Chapter Text
Briskly solving the case of the Monster of Florence had been something of a tactical mistake, because Jack Crawford got it into his head it meant Will was officially back in business.
Of course, he could theoretically refuse to consult on cases, in the same way one can theoretically refuse to pay one’s taxes. There would be a sense of pride and independence, at first, swiftly demolished by constant and unending torment and an inevitable capitulation.
Referring to Jack’s friendly, persistent persuasion in this manner might be a touch dramatic, but to a homebody like Will, it’s how it felt.
At any rate, there he was, standing in a manicured garden of Virginia’s richest suburb on a gloomy Friday afternoon, staring at the head poking out of a beaten flowerbed. White and fuchsia mallow flowers burst out of the corpse’s eye sockets, mouth, even a nostril. The plants were alive, painstakingly transplanted into the hollowed-out head. There was a touch of daintiness to it. Delicacy. The vivid pink that radiated out from pistil through ivory petal looked like veins from some angles, supplicating silhouettes from others.
Will blinked hard, crawling out of the tortured dimension of empathetic profiling and back into his human suit. He gestured for the forensics crew to continue unearthing the dead man’s body. Jack left the spectator seats of the victim’s back porch, sidled up on neatly trimmed grass.
‘What’re you feeling?’
Will cleared his throat, shaking the last dregs of the killer from his insides. ‘I, uh, I’m okay. It wasn’t too hard.’
Jack smiled, gracious, patient. ‘That’s always good. But I was referring more to our friend.’
He cast a sidelong glance at the body, forensic team hovering and clustering around like ants to a dead bird. Jimmy Price, who’d spent most of his time on the scene admiring the colourful array of zinnias and clouds of goldenrod (‘Very good for the local bee population,’ he explained, ‘we’ve got a nature-lover on our hands.’), gave the men a thumbs up with his free hand, the other elbow-deep inside the cadaver’s chest cavity. Will nodded back.
‘Ah. Right.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Well, it fits the pattern we saw in Falls Church. Same attention to detail, targeting wealthy homes, not stealing anything… and the plant connection is important. Either he works in the field, or he’s sending a message to someone who does.’
‘Say it with flowers.’
‘Yeah. Look into what the plants mean. Their symbolism. It’s no coincidence. I’m, er, pretty sure there’s going to be an extra surprise somewhere in the corpse, like the other times. Bulb in the lungs, if I had to guess.’
Jack nodded. ‘Alright. We’ll let you know. Thanks for coming out, Will, I appreciate it.’
Will nodded, tight-lipped, avoiding Jack’s gaze. ‘It’s been a rough week, with both bodies, do you think I –‘
‘Head home. Not much more you can do around here.’
‘I’ll check in on Monday, once the body’s cleaned up.’
‘Call me. I’ll meet you in the lab.’ Jack clapped a heavy hand on Will’s back, in a gesture that was meant to be amicable. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this one. We’ll have The Gardner in custody before he strikes again.’
‘I’d’ve quit as soon as the media gave me that lame moniker,’ Jimmy piped up. His people were on the finicky stages now, more labour than brain-intensive, so he’d taken the liberty of peeling off his grimy latex gloves and wandering over to the extensive herb patch. ‘Pack it up and start again with a new gimmick.’
‘There’s a strategy!’ Jack laughed. ‘Leak the worst names we can think of to the press and watch the murder rate drop.’
Will shoved his hands in his pockets, a little uncomfortable. ‘Enjoy your weekend,’ he said.
Jimmy raised a distracted hand in farewell, and Jack made a point of seeking out Will’s eyes, shooting him a determined look.
‘Rest up, Will. And don’t forget: we’re figuring this out next week for sure.’
With a final, uneasy smile, Will turned around and climbed up the porch steps, heading to his car. He probably would figure it out next week. He had enough clues floating around in his brain.
Enough to realise that this murder wasn’t the work of The Gardner at all.
It was in the details, the differences, slight enough to pass unnoticed by the others, glaring enough to be picked up by him. More sophisticated than the average copycat, but not infallible.
Not yet, anyway.
---
If he’d somehow missed the rental car parked out front, two things would have tipped him off to a presence in the house: the dogs crowding the closed kitchen door, ignoring the return of their master, and the exquisite smell permeating the entire ground floor.
Winston was the only one to amble over, happily wagging his tail. Will scratched the back of his ears while he hung up his jacket, loosened his laces, kicked off his shoes.
This is what Friday looked like, now. A home-cooked meal and pack of mutts whose loyalties were starting to shift rather more than strictly acceptable.
‘How’d those thirty pieces of silver taste, huh?’ he murmured fondly, picking his way through a field of canines hoping for a scraps. ‘Chicken? Lamb?’
