Chapter Text
Dennis did everything he could to avert this exact outcome.
He planned his exit with the same forensic precision his fathers apply to their… hobbies. He waited for their monthly hunting trip. He purchased the bus ticket with cash he’d been stashing in a hollowed-out biology textbook for years. He bought thrift store clothes, burned his SIM card, changed his name, and crossed state lines.
Dennis is smart. He knows how they hunt. He took precautions.
“Is that Doctor Hannibal Lecter?” Trinity asks, her voice pitching up in amazement. She stops dead in the middle of the hallway. “Holy shit, what is he doing here?”
She doesn’t notice that the blood has drained entirely from Dennis’ face. He feels static, frozen in place like a prey animal hoping its camouflage holds.
“Do you think he is coming to work here?” Trinity continues, oblivious to the catastrophe unfolding. “I mean, I know he says he’s retired now, but–”
“Trin, shut up,” Dennis hisses. The panic clawing at his throat makes the words come out sharper than he intends.
Trinity blinks, offended, and even Javadi looks up from her tablet, doing a double-take. Dennis never speaks to them like that. He is the peacemaker, the nervous energy, the guy who apologizes to the vending machine.
But they didn't see what he saw.
Across the nurses' station, standing amidst the chaos of the ER like a statue in a storm, is the man. He is holding his checkered coat over one arm, speaking softly to Dana. He looks immaculate. He looks out of place. And then, he looks up.
His eyes lock onto Dennis. There is no searching, no scanning. He knew exactly where Dennis was.
“Sorry,” Dennis breathes, sweat prickling instantly along his hairline. He turns to his friends; his face is burning red. “Doctor Lecter is here for me. Whatever you do, be nice to him. Please.”
Javadi frowns, her brow furrowing as she tries to compute the data. “He is here for you?” she asks, genuinely confused. “Why? Was he your–”
“It’s a long story,” Dennis says, cutting her off.
“I wouldn't say long, no.”
The voice comes from directly behind him. Smooth, cultured, and terrifyingly familiar.
A hand settles on Dennis’ shoulder. It is heavy, warm and possessive. Dennis flinches, just a fraction, but he knows the man feels the muscle spasm.
Hannibal steps around him, bringing the full weight of his presence into the small circle. He looks down at Dennis with a soft expression that would fool anyone else. To a stranger, it looks like paternal affection. But Dennis knows that look. It’s pride. Hannibal isn't angry that Dennis ran; he’s impressed he stayed hidden for this long. He’s proud Dennis is playing the game well.
Dennis breathes out relieved.
“Aren’t you going to hug your father?” Hannibal asks.
Beside him, Dennis hears Trinity’s breath hitch –a sharp inhale of shock. Javadi just stares, her mouth slightly open.
“Hey, Daddy,” Dennis manages. His voice sounds thin to his own ears.
He leans in, and Hannibal embraces him. It’s a good hug –Hannibal’s hugs were always freely given, warm, and secure. It’s easy to forget, in the safety of those arms, what those hands are capable of. But then Hannibal leans closer, his nose brushing the shell of Dennis’ ear, and inhaling deeply.
He is scenting him. Checking for fear. Checking his diet. Checking for the truth.
“Is Papa here?” Dennis asks into Hannibal’s shoulder, his heart hammering against his ribs.
They pull apart, Hannibal keeping his hands on Dennis’ arms, holding him in place.
“He is,” Hannibal says softly. His eyes sweep over Dennis’ face, dissecting him in seconds. “You look tired, Dennis.”
Dennis swallows. “Residency is… a lot.”
“You look thin, too,” Hannibal observes, his thumb brushing over the fabric of Dennis’ cheap scrub top, gauging the lack of muscle beneath. “Have you been eating properly?”
The question lands like a lead weight. Eating. Dad has always been very particular about food. About the source. About the ethics of consumption.
Dennis feels a wave of nausea. He thinks of family dinners. He thinks of Henry, his eldest brother, asking for seconds. He thinks of Maddie and Thomas, cheerfully partaking in the family traditions. He is the only one left. The only one untainted by the long pig. The only one who looked at the meat on the table and saw the person it used to be.
That was why he left. He couldn't stomach the invitation anymore.
“I eat,” Dennis says, his voice tight. “Cafeteria food mostly. It’s fine.”
Hannibal’s lip curls, a microscopic expression of distaste. “We shall remedy that.”
“Wait.” Trinity steps forward. The shock has worn off, replaced by the sharp edge of betrayal. “You are his son?”
She looks from the impeccably dressed sociopath to the disheveled, anxious resident she’s been sharing lunch with for months. A jagged smile cuts across her face –not a happy one.
“I’m letting you crash on that moth covered half-bed in my tiny, rat-infested apartment because you said you were broke,” she says, her voice rising in disbelief. “And meanwhile, your father is Doctor Hannibal Lecter?”
Dennis opens his mouth to explain, to tell her that money comes with strings –strings made of gut and sinew, though that he has to keep to himself– but he is saved from answering the impossible question by a happy, melodic voice echoing from the ambulance bay entrance. “Doctor Lecter!” The voice cuts through the tension like a scalpel. Dennis winces, recognizing the gravelly baritone of Dr. Robinavitch.
Hannibal turns, and the mask slips perfectly into place. He offers a small, pleased smile –one that doesn't reach his eyes but is perfectly polite for the public.
“Michael,” Hannibal greets him, extending a hand. “This is a nice surprise. I wasn’t sure you’d be on the ground today.”
Dennis’ mind screeches to a halt.
Robby shakes the hand with an enthusiasm Dennis has never seen him display during work before. “He’s always on the ground,” Dana complains from the nurses' station, though there’s no real bite to it.
Robby ignores her, grinning at the older man. “What are you doing here, Hannibal?”
The casual use of the first names hits Dennis like a physical blow.
“You know each other?” Dennis asks. The question comes out breathless, frantic.
Hannibal glances at him, a flicker of irritation in his dark eyes. He is mildly put out by the interruption, by the rudeness of it. Dennis shrinks inward; he is the only one in the hallway trained to spot that microscopic tightening of Hannibal’s jaw.
“Doctor Lecter was my attending back in the day,” Dr. Robinavitch explains, beaming. He looks younger, suddenly. Less like the cynical Chief of the ER and more like a student seeking approval. “Back when I was a little resident like you.”
“Oh my God!” Trinity whispers, delighted. Her eyes bounce between them, soaking up the drama. She isn’t the one standing in the middle of the shitstorm; to her, this is just fascinating lore.
“I came here to see my son,” Hannibal tells Robby smoothly, as if nothing has happened. As if Dennis isn’t vibrating with the urge to phase through the floor. “It is good to see you as well, Michael.”
Robby’s smile falters into professional concern. “Your son?” He scans the hallway, instinctively looking toward the trauma bays. “Is he a patient? Which bay is he in?”
If Dennis could manifest a sinkhole right here, right now, and cast himself into the magma, he would do it without hesitation.
“No.” Hannibal steps closer to Dennis. There is that pride again –the terrifying, suffocating pride Dennis wants to pretend he hates. “He is your resident, actually,” Hannibal states.
He lays a hand on Dennis’ shoulder. It’s heavy. It’s grounding. It’s a claim. Mine.
