Chapter Text
Hannibal didn’t know what woke him: the dip in the bed, the rustling of the sheets, or the somewhat heavy breathing of the invader of his bed. His eyes blinked open, quickly adjusting to the darkness of the room, searching for who or what was climbing into bed between Will and himself. He wasn’t too surprised when he found a little boy crawling up to where he lay, trying to be as quiet as his tiny body would allow; Hannibal had put his bets on the boy or Winston, with the boy being his preference given he was much cleaner than the mutt.
“RJ?” he asked, voice low, coated in his tiredness. The little boy didn’t make any sounds, nor did he acknowledge that he was spoken to, he simply curled up, trying to lay as flush as he could against Hannibal’s body.
RJ was Hannibal and Will’s foster—soon to be adopted—son, and just like his foster father, he was plagued by nightmares about the day his family was murdered in front of his eyes. Usually the boy could calm himself down, using techniques he had been taught by both Hannibal and Alana Bloom—who was currently seeing him as a patient—but it would appear this nightmare really rattled him since he was climbing into his parents’ bed.
Hannibal sighed, letting RJ get comfortable beside him. The acidic smell of fear invaded his nostrils, the scent rolling off his son in waves. “I’m here, lamb,” he whispered, tucking his chin against RJ’s hair, closing his eyes, "you’re safe here. No one is going to get to you so long as Will and I are here to protect you.”
RJ let out a strangled sound, something between a whimper and a sob, his body quite literally vibrating with fear. His grip was surprisingly strong despite the fact that he was only 11 years old and physically quite small, his fingers digging into Hannibal’s skin; he would crawl beneath it if at all possible, his need for comfort practically tangible in the air between them.
Hannibal glanced over to where Will was laying, sound asleep. Normally he would worry about waking Will, but tonight he had taken a sedative to aid with a rather pesky migraine, his body lax, not a muscle movement evident in the dark of the room.
Hannibal returned his attention to the boy, the feeling of hot tears rolling down his chest from where RJ’s face was pressed against him diverting his attention, small whimpers and choked sobs escaping him before he could quash them. “Shh, shh, shh… I’m here. Breathe, please,” he commanded quietly, a hand slipping under RJ’s sweat-soaked shirt, rubbing up and down rhythmically in an attempt to calm him down.
The tears just fell faster and harder, the boy’s chest heaving as he was worked up more and more, unable to keep himself from spiraling out of control. Hannibal could tell, already swinging out of bed, lifting the little boy in his arms and holding him tightly to his body, quiet as could be as he took him out of the bedroom and down into the kitchen. Setting RJ on the counter, he opened the freezer, taking out two icepacks and pressing it into his small hands, squeezing gently.
“Hold this,” he murmured, stroking his thumb over the top of RJ’s hand, “focus on the sensation. Let your mind feel the cold and release the fear of the nightmare. I’m going to press this one to your neck. Do the same thing; focus on the physical sensation. Do you understand?”
RJ gave a jerky nod, his knuckles going white from how hard he was gripping the ice pack in his hands. Tears streaked down his face, cheeks flushed red, eyes stained with the most wonderful shade of red that rounded the amber colored irises. Hannibal filed the image away for a different time, trying to pay attention to calming his son down as opposed to the more wicked thoughts his mind was conjuring up in relation to their plans for this boy.
Hannibal brushed the hair out of RJ’s eyes, giving him a soft smile as he pressed the second ice pack to his neck, holding it in place firmly, the skin around it slowly turning red, telling him to adjust it so he wouldn’t burn the skin.
After a few long minutes of this, the boy’s breathing evened out, the tears coming to an end, his fingers slowly releasing the death grip he had on the ice pack. “Cold,” he mumbled in complaint, his voice cracking from how dry his throat was. The acrid scent of fear was slowly dissipated, replaced by the scent of RJ’s natural state, the air turning sweet as opposed to sour.
Hannibal removed his hand and the second ice pack, dropping it on the counter, RJ following suit. “You did very well, my little lamb. I’m very proud of you,” he praised, relishing in the slightly blush that crept up on the little boy’s features. In that way, he took after Will, craving praise and stability, coming off almost timid whenever he received it.