His hand closed around the doorknob. His heart thumped. Things always felt unreal, at this point. Like he’d step through to find an empty room, an absent scent. Perhaps even vanished dogs.
He turned his wrist. Opened the door.
And saw Hannibal.
In a pale pink shirt and a cream slacks and waistcoat combo, shielded by a navy apron, he was a vision of masculine domesticity, searing two thick steaks on a cast iron skillet. Only the light directly above the stove was on, the bulk of the kitchen illuminated only by what little of the setting sun penetrated the thicket around the back of Will’s home. Hannibal’s clothes made him seem older, but the bright lamp overhead exposed the smoothness of his features, the feminine curve of his full lips, his fanning lashes.
A Lithuanian Ganymede.
His dark eyes met Will’s, and that lovely mouth ticked up into a warm smile.
‘Good evening, Will.’ His voice was like butter, and, mingling with the scent of frying meat, it had the odd effect of evoking both hunger pangs and kicks of lust. ‘You’re earlier than I expected. I should have liked to have dinner prepared before your return.’
‘Jack took pity on me.’
Feeling a couple of inquisitive muzzles trying to muscle through, Will gently pushed them back with one leg and quickly shut the door behind him. Now, it was just the two of them, alone.
‘How was work?’
Will knew he didn’t need to ask, but appreciated the pretence. ‘I was called out to deal with a suspected Gardner crime scene.’
The steaks were quickly flipped in turn, exposing their dark, caramelized crusts. ‘And did you?’
‘Well, I dealt with a crime scene.’
Hannibal grinned, not looking away from his cooking. Will glanced at the sizzling meat. It smelled a little like pork, a little like beef.
But he knew it wasn’t either.
Half a year had passed since Hannibal migrated to the United States to study medicine at Johns Hopkins. The move was exciting and frightening at the same time. Proximity implied time spent together, but it also meant dealing with several hundred pounds of blood-soaked baggage.
To be fair, he’d shown significant decorum in not committing murder for the first few months of his arrival. Dealing with the logistics of his studies, new university acquaintances, and transport to and from Will’s place took up the bulk of his time, and for a while, Will could forget.
When they dined together in some absurd, expensive, undeniably delicious new restaurant somewhere in the DMV; when he woke up to breakfasts with caviar or grated truffles, Will could forget the knowing looks his younger lover gave him over carnivorous dishes, the growing hunger he felt for that strange, gamey flavour. Not quite pork. Not quite beef.
When they trekked through forests in search of perfect fishing spots, Hannibal flipping through textbooks or sketching Will hip-deep in a cool stream; when they stole kisses in dark theatres and hallowed museum halls, Will could forget bodies desecrated in every possible way, weeping families, and hopeless loved ones.
When he came into the bedroom to settle in for the night and saw Hannibal stretched out over the covers, tip-tapping emails on his phone, naked and lithe and pale, perfect pliability; when his heart was so full it could burst, Will could forget the terror in Rinaldo Pazzi’s eyes, the ringing of the gunshot that destroyed the Inspector’s brain, the knowledge that he’d chosen Hannibal over justice, duped a fearful city with a sacrificial culprit while the real Mostro packed his bags for Baltimore.
He could forget.
For a while.
The first murder on American soil came when Jack summoned Will for a consultation. All signs pointed to a budding serial killer who targeted young professional women with dark hair in South-East Pennsylvania. Typical jilted sociopath fare, in the tradition of Ted Bundy, were it not for the evidence suggesting a female perpetrator. Female serial killers were rare, and female serial killers who targeted women, even more. Will took the case.
And Hannibal followed.
Fitting his kills into Will’s investigations helped cover them up. Hannibal knew enough to slip in details that only the killer – or the forensics team – would know, and any slip-ups were caught and disarmed by Will before they could raise alarm. It had only happened twice so-far, on two different cases, but it was setting up to be an arrangement between them. A pressure release valve. And, Will suspected, another of Hannibal’s efforts to desensitise Will to the art of murder. The pleasure.
They’d never explicitly addressed that, mind. Talking shop in private seemed somehow vulgar.
‘Did you notice anything peculiar?’ Hannibal asked, nonchalant. The steaks were moved to a cutting board to rest while he threw together a salad as a side. Will noticed the fresh herbs he tossed into the mix, bound in moistened cheesecloth.
Cut from the patch Jimmy Price had admired just a few hours before.
Will stepped closer to Hannibal, gently kneaded his shoulder. When he first purchased this house, when he was younger and in possession of far fewer dogs and traumas, he’d daydreamed about having a family, spending cosy nights in the kitchen with a wife, teaching his children how to cook.