Robby blinks, his gaze snapping to Dennis. He looks as if he’s trying to merge two incompatible images in his head: the clumsy, anxious intern he paws at, and the elegant, terrifying genius he idolizes.
“Whitaker?” Robby asks, stunned.
“Dennis was making a name of his own,” Hannibal says, his thumb digging slightly into Dennis’ clavicle. “Very impressive.”
Dennis can’t take it anymore. The heat in his face is unbearable. “And yet, here you are, Daddy,” he mutters, the complaint childish and defensive.
Hannibal smiles. It’s a sharp thing, cutting and pleased at Dennis’ discomfort.
“You can't blame a father for worrying... Puppy.”
The nickname hangs in the air, incongruous and embarrassing. Dennis freezes. He knows Hannibal did that on purpose. He can see it in the glimmer of amusement in his father’s eyes. Telling his boss and his peers his shameful childhood nickname is the tax Dennis has to pay for running away. It is a precise, calculated little petty punishment.
Trinity exhales, a long, hard sound of disbelief.
“Huckleberry,” she starts, shaking her head, clearly delighted. “We’ll talk later.” She doesn’t wait for a response. “I have patients to care for. Crash, let’s go.”
She drags the medical student away, and Dennis is pitifully grateful to have less of an audience for his public execution.
“You just had to call me that in front of them, right?” Dennis frowns, misery pooling in his gut.
Hannibal’s smile softens, becoming more genuine now that the strangers are gone. He reaches out, cupping Dennis’ cheek with a palm that is cool and dry.
“Ah, Puppy,” Hannibal coos. “I have to make you feel a little bit of the distress you made us feel.” His thumb strokes Dennis’ cheekbone. “Your Papa and I were truly worried, Dennis. That was a cruel way to find your independence.”
The word cruel lands hard, and shame floods Dennis’ chest.
Because it was cruel.
Hannibal and Will saved him from a house of horrors. They cured his malnutrition, fixed his broken bones, and raised him with animals and art and high education. He had a good life. A happy family. Cannibalism aside, he was loved. He had dogs he loved like siblings and good food on the table –dishes his father made specifically for him, meatless and safe for his ‘soft’ palate. They never forced him to hunt. They never made him feast.
But the secret was a rot. He couldn’t live in the farmhouse forever, wondering which dinner guest wouldn't be leaving. He didn't want to be the one clean spot in a bloody picture, but he endured it for love. And then…
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Dennis whispers, the regression automatic.
Hannibal pulls him into another hug, holding him close. Over his father’s expensive wool shoulder, Dennis catches Dr. Robinavitch watching them.
Robby hasn't left. He’s staring at Hannibal with a look Dennis can’t quite puzzle out. It’s intense. It’s respectful. And, if Dennis isn’t mistaken, there is a flush high on Robby’s cheeks that has nothing to do with the hospital’s heating system.
“You found him.”
The voice is quieter than Hannibal’s, rougher, but it carries just as much weight.
Dennis turns his head as Hannibal releases him. Standing a few feet away, hands buried in the pockets of a heavy looking hunting jacket that looks jarringly out of place in a sterile hospital corridor, is Will Graham.
“Papa,” Dennis mutters.
He doesn’t reach out. Hannibal was always the one free with physical affection –hugs, hands on shoulders, cheek kisses. Will’s love was different. It was stoic and practical. It was Will handing Dennis a puppy when he cried on his first day of school. It was Will taking Dennis on a silent, weekend-long fishing trip after Henry’s fiancée said Dennis "looked like a rat" and shouldn't be in the engagement photos. (Dennis never saw that woman again. Henry’s current wife, Tiffany, loves Dennis like a little brother. Dennis tries not to think about it much.)
But Will surprises him. He closes the distance in two long strides and pulls Dennis into a fierce, tight embrace. It isn’t gentle; it’s desperate. It’s the grip of a man who thought he’d lost something vital.
“I did not appreciate coming back to an empty home,” Will murmurs into Dennis’ hair. He pulls back, his hands gripping Dennis’ biceps, his blue eyes scanning Dennis’ face with terrifying intensity. “You look sick.”
“I’m fine, Papa,” Dennis promises, though his voice wavers.
“You look exhausted,” Will corrects, his thumbs pressing into the hollows of Dennis’ arms.
“Where are you guys staying?” Dennis asks, desperate to deflect the scrutiny.
Will looks at Hannibal. Between one blink and the next, a silent conversation passes between them. It’s that eerie, telepathic shorthand that neither Dennis nor his siblings ever managed to decode. A micro-expression from Will, a slight tilt of Hannibal’s head, and a decision is reached.
Hannibal sighs, feigning resignation. “Well, actually, we have exciting news.”
Dennis’ stomach drops. He knows –he knows– he isn’t going to find this news exciting.
“We are moving here,” Hannibal announces pleasantly.
Dennis closes his eyes slowly, takes a breath, and opens them again. The fluorescent lights hum too loudly. “What about the farm?”
“Your brother is taking care of it for now,” Will says. He is still staring at Dennis, cataloging every twitch, every bead of sweat, filing them away to deconstruct later with his husband.
“And you are going to move here just to keep an eye on me?” Dennis hisses, his independence crumbling like wet sand. “Like I’m a misbehaving child?”
“Of course not.” Hannibal allows himself a small, affronted frown. “I received a job offer. When I realized the position was at the very institution employing you, I could hardly pass it up.”
That is a lot of information, implying a timeline Dennis doesn't want to examine.
“You knew where I was?”
“Dennis,” Will starts, his tone shifting to something patronizingly gentle. “We kept a respectful eye on you from the farm. We allowed you to grow. Wasn’t that good?”
Wasn’t that benevolent of us? To not drag you back by your hair? That is the subtext. And, grudgingly, Dennis has to admit it is. They let him finish med school. They let him match into residency.
“To be honest,” Will adds, softening the blow, “we only found you two years ago.”
It makes Dennis feel marginally better –that he had climbed this far, through the grueling years of med school, on his own merits before they caught his scent.
“Dennis has been exceptional in the ER.”
The interruption comes from Robby. Dennis had almost forgotten Dr. Robinavitch was there, standing awkwardly on the periphery of this family reunion.
Hannibal turns, his smile sharpening. “Oh, dear. My apologies. This is Doctor Michael Robinavitch. He was my resident back in my own ER days.” He gestures elegantly to Will. “Michael, this is my husband, Will Graham.”
Robby steps forward, eager to make a good impression. He looks at Dennis with a smile that lingers a second too long –a smile that is a little too fond, a little too soft– before extending his hand to Will.
“I’ve heard about you,” Will says. “Hannibal is fond of retelling stories.”
Will takes the offered hand.
The moment their skin touches, Dennis sees the shift.
Will goes still. His eyes, which had been wary but polite, suddenly go dead cold. It’s the profile. It’s the empathy trap snapping shut.
“Good stories, I hope,” Robby jokes, oblivious to the fact that he has just stepped onto a landmine.
Dennis wants to scream. He wants to drag Robby away from the calculating, predatory gaze of his fathers.
Will finally releases Robby’s hand. He wipes his palm subtly against his thigh, a gesture of distaste that only Dennis and Hannibal catch.
“We can compare notes,” Will says softly. His voice is smooth, but the threat underneath vibrates in Dennis’ bones. He glances at Hannibal, and the message is sent. We have a problem.