The boy rubbed at his eyes, shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “Tired,” he said simply, exhaling as his body relaxed further, his tiredness returning as his parasympathetic nervous system worked overtime to return to the state of sleep.
“Why don’t you turn something on the television, and I’ll make you something to drink, to get you back to sleep?” Hannibal offered, hiding his amusement at how children could go from fear and panic to sleepiness and comfort so quickly. RJ just nodded, hopping down from the counter and padding out of the kitchen, presumably going into the den to watch TV from the sofa.
Hannibal set about making RJ tea, setting a kettle to boil as he retrieved the tea from the pantry and a sedative from a kitchen cabinet that housed a medical kit for any kind of emergency. RJ would never accept a sedative outright, something within his upbringing making him vehemently against the use of medications, but what he didn’t know surely wouldn’t hurt him given Hannibal’s access to his medical history.
Hannibal took down a mug from another cabinet, setting it on the counter. He took the whistling kettle from the stovetop, pouring water into the mug, then dropping in the tea bag, allowing it to steep for around ten minutes. Finally, he slipped in some of the sedative; it would be completely covered up by the taste of the tea—RJ would never notice unless he was purposely trying to taste it, which he would not be given the intensity of his anxiety.
Walking into the den, Hannibal found the boy watching old Jeopardy reruns, his eyes enamored by the questions on the screen, clearly raking his brain trying to come up with answers despite the topic being about something that was way before his time. Honey colored eyes darted to Hannibal, his concentration breaking.
Hannibal offered him the mug, “it’s quite hot. Be careful.”
The boy nodded, taking the mug, his eyes returning to the screen as Alex Trabek read off the next question in some art category. When Trabek had finished speaking, RJ piped up, voice quiet compared to the television, “Van Gogh.”
“Hm?” Hannibal asked, taking a seat next to the little boy, his eyes moving to the screen to read the question himself.
“Van Gogh is the answer,” RJ repeated, still quiet as a mouse, quickly taking a sip of the tea in his mug. Hannibal nodded, uninterested in the game show, his focus on the sweater that practically swallowed the little boy whole. He knew where it was from, the knitting and material very familiar to him given that it had come from his wardrobe. It was a deep blue color, the fabric drowning out RJ’s natural build, one side of the collar all but sliding off his narrow shoulder. He also noticed the small stuffed dog he had clutched in his hands, a gift from one of the nurses at the hospital when he had been recovering from the Hobbs’ incident.
They both sat in relative silence, the sound of the television filling the air between them, allowing them both to sit comfortably in the quiet. RJ had now finished his drink, the mug left on a coaster on the coffee table, his eyelids drooping lower and lower as the sedative overpowered his system.
RJ scooted closer to Hannibal, curling into his side, head lolling against him as he grew more and more tired, his limbs and head growing heavier. He smiled softly, running his fingers through the unkempt strands of the boy’s hair, “would you like to go back to bed now, lamb?”
“Mm hm,” the boy hummed, barely nodding because of how heavy his head felt, “can I sleep in your bed, tėvas?”
He nodded, deciding to indulge the little boy who was so full of anxiety and fear, the emotions warring inside him temporarily cast aside in his exhaustion, taking solace in the older man who did all he could to protect him from his own mind and the nasty things it could dream up.
So much like Will, Hannibal thought to himself, his arms moving under the boy, lifting him once more, the sweater becoming impossibly bigger around RJ’s body. His neck was craned in a position that would otherwise be painful, but his senses were so blurred because of the sedative, it simply hung as Hannibal carried him up the stairs and into the master bedroom. The only strength he had was in his hands, clinging to the stuffed dog as though his life depended on it.
Laying the boy down in the bed, Hannibal slipped in himself, letting RJ curl up in his side, arms clutching his stuffed animal, head tucked under Hannibal’s chin. Hannibal drew the sheets back over them, his voice a low whisper when he said, “goodnight, my precious little lamb.”
RJ had already drifted back to sleep.