.

Hannibal guides through every motion, hands on his hips, voice curling against Will's eardrums. Every kiss is met with murmured praise and soft coos of affection in both English and Lithuanian. He tells Will to let go, to be free, to not worry about Jack calling or the next case that's always looming behind him like a heavy, black shroud.

"It's just you and me." Hannibal whispers as Will slips inside of him, as Will moans because Hannibal's so tight that it should be painful but it just feels wonderful and right. "It's just you and me in this room."

Will fucks Hannibal like the animal humans try so hard not to be. At the beginning, he's slow and rhythmic, takes his time and sets a decent pace, and Hannibal isn't making too much noise, soft pants of pleasure and low moans and groans. And then, as a hot knot of pleasure works its way into his belly, his hips snap forward, erratic and desperate. He bites because Hannibal wants him to and Hannibal bites back, and Will wants to just as bad.

When their orgasms crash over them, all Will can taste is warm, hot blood and Hannibal's clenching around his softening dick, and Hannibal's making heavy panting noises that could have been music from the finest concert.

When will collapses, boneless and spent, with Hannibal's blood still on his tongue, he knows he's been totally fucked since day one, and yet, he can't bring himself to care or worry.


They move through the day like shadows on the walls—carefully, sliding over the surface, gliding on the ground, silent yet seen when necessary, acknowledged when it's pertinent. And yet, when they come together, they blend seamlessly, no beginning and no end.

For the first time in years, side-by-side, breathing in one another's warm breath, they think:

This is what it's like to be complete.