Hannibal receives the message. His eyes shimmer.
“Maybe you’d like to come over for dinner one day?” Will suggests, his gaze pinning Robby in place.
“Yes,” Hannibal agrees, delight curling around the syllables. “We would love to have you at our table.”
At our table.
Dennis feels the blood drain from his face. He knows exactly what prepositions are missing from that sentence. Because he knows that tone.
It is the specific, cultured cadence Hannibal uses when he has selected a vintage wine to pair with a difficult hunt. His stomach freezes, then coils unpleasantly, bile rising in his throat.
Why? It’s been less than an hour of them being back in his life and they are already trying to lunch his boss. And Robby is a good man. He isn’t rude. He isn’t a bully. He saves lives in a chaotic, underfunded city hospital. He doesn’t deserve to end up as a garnish.
Robby opens his mouth to accept. He is going to say yes because he is this polite. He is going to walk right into the pantry.
“No!” The word explodes out of Dennis. He physically steps between Robby and his parents, turning his back on the predators to face the prey. “Absolutely not,” he tells Robby pointedly.
Robby rears back like Dennis has slapped him.
“You’ve been here for an hour,” Dennis snaps, spinning to glare at his fathers. The fear makes him brave. “You’ve been here for less than an hour and you already want to control my life again? What happened to ‘respectful distance’? What about eyeing me from afar and letting me have independence?”
Will blinks, his dead-eyed stare softening into something confused and patronizing. “Petit,” he starts, stepping forward.
Dennis shakes his head violently. He grabs Robby’s arm –a grip that is too tight, too desperate.
“No,” Dennis says again. “I understand you have a job here, but I doubt it’s in the Pitt. This floor is off-limits. I’m working right now. I don’t have time for social visits…” He takes a breath, trying to sound like a doctor and not a terrified child. “I’m sure you know my phone number. Call me later to tell me your new address and I’ll see if I have a free day to visit. Goodbye.”
He doesn't wait for a dismissal. He drags Robby away.
He looks back once, just before they turn the corner. His parents are watching him. They are standing perfectly still, side by side, looking not angry, but… intrigued. And worried. They are worried Dennis is keeping secrets. He acted too irrational, he overreacted, they are going to–
“Whitaker?” Robby calls.
They are well into the safety of the busy ER now, surrounded by beeping monitors and shouting nurses. Dennis finally releases his death grip on the older man’s arm.
“If you are uncomfortable with me going to dinner with your parents, there are better ways to say that,” Robby starts, his voice low and stern. He adjusts his scrubs, smoothing the wrinkles Dennis left behind. “You didn’t need to treat them that way. They clearly care about you.”
It sounds so much like a scolding that Dennis’ temper flares.
“I already have two fathers, I don't need a third one,” he complains, the words sharp and petulant. “And no, Robby, I don’t want you dining with my parents. So promise me you won’t. Promise me you won’t talk to them outside of this hospital. Or alone.”
Robby stares at him. The sternness bleeds away, replaced by confusion and a flash of hurt. “Why?”
Dennis lifts his hands to his head, dragging his nails against his scalp. The pressure grounds him, keeps him from screaming.
Why? Because you have good muscle tone and they like to eat the rude? Because I don’t want my parents arrested? Because I don’t want to end up like Abigail, who was killed by a ‘righteous’ man because of her father’s sins? Because if you go to that house, you aren't coming out?
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat. It breaks out as a sob. It’s too much. It’s entirely too much too fast.
“Dennis?” Robby steps in. He pulls Dennis’ hands down from his head, his touch gentle and grounding. “Hey,” Robby says softly. “There is no need to cry. Breathe.” He uses his thumb to wipe a tear from Dennis’ cheek. “That’s okay. You don't want me to talk to your fathers? I won’t. I promise.”
He says it simply, like he wasn't pressing the issue a moment ago. Like he hates seeing Dennis in distress more than he wants answers.
“They are going to drive me insane,” Dennis chokes out. “That’s what they do, you know? They make people go crazy. They get inside your head and they twist things until you don't know what's real.”
Robby sighs, pulling Dennis into a warm, safe embrace right there in the hallway. He smells like antiseptic and stale coffee –safe grounding smells.
“That’s just parents being parents,” Robby soothes, rubbing a hand over Dennis’ back.
Dennis sighs against his chest, defeated. Robby doesn’t get it. No one does. And the ones that did are all dead.
“Don’t meet up with them,” Dennis whispers into Robby’s scrubs. “They will destroy you.”
Robby pulls back slightly, keeping his hands on Dennis’ shoulders. He studies Dennis’ face, searching for a reason for this level of panic. Then, his expression shifts. A realization seems to dawn on him.
“Is that what you think?” Robby asks, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “You think they’ll destroy me? Because… of us?”
Dennis blinks, his brain lagging. “Us?”
“Because I’m your boss,” Robby reasons, connecting dots that don’t exist. “Or because I’m older? Is that why you panicked? You didn't want the ‘meet the parents’ interrogation?”
Robby thinks Dennis is hiding him because they are dating. Or because Dennis wants to be dating and is terrified his strict, traditional parents will disapprove of the older man.
Dennis opens his mouth to correct him –No, I’m hiding you because you are made of meat… or something less insane– but he stops.
If Hannibal thinks Robby is just a colleague, Robby is fair game. A rude colleague is a meal. A nice colleague is a snack. But if Hannibal thinks Robby is Dennis’ partner...
Hannibal is possessive. Hannibal respects the courtship rituals. You don't eat your son’s partner without vetting them first. You don't kill the person your child loves unless they prove unworthy. Being Dennis’ "boyfriend" affords Robby a layer of protection nothing else can. And it buys Dennis time.
Dennis swallows the truth and grabs the lie with both hands.
“Yes,” Dennis lies, looking down at his shoes. “They are… intense. I didn't want them to scare you off. I didn't want them to grill you about your intentions before we even… you know.”
Robby’s face softens completely. A small, relieved smile touches his lips. He thinks Dennis is protecting their fragile, undefined relationship.
“You don’t have to worry, Whitaker,” Robby says, squeezing Dennis’ shoulder. “I have thick skin. Your dads don’t scare me.”
They should, Dennis thinks. They really really should.
“Just… let me handle them,” Dennis says. “Please. For us.”
Robby nods, looking strangely charmed by Dennis’ protectiveness. “Okay. For us.”
“Okay,” Trinity announces the second the lock clicks shut behind them. “Story time!”
Dennis leans back against the cheap hollow-core door, keys still clutching in his hand. He blinks slowly at her, his brain feeling like it’s been put through a blender.
“We literally just got home, Trin.”
“Yes, I’m literally still in my scrubs,” Trin points out, matter-of-fact. She kicks off her sneakers, sending them skidding across the linoleum. “We can change and talk.”
To prove her point, she pulls her scrub top off right there in the living room, tossing it onto the futon. Dennis sighs. He eyes the flimsy wood of the door, the peeling paint. He should move. He has a resident’s paycheck now –meager as it is, it’s better than nothing. He needs a building with a doorman. He needs security cameras. By staying here, he’s just putting Trinity on the menu if anything… unsavory happens.
“I’m not hearing your sob backstory, Huckleberry!” She screams from her bedroom, her voice barely muffled by the thin drywall.
Dennis groans, pushing himself off the door as he thinks about what to tell her. He trudges to his own room and throws his bag onto the unmade bed.
“I was abused by my birth parents!” he yells back, ripping off the band-aid. He strips off his shirt, tossing it into the hamper. “They were religious nuts. Crazy. I was going to die, but they –Hannibal and Will– they saved me.”
He pulls on a pair of worn fleece pants.
“They raised me like their own kid,” he continues, shouting toward the wall that separates them. “I had siblings, too. I wasn't lying about that, or about the farm.”
“Just about the money,” Trinity points out.
Dennis looks up. She is leaning against his doorframe, already changed into her oversized sleeping shirt, looking unimpressed.
“No,” Dennis denies. He feels a flash of defensive heat. “I ran away with nothing. I fought for my space. I fought for my tuition.” He looks at her fervently, needing her to understand this part. “I made my name. I am what I am despite them.”
Trinity watches him, her expression softening. “You are also what you are because of them,” she points out gently. “Why do this? Why suffer like this, eating instant noodles and living in this rat hole? They could give you an easy life–”
“You don’t get it,” Dennis interrupts, his voice sharp. “No one does. So I’m left looking like the villain, like the ungrateful son. I’m the crazy one, right? Even though they are the ones who didn’t…” He trails off, the words dying in his throat. They didn't protect him. They invited him to the table. He was the one who couldn't stomach it.
“Why?” Trinity asks, stepping into the room. She shakes her head. “Were they abusive? Were they mean to you?”
No. Dennis sighs, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed. That’s the tragedy of it. They were perfect. They are loving.
“I can’t tell you,” he ends up saying.
Trinity narrows her eyes. “Is it illegal?” she scoffs.
Dennis balances everything he knows about Trinity Santos against everything he knows about his family. He thinks about how much he wants her to know. He needs to give her something, or she’ll never stop digging.
“Yes,” Dennis says. He lowers his voice. “Will was an FBI agent. A profiler. There is a reason why he quit. There is a reason they live in the middle of nowhere.”
It’s a masterclass in omission. It implies corruption, or perhaps a witness protection situation gone wrong. It implies danger without implying serial killing and cannibalism.
Trinity’s eyes widen. She is clearly intrigued, her mind spinning with true crime theories.
“I can’t tell you more than that,” he says, looking up at her. “I love them, though. They are insane, and they are… dirty. But they are my parents. They love me, and I love them.”
He admits it out loud, and the weight of it crushes him. He doesn't realize he is crying again until Trinity steps forward, looking alarmed.
“I mean, they saved me,” he rambles, wiping at his eyes. “They raised me. They’d do anything I ask them to do. But then there is this one little–” He hiccups, a wet, miserable sound. “--this one little thing that I can’t get behind. And it ruins everything every time. And then I was gone and I missed them so much.”
“Dennis,” Trinity calls firmly. She sits next to him and pulls him sideways, knocking his head onto her shoulder. She pats his arm awkwardly. “Do you want to order a pizza?” she asks.
Dennis lets out a wet laugh. If everything else fails, trust Trinity Santos to be so uncomfortable with genuine emotional vulnerability that she’ll drop the subject entirely just to avoid dealing with tears.
“Yeah,” Dennis agrees, sniffing. “Sounds good.”
“Cool.” Trinity nods happily, relieved the interrogation is over. She pulls out her phone, scrolling to their favorite delivery app. “Your usual? Meat Lovers?”
Dennis smiles. It is a sad, dark, ironic little thing that Trinity doesn't see.
“Yeah,” he says. “Extra pork.”
His father calls him around lunch the next day.
Dennis is hiding in the locker room, sitting on a hard metal bench with his head in his hands, when the phone buzzes against his thigh. He looks at the ID. He doesn’t recognise the number, but he has a feeling.
So he answers.
“Puppy,” Hannibal coos.
Dennis sighs, the sound trembling slightly in the empty room. “How are you today?” Hannibal asks. It is his way of asking if Dennis’ tantrum is done –if he is ready to be a good boy and come home.
“I’m fine,” Dennis lies. “You?”
“We are fine here. Organizing the house. Feeling… alone, for once, no kids running around, no animals,” his father tells him, the guilt trip subtle but present. “I fear your Papa is going to adopt a dog before the end of the day.” He chuckles, a warm, resonant sound.
Dennis makes a noncommittal humming noise.
“Oh, child, truly?” Hannibal sighs, the amusement fading into parental disappointment when he realizes Dennis isn’t going to play along. “We were just playing.”
“It wasn’t a joke,” Dennis hisses back, hunched over his knees. “You two were planning on having Robby for dinner.” He keeps his voice to a low, soft scream, ensuring the lockers absorb the accusation.
“Well, can you blame us?” The second voice startles him. Will is on the line, listening in on the speakerphone. Dennis isn't surprised. They are a single organism with two heads.
“I can,” Dennis answers, gripping the phone tight enough to whiten his knuckles. “I am.”
“He is old enough to be your father, Petit,” Will points out softly. His tone is reasonable, logical, the voice of an agent stating a fact. “And he is lusting after you. It’s predatory.”
“I’m not underage, Papa,” Dennis snaps. “In fact, I’m almost thirty. Most would say I’m a grown man.”
“Ah, but I remember you so little and alone–” Hannibal starts, drifting into nostalgia to deflect the argument.
“But I’m not,” Dennis cuts him off. “And I can make my own decisions. Whatever they are.”
“Of course,” Will agrees, his voice dropping an octave, becoming serious. “Just let Michael know you’re not interested then, for my peace of mind. And change rotations.”
Right. Change rotations. Leave the Pitt so Dennis won’t be there to notice when Robby goes missing between a shift and another.
To Will and Hannibal, who prize control and family above all else, an older unknown man lusting after their youngest, most vulnerable child isn't just rude. It’s a capital offense. Dennis just wishes that they had carried this sentiment from the very start.
Dennis takes a deep breath. Lying to his parents is an art form. It is theoretically impossible; Hannibal can smell a lie in the rise of a heart rate, in the pheromones of anxiety. Will only needs one look to figure the lie out. But Dennis has been doing this for years. He knows the only way to blind them is to shock them. He has to throw a grenade into the conversation so loud that they can't hear his heartbeat quicken.
“What are you talking about?” Dennis asks, feigning confusion.
“Michael has a romantic interest in you, Dennis,” Hannibal explains calmly, as if he is talking to a patient rather than his son. “He is harboring a hope of reciprocity that is not only unrequited but–”
“No, he isn’t,” Dennis interrupts.
He can hear Hannibal stiffening on the other end, irritated by the constant interruptions. Good. When his father is angry, he is prone to arrogance. When he is arrogant, he misses things.
“Robby knows very well where I stand on his feelings for me.”
“You know?” Will asks, his voice sharp with surprise. “And where do you stand?”
“Yes,” Dennis affirms. He closes his eyes and jumps off the cliff. “It’s usually on my back in his bed, though there was the odd time when I was riding on top.”
Silence. Absolute, heavy silence on the line.
It is crass. It is disgusting. It is the kind of thing a son should never, ever tell his parents. But it is also crude enough to short-circuit their analysis.
“I cannot believe you two were going to hunt my boyfriend because of this,” Dennis presses on, not giving them time to recover. “Because you’re overprotective of your grown adult son.”
“That’s a point,” Will says finally, sounding slightly choked. He clears his throat. “He is your boss.”
“And I’m twenty-seven,” Dennis counters. “I’m old enough to make my own dumb decisions. I’m not stupid, and I’m not delusional about how this affair will end. But I like Robby. He’s a good man, and he’s good to me.” He injects a tremor of genuine fear into his voice, knowing they will mistake it for romantic desperation. “I won’t let you take that from me just because you are overprotective and insane.”
Dennis exhales, his entire body shaking with the adrenaline of the lie. He just told his parents he is dating his boss. He just told the Chesapeake Ripper that he is sleeping with the Chief of the ER.
A long pause stretches between them.
“Of course, child,” Hannibal agrees. His voice is smooth again, but there is a new note in it –respect, perhaps? Or calculation. “Our mistake. Why don’t you come over today to have dinner with us? We can discuss this face to face, over a family meal. I’ll make you your favorite fish dish.”
It’s a peace offering. It’s also a summons.
Dennis sighs, the sound trembling in his chest. He doesn’t want to go to their house yet. He won’t feel safe there. It is so much easier to lie over the phone, where Will can’t see his eyes and Hannibal can’t smell the deceit radiating off his skin.
He rubs his face, dragging his palms down his cheeks. When his hands fall away and he looks up, Dr. Robinavitch is watching him from the row of lockers opposite. There is a frown on Robby’s face –concern, curiosity, and something hotter underneath.
Dennis freezes. He can’t go to dinner and tell his parents he is dating Robby if he arrives smelling like sterile soap and loneliness. He needs evidence.
Oh.
The idea crystallizes.
Dennis smiles. It is a bright, sudden thing, like a switch flipping.
“Okay,” Dennis says into the phone.
He alters his posture intentionally. He unfolds his limbs, leaning back against the cold metal of the bench. He throws his head back slightly, exposing the long line of his throat. It is a submissive, inviting gesture. A bait.
Robby’s eyes drop to Dennis’ neck, just for a fraction of a second, before snapping back up. He smiles, unconsciously mirroring Dennis’ relaxed energy, and steps into the aisle, close enough to hear Dennis’ side of the conversation.
“Send me your address,” Dennis tells his father, letting his voice drop to a lower, warmer register. “But I will be late. I won’t leave the hospital until after nine.”
Robby frowns, amused. He knows their shift ends at six. But Dennis ignores him. He needs those three extra hours. He needs time to get Robby’s scent on him. He needs to layer it on so thick and crude that Hannibal’s nose will twitch the second Dennis steps into the porch.
“I love you, Petit,” Will tells him seriously on the other end. The fear of leaving the conversation on a bitter note makes his father’s voice heavy.
“I love you too, Papa,” Dennis answers sincerely. The manipulation doesn't make the love less real. “I love you too, Daddy,” he adds for Hannibal. “You know I do. Always will. Even if you drive me crazy.”
As he says it, looking directly at Robby, he moves his foot. He drags the toe of his comfortable work shoe slowly up Robby’s calf, before hooking it around the older man’s ankle.
Robby snickers, a startled, breathless sound, but he doesn't pull away. He leans into the locker, holding Dennis’ gaze.
“I’ll see you after work,” Dennis adds into the phone, letting the implication hang there for Robby to catch. “And we can talk this out.”
He hangs up before his parents can push for more details.
“Dinner with your parents?” Robby asks, closing his locker door. He turns, leaning back against the metal so he is looming slightly over Dennis.
Dennis smiles up at him, batting his lashes. It feels dirty, weaponizing his own charm like this, but he pushes the guilt down.
“Hm-hmm,” he hums, nodding. “I’d invite you, but I’m afraid they’d kill you.”
He says it in a light, jokey tone, flashing a grin. Robby laughs, shaking his head at the dramatic flair, completely unaware that Dennis has just told him the absolute, literal truth.
“Look, can we talk after shift?” Dennis asks, infusing his voice with as much sweetness as he can muster. “I have some time to kill before I head over there.”
“Of course,” Robby answers easily. The promise of time alone with Dennis softens the hard lines of his face. “Now stop hiding. There are rounds in ten.”
“Sure,” Dennis agrees. He stands up, pocketing his phone. He takes a step toward the door, then stops, pivoting back to face the older man. “Hey, I forgot my coat today. Can I borrow yours? It’s freezing in the trauma bay.”
Robby stares at him for a second. It’s a classic move. It’s intimate.
“Sure,” Robby answers.
He reaches into his locker again and pulls out a heavy, dark grey zip-up hoodie. He hands it over.
Dennis takes it and puts it on immediately. It’s warm, and it smells intensely of Robby –of detergent, stale coffee, and the unique, musky scent of the man himself. Dennis brings it up to his nose, inhaling deeply. It’s perfect. It’s a forensic marker. This man is mine, the scent says. Back off. And for Hannibal it’ll send out the sign that Dennis is serious about the doctor.
He looks up at Dr. Robinavitch. He sees the obvious lust and affection in the man’s eyes, the way Robby is looking at Dennis wearing his clothes like it’s a victory.
Dennis sighs internally. He had hoped to ignore this tension until the end of his residency. He had hoped to wait until his job was secure and he was out of his parents' immediate blast radius before navigating this. But survival demands adaptation.
If he has to break Robby’s heart later to save his life, he will. But for tonight, he has a role to play.
“Thanks, Robby,” Dennis says softly.
“Anytime, Whitaker,” Robby replies, his voice rough. “Let’s go save some lives now.”
The rest of the shift dissolves into a blur. A major GSW with arterial spray that ruins Dennis’ second pair of scrubs, an emergency birth in the hallway that ends with a healthy scream, and a four-year-old who swallowed his brother’s pet frog. The frog, unfortunately, did not survive the journey down the choking esophagus, and the retrieval process was… memorable.
By the time Dennis steps out into the ambulance bay, his brain feels like static.
He takes a deep breath of the outside air. It still carries the metallic tang of blood and the exhaust of idling ambulances, but it’s thinner here, less suffocating than the air inside.
He finds himself staring at Dr. Robinavitch’s motorcycle. It’s a heavy, vintage cruiser –black chrome and well-oiled leather. It triggers a memory Dennis didn't know he was keeping: Hannibal, many years ago, talking about touring Europe on a similar machine, leather-clad and terrifyingly cool, with Will on his back as they cruised.
Dennis feels a weird, heavy pit open in his stomach. He is comparing Robby to his father again. The Freud of it all is a headache he isn’t paid enough to unpack right now.
“Dennis?”
The voice snaps him back. Robby is standing there, helmet under his arm, looking uncertain.
Dennis schools his expression instantly, washing away the exhaustion and replacing it with something sheepish and inviting.
“Do you have an extra helmet?” Dennis asks, apropos of nothing.
Robby blinks, surprised by the assumption that they are leaving together. A slow smile spreads across his face. “No,” he answers. “But you can wear the one I have. I’m used to going without. My skull is thick enough.”
“That’s very dangerous,” Dennis comments, his medical training warring with his current objective. He takes the helmet the man offers, the weight of it heavy in his hands. “Can we go to your house?”
Robby pauses in the middle of strapping their bags to the bike. His hands freeze on the bungee cord. “Oh. Yes. Sure.”
Dennis steps into his personal space. He gets close –not touching yet, but close enough that Robby has to look down at him. He glances around the bay, feigning a need for secrecy.
“I just want to talk to you in private,” Dennis murmurs, dropping his voice to a low, intimate register. “And I’m going to be eating with my parents later, so there is no point in making you pay for a dinner I won’t enjoy.” He looks up through his lashes. “So, can we go to your house? Instead?”
He lets the question hang there, weighted with second intentions. He needs Robby to see the implication. He needs Robby to believe this is just about sex.
The doctor gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing hard. “Yeah,” he breathes.
Robby reaches out, his hands hovering for a second before he commits. He grabs the zipper of the grey hoodie Dennis is borrowing –Robby’s hoodie– and pulls it up. His knuckles brush Dennis’ chin as he zips it all the way to the top.
“Keep it closed when you are on the bike,” Robby tells him, his voice rough. “Wind cuts right through you at night.”
Dennis smiles. “Okay.”
The drive is fast. The city lights blur into streaks of red and blue neons and white flashes as they weave through traffic.
For the first minute, Dennis debates how to play this. He could hold the back bar, balancing himself like a polite passenger. But polite doesn't leave a scent trail.
And then the decision is clear.
Dennis reaches forward and wraps his arms around Robby’s waist, locking his hands together over the leathery jacket. He presses his entire front against Robby’s back. It’s a tight, desperate hug masquerading as affection. He hates that the wind is whipping away the smell, that the leather is a barrier, but he compensates by burying his face between Robby’s shoulder blades.
He rubs his cheek against the worn leather, then against the fabric of the collar, trying to transfer as much of the man’s essence onto his skin as possible. He needs to marinate in it. He needs to smell so thoroughly of Michael Robinavitch that when he walks into his parents dining room, his father’s nose will twitch with the undeniable evidence of a claim.
The bike slows, turning into a quieter street, and finally pulls into a driveway.
Robby’s apartment is a surprise. Dennis expected something messy, perhaps a bit clinical. Instead, it is a meticulously organized bachelor pad. And it’s spacious –shockingly so for the city. They enter through the kitchen, which gleams with stainless steel and dark wood. It easily fits a table for five.
It looks like the home of a man who has his life together. A man who is safe. A man who has no idea he just invited a walking disaster into his sanctuary.
“Do you want a drink?” Robby asks, hovering uncertainly by the kitchen island. “I think I have some scotch, or I can–”
Dennis holds in a snort. It’s cute. The scary Chief of the ER is bustling around like a nervous host on a first date.
“No, thank you,” Dennis answers.
He scans the living room. He spots the couch –a plush, dark grey three-seater with a lounger corner piece. It looks comfortable. It looks lived-in. It looks like it has supported Robby through a thousand baseball games and lonely nights.
Dennis doesn't hesitate. He walks over, grabs Robby by the lapels of his leather jacket, and gently but firmly pushes him backward.
Robby stumbles, his knees hitting the cushions, and he collapses onto the sofa with a surprised huff. Before he can recover, Dennis climbs on top of him, straddling his lap, knees digging into the soft upholstery.
Robby looks up, utterly bewildered. His hands hover in the air, unsure where to land.
“This okay?” Dennis checks, flashing a coy, deliberate smile.
Robby swallows audibly. His hands settle tentatively on Dennis’ thighs. “Yes. But… I thought you wanted to talk.”
From this close, Dennis can see the fine details of the man’s face –the grey in his beard, the way his pupils are blown wide, and those deep crinkles at the corners of his eyes. They are adorable. Dennis feels a sudden, genuine urge to smooth them out with his tongue.
“We are talking,” Dennis says. He reaches for the zipper of the borrowed hoodie. “I’m just time managing.” He shrugs the hoodie off, tossing it onto the floor –he’ll put it back on later to marinate in the smell– and then starts pushing Robby’s leather jacket off his shoulders. “You taught me that, actually. Triage. Prioritize.”
“Whitaker,” Robby starts, pushing himself up slightly to help Dennis peel the heavy leather down his arms.
“Dennis,” Dennis corrects softly.
“Dennis…” Robby tries again, a smile tugging at his lips, breathless and disbelief warring in his eyes.
But Dennis cuts him off again. He needs to set the ground rules before the oxytocin hits.
“I won’t lose my job over this,” Dennis says. He starts pulling his own shirt, his fingers flying over the fabric. Robby blinks, surprised by the sudden pivot to professionalism while Dennis is practically sitting on his crotch. “You can’t tell anyone about this, okay?” Dennis asks, lowering his voice. He leans in, brushing his lips against Robby’s cheek, planting the first layer of DNA evidence. “I really like the hospital. And a relationship would be a mess and a half.”
“Yeah,” Robby answers, his voice thick. “Yes, of course.” He agrees easily, tilting his head, trying to chase Dennis’ mouth.
“And also,” Dennis adds, pulling back just an inch to stare into Robby’s eyes, making sure the man hears him. “I don’t mind being your mid-life crisis affair. But I’m the only affair you get. Do you understand?”
Robby smirks, a flash of his usual confident self breaking through. “Possessive?” he teases.
“Very,” Dennis answers seriously.
And he finally kisses him.
Possessiveness is the one trait that runs deep through the Graham-Lecter family, regardless of blood. It is the dark vein that connects Dennis to the monsters who raised him.
Mine, he thinks. This is mine.
Dennis kisses him with intent, expecting the rough, frantic friction of a hookup. He expects Robby to grab him, to take what he’s been staring at for months.
But Robby surprises him.
Robby doesn’t just kiss Dennis; he accepts the kiss. He answers it with a slow, devastating thoroughness. He holds Dennis like he is something fragile and precious, like an angel has fallen through the ceiling and landed in his lap.
Dennis falters internally.
He had miscalculated.
He thought all the hungry looks in the trauma bay, the lingering stares during rounds and the touches… he thought Robby just wanted a quick hospital romance. He thought Robby wanted to scratch an itch. And Dennis isn’t above that –not at all. Robby is sexy in a tired, capable, 'daddy' way that pleases Dennis immensely.
But when Robby drags his large, warm hands up Dennis’ back, treating his skin like it’s a gift he doesn't feel worthy of receiving… It feels different.
When Robby parts his lips and hums into Dennis’ mouth, his beard scratching deliciously against Dennis’ soft skin –hopefully leaving a visible mark– it doesn't feel like lust. It doesn't feel like desperation.
It feels like gratitude. It feels like Robby has been waiting for Dennis for a long time, and he can’t quite believe he’s finally here.
Dennis feels a pang of guilt, sharp and sudden. Robby is almost in love with him.
But then Robby’s hands tighten on his waist, pulling him flush against his chest, and the scent of the man wraps around Dennis like a blanket.
Dennis sighs into the kiss. He isn't in love –he loves his job more than he likes this man– but he can roll with this. For Robby’s safety, and for his own pleasure, he can definitely roll with this.
Dennis is pleasantly surprised that Robby dragged him to bed. He is even more surprised –and incredibly pleased– that Robby managed to wring two orgasms out of Dennis before finally allowing himself his own release.
He lies in the tangle of sheets, staring at the ceiling fan cutting through the stagnant air. He is almost asleep, toying seriously with the idea of just not leaving. After what just happened, he is sure Michael would let him spend the night if he asked.
He even got Robby to forgo the condom.
It was a calculated risk. It took three arguments and less than five minutes of pouty, breathless persuasion to break the older man’s resolve. Dennis told Robby it was about feeling, about intimacy. In reality, Dennis needed the biological evidence. He needed to be a walking petri dish of Michael Robinavitch so that when he walks into Hannibal’s house, the scent is overwhelming.
It’s a clinical thought. He is actually excited to see how far he can push Robby now that the sexual seal is broken. Can he get the keys to the apartment? Can he get Robby to change shifts to match his?
The excitement curdles instantly into guilt.
Dennis squeezes his eyes shut. That is a very manipulative thought process. That is a Lecter trait. He is dissecting a good man’s affection and using it as camouflage.
It’s a stupid plan, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Will Graham whispers in his head. Sleeping with your boss to keep him off the menu? It’s reckless and stupid.
But logic doesn't work on Hannibal. Only his own rules work. And the rule is: You don’t touch what belongs to family. If Dennis claims Robby –body, fluids, and soul– then Robby is safe. It’s the only shield he has.
Dennis sighs, pushing the guilt down into the dark box where he keeps his memories of family dinners. He turns in the bed to stare at Robby.
The man is lying on his back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in a slow, contented rhythm. His legs are covered by the duvet, but his torso is bare. Dennis reaches out, brushing his fingertips softly against the coarse hair on the man’s belly.
Robby’s stomach muscles twitch under the touch, and one eye cracks open.
“Will you shower with me?” Dennis asks coyly, tracing a line toward Robby’s hip.
Robby smiles, lazy and satisfied. “Do you need help washing your hair?” he asks back.
Dennis smirks. “Maybe.”
He drags the pads of his fingers lower, drifting dangerously south. Robby’s hand shoots out, capturing Dennis’ wrist with surprising speed. He brings Dennis’ palm to his lips and kisses the center of it –a gesture so tender it makes Dennis’ chest ache.
“I’m going to need at least another hour before you touch that again,” Robby tells him, his voice rough with sleep.
Dennis sighs dramatically, flopping back onto the mattress. “Oh, the hardships of an older lover. No stamina.”
Robby chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest. “I do need a shower, though. Eventually. But go ahead. Use whatever you want in the bathroom. There are towels under the sink.”
“Thank you,” Dennis says.
He drags himself out of the warmth of the bed. His legs feel pleasantly shaky.
The bathroom is right across the hall. It’s clean, functional, and smells like fake ocean scents. Dennis steps into the shower, but he keeps it quick.
He has no intention of scrubbing thoroughly. He rinses off the sweat, but he doesn't touch his hair. He uses a bar of the unscented anti-bacterial soap for the "essential" areas only. The goal is to smell like he tried to wash the sex off and failed. He wants the scent of Robby’s soap to be a top note, with the musk of their activity lingering heavily underneath. It’s a specific olfactory story he is writing for Hannibal: I tried to be presentable for dinner, Father, but I couldn't scrub him off me.
He dries off and wraps a towel around his waist. When he walks back into the bedroom, Robby is sitting up, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants.
Robby looks at him –really looks at him– with a softness that Dennis isn’t used to.
“Do you want a clean shirt?” Robby asks, gesturing to the dresser. “It’s almost nine already. I think we lost track of time.”
Dennis smiles, and for a moment, the smile is completely real and off guard. He is deeply pleased. A shirt from Robby is a trophy; it is a massive, visible mark of ownership. But he is also touched. Robby isn't trying to mark him; he just wants Dennis to be comfortable.
“I’d love one,” Dennis answers. He stops in front of Robby, rising on his toes to kiss him. “Thank you.”
He pulls on his underwear and pants, moving with a relaxed laziness he doesn’t actually feel. When Robby hands him the shirt, Dennis accepts it gladly. It’s a soft, charcoal-grey t-shirt, worn thin by years of washing, with a faded graphic of a band Dennis doesn't recognize –something from the eighties, probably.
He pulls it on. It’s a little big, the shoulder seam drooping comfortably down his arms, and it smells intensely of Robby. Dennis loves it. He can see himself getting used to stealing Robby's clothes, not just for the forensic evidence, but for the comfort.
“I hope you know I'm going to steal a lot of your clothes,” Dennis informs him as he wanders into the living room, hunting for his shoes.
“Possessive, right?” Robby jokes, following him out. When Dennis looks back, the man is leaning against the wall, smiling. “I look forward to it,” Robby adds. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen –those adorable crow’s feet that betray his age and his kindness.
Dennis sighs, a genuine softness hitting him in the chest.
“Thank you,” Dennis says again. He puts his arms around Robby’s shoulders and pulls him in for a kiss. He is thankful for the consideration, for the care, and yes, for the sex. But mostly, he is thankful that Robby is making this lie so easy to sell. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Do you need a ride?” Robby offers, hugging Dennis back. His bare torso drags against the cotton of the borrowed shirt, the friction sending a shiver down Dennis’ spine.
“No, I’ll call an Uber,” Dennis tells him, kissing his cheek. “Thank you.”
“Stop thanking me, I’ll get a complex,” Robby jokes, chuckling against Dennis’ neck. He steals one last kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Robby refuses to let him wait alone. He walks Dennis down to the curb, holding Dennis’ bag himself like a gentleman from another era. He waits until the car pulls up, and he kisses Dennis goodbye right there on the sidewalk, uncaring of who sees.
Dennis climbs into the backseat, watching Robby wave as the car pulls away. He feels a knot of guilt tighten in his stomach, but he pushes it down.
The ride to his parents' new house is a blur of light and anxiety.
Dennis spends the first ten minutes answering Trinity’s barrage of texts –mostly strings of question marks and skull emojis– as vaguely as he can. “It’s nothing important,” he types, which is a lie. “Just family drama.”
He spends the rest of the ride overthinking.
Hannibal is virtually dealt with. His father follows a strict, twisted rulebook. If Dennis claims Robby, Hannibal will respect the boundaries of ownership. It is a primitive code, but a reliable one.
But Papa…
Will is a different beast entirely. Will doesn’t care about etiquette; he cares about truth. Will is a waking lie detector, a man who built a career on empathy so sharp it drew blood. He is too good at picking his children apart, but only when it matters to him. Lying to Will is like trying to hide a heartbeat from a stethoscope.
Dennis closes his eyes, leaning his head against the cool window. He has to get into the perfect headspace. He has to believe the lie himself. He has to be the reckless, infatuated young doctor dating his older boss, defiant and proud. He has to project love, and all the fear needs to be twisted for fear for the relationship and not fear of being caught.
The car slows, pulling up to a large, imposing Victorian house that sits a little too far back from the street. Dennis checks the time. It’s a little after nine. He isn’t late, which is good. Punctuality is a survival trait in this family.
The car stops. Dennis thanks the driver and steps out into the cool night air.
The Uber is still pulling away, its taillights fading into the dark, when the front door of the house opens.
Dennis hasn't even reached the porch steps. He hasn't knocked. He hasn't rung the bell. But the door swings inward silently, revealing a silhouette framed by the warm, golden light of the hallway.
Hannibal is there.
He is wearing a three-piece suit, impeccable as always, looking like he has been standing there for hours, just waiting for the exact moment Dennis would arrive. He watches Dennis approach with a small, pleased smile.
Then, Hannibal tilts his head slightly, his nostrils flaring.
“Was this theatricality truly needed?” Hannibal asks.
He doesn’t step back to let Dennis in immediately. Instead, he leans in, inhaling deeply near the collar of the oversized, borrowed t-shirt. He savors the scent –the musk of sex, the cheap detergent, the undeniable pheromones of another man clinging to his son.
“If you are trying to make a statement,” Hannibal murmurs, his eyes gleaming with amusement, “a simple ‘he is my lover’ would have sufficed. Though wearing his skin like a trophy is… admittedly quite effective.”
“I didn’t want to leave any doubts,” Dennis answers, his voice steady despite the rabbit-quick thumping of his heart. “I needed you and Papa to know that I won’t tolerate any plays with Michael. He is mine.” He leans forward and kisses his father’s cheek. The skin is cool, smelling of expensive aftershave and something metallic. “I did miss you, you know,” Dennis adds softly.
It isn't a deflection, nor is it a lie. It is a tactical truth. Dennis knows Hannibal’s weakness: he likes being needed. He likes being the provider, the patriarch, the center of gravity.
“And I missed you, child,” Hannibal answers, the genuine warmth in his voice making the hair on Dennis’ arms stand up. He closes the heavy oak door, sealing them inside. The silence of the house is immediate and oppressive. “Come. See the house,” Hannibal commands gently.
He guides Dennis through the foyer. The living room is exactly as Dennis feared: elegant, dark, and imposing. There is no television –his parents believe screens dilute the quality of social interaction. Instead, a grand fireplace dominates the wall, the flames casting long, dancing shadows over velvet armchairs that look too expensive to sit on.
“There are rooms for all of you,” Hannibal says casually, gesturing to the sweeping staircase. “Henry, Maddie, Thomas… and you. They are all furnished, waiting.”
“That’s nice,” Dennis says. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out or rolling his eyes.
It’s not even a manipulation; it’s a plain threat wrapped in hospitality. The cage is ready, Hannibal is saying. Come back to the fold.
They move to the dining room. The table is set with precision –crystal, silver, bone china. And there, sitting at the right hand of the head of the table, is Will.
“Petit,” Will says. He doesn't smile. His blue eyes lock onto Dennis immediately, scanning him from the messy hair to the oversized shirt, dissecting the story written on his body. “How was work?”
“Chaotic,” Dennis answers. He sits at the left, the designated spot for the youngest. “The ER is fun.” He pauses, forcing himself to sound enthusiastic rather than defensive. “I really love working there. I’m thinking of going forward with Emergency Medicine.”
“I remember my years in the ER very fondly,” Hannibal says. He moves around the table with the grace of a predator, serving the food. “The immediacy of it. The way life and death balance on the tip of a scalpel.”
He places a plate in front of Dennis.
Dennis looks down. It is pan-seared whitefish with rustic smashed potatoes and steamed greens.
His throat tightens. It is the first meal Hannibal ever cooked for him.
Years ago, when they first pulled Dennis out of that basement, he couldn't stomach meat. He was a skeleton with terrified eyes, surviving on dry cereal and water. This dish –the flaky fish, the buttery, soft potatoes– had been heaven. It had been the first time he felt safe.
Now, looking at it, Dennis feels a wave of nausea. Hannibal is weaponizing nostalgia. He is saying: Remember when you were starving? Remember who fed you? We made you.
“Why take the risk?” Will asks. His voice cuts through the memory.
Dennis looks up. Will hasn't touched his food. He is just watching.
“Why date the Chief Attending?” Will clarifies, his gaze piercing. “You are smart, Dennis. You know the politics and the optics. You know the power dynamics. Why risk the career you claim to love for a man twice your age?”
Dennis picks up his fork. His hand trembles, just once.
“I know it’s a risk,” Dennis says. He summons every ounce of acting ability he possesses. He needs to sell the lie. He needs to sell the romance so hard that they don't see the terror underneath. “But I love him. And that’s worth it.”
He lets the fear bleed into his voice –the real fear of his parents discovering the deception, the fear of having cheapened his body, the fear of the lie collapsing. He twists that fear, presenting it to Will as the anxiety of a young man terrified of losing his job for love.
Will stares at him. He tilts his head, the gears turning behind his eyes. He is looking for the crack. He is listening to the rhythm of Dennis’ denial.
Dennis hates it. He hates being a bug under a microscope.
“Are you actually profiling me right now?” Dennis hisses. He drops his fork. It clatters loudly against the fine china, splashing a drop of butter onto the tablecloth.
“There is no need for theatrics,” Hannibal admonishes gently, though he looks at the stain with mild distaste. “Please eat, Dennis. You are far too thin. The hospital cafeteria is clearly failing you.”
“I’m just trying to decide what you are lying about,” Will says. His voice is flat, devoid of anger, which makes it infinitely worse. He ignores Hannibal completely. “Did he force you?”
The question hangs in the air, cold and ugly.
“Force me?” Dennis repeats, his voice rising. “No!”
“Please eat,” Hannibal repeats, his tone sharpening. “Dear, let the boy–”
“He is old enough to be your father, Dennis,” Will interrupts, leaning forward. The hunter is coming out. “He is your boss. He holds your career in his hands. That is a leverage point. Men like that… they take what they want because they think they are owed it.”
Will’s eyes darken. He isn't just profiling; he is projecting. He is seeing a victim where there isn't one.
“He didn't force me!” Dennis snaps. He slams his hand on the table. “I pursued him! I wanted him! I’m not some helpless child you need to save, Papa. I’m almost thirty. I have needs. I have wants. And I wanted him.”
He takes a breath, his chest heaving.
“And frankly,” Dennis adds, playing his ace, “he’s good at it. He takes care of me. Which is more than I can say about you.”
Will blinks, taken aback by the vulgarity of the defense.
Hannibal, however, smiles. He picks up his wine glass, looking at Dennis with a terrifying mixture of pride and ownership.
“Well,” Hannibal says softly. “If the boy has an appetite, Will, we should let him eat.”
When Will thinks back on the arc of his life, he measures his success not by the FBI commendations he burned or the laws he broke, but by what he has tamed.
He is proud of his strays. From Winston, who slept by his feet when the nightmares were loudest, to Hannibal. Especially Hannibal. The Chesapeake Ripper was the wildest thing in existence, a creature of pure instinct and violence, and Will caught him. He lured him, hooked him, and dragged him into the boat. Now, that apex predator folds his silk socks on the bench at the foot of their bed, domestic and tamed and his.
But his best trainees –his most complex projects– were the children.
There was a time when every little kid looked up to their parents with unwavering trust, but Dennis… Dennis was different. Dennis was Will’s shadow.
While the other children drifted toward Hannibal’s flame, Dennis stayed in the cool of Will’s shade. Thomas was sharp and cold, taking to the blade with a frightening natural aptitude; he is on his way to becoming the next Ripper, polished by Hannibal’s pride. Maddie found her violence in the kitchen, becoming a chef who demands perfection with a voice as sharp as her knife. Henry took to the mind, becoming a therapist who dissects souls rather than bodies.
They were all independent. They were all predators in training. They were all Hannibal.
But Dennis was the heart. The baby. The soft belly of their family. And Will’s.
Will unbuttons his shirt, tossing it into