He’d never imagined this.
But now, he couldn’t imagine not having it.
‘I noticed the prominence of the flowers.’ Will saw Hannibal sigh, pleased, and continued. ‘I’m no expert on plant symbolism, so I had to look it up.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘Mallow. Consumed by love.’
Will used his grip on Hannibal’s arm to turn his body toward him, pressing a deep kiss to his mouth in the same movement. Coated in olive oil, Hannibal’s hands hesitated at first, then grabbed fistfuls of Will’s red plaid shirt to force their bodies flush together, filling the small kitchen with the sounds of fabric on fabric, of wet tongues and lips moving against each other with dwindling control.
It was Will who broke off first, resting his forehead against Hannibal’s with shaky groan. On days when he had to force his empathy into overdrive, it was easy to become overwhelmed. Everything felt heightened. He was rapidly approaching middle age and he’d never been on the greatest terms with his libido, but Hannibal was different. Hannibal was only a lick over twenty. Hannibal knew what he wanted. And, along with filling an aching need for companionship, he seemed to have unlocked the eroticism Will had boarded up in a dusty corner of his psyche for the better part of two decades.
It was like being sixteen again. Only better.
‘Pliny the Elder wrote that mallow seed produces lust to an infinite degree,’ Hannibal murmured.
‘Didn’t know you were made of mallow seed.’
Hannibal laughed, the kind of short chuckle elicited by surprise. Though he was easy with his smiles, laughter was a crack in the armour, and it felt precious. It made him want to kiss him again. And again.
Then, one of Hannibal’s oil-slicked hands grasped the cock hardening inside Will’s jeans.
Things happened fast after that.
Teeth on lips. The clatter of utensils thrown to the floor. Hannibal doubling over the counter. His hips rearing up, impatient, while Will pulled down those light slacks and flipped shirttails up. Scrambling for something to use, knowing the dogs at the door would make ducking into the bedroom impossible – grabbing the tall bottle of olive oil. Extra virgin.
‘Would Pliny approve?’
Hannibal just groaned in response, which was all the encouragement Will needed to spread the substance all over his length in a couple of slow, delicious pumps that made the hair on his arms stand on end. Digging his fingers into Hannibal’s taut ass, pressing the head of his throbbing prick against his hole – then inside. Hot, tight.
Immaculate.
This wasn’t one to drag out. Thrusting hard from the get-go, Will gripped Hannibal’s cock and pulled him off in time with his own movements. Though he’d started off awkward, especially compared with Hannibal’s confidence, it didn’t take long to learn the ins and outs of sex with men – or at least, with this man.
Laying his chest against Hannibal’s back, Will felt all the stress of daily life melt into the sounds of Hannibal’s quiet moans and laboured breathing, the growing slipperiness as precome mixed with the oil on his fingers, the scent of expensive cologne and cooked human flesh and homegrown aromatics.
When Hannibal’s hand covered Will’s for the final few tugs of his stiff cock, Will hilted himself, let out a broken moan, and shivered as the orgasm washed over him.
Weakly, he pulled out, coaxed Hannibal to turn around. His usually perfect composure was in tatters, powerful blush blotching his cheeks, his ears, his neck. His eyes were closed, coming down from the rush, but Will knew they’d be sparkling with wicked satisfaction, and he knew the love that filled every inch of his being was more than just endorphins and infatuation.
‘You okay?’
Hannibal’s eyes fluttered open, dark and lustful. The usual polite smile crept back into place. He kissed Will’s cheek, and pulled his trousers up from where they lay pooled around his ankles.
‘Could you set the table while I shower?’
Will nodded. Hannibal was something of a germophobe, which was the only real sticking point for the dogs: they’d always slept on and around Will’s bed, and couldn’t understand why, a few days per week, they were banished to the living room – though under Winston’s leadership, they were starting to understand that the younger human’s presence meant different sleeping arrangements, and no amount of whining would change that.
As Hannibal left the kitchen for the bathroom, shushing interested hounds as he went, Will went to grab cutlery. The steaks were still warm, and he felt the water rise to his mouth at the prospect of that perfectly cooked meat.
The image of the cadaver, emptied of eyes and tongue and missing slabs of flesh, didn’t detract from his hunger. Nowadays, staring at a desecrated corpse brought the flavour of human meat to his tongue, the smell of Hannibal’s skin and the sensation of their lips clashing, famished.
Will could usually keep the two worlds separate.
But the veil was thinning.
Time was ticking.
The pipes overhead clanged. The shower being turned on.
Will shut the drawer and laid the knives and forks out on the small kitchen table.
Eventually, things would come to a head.
But not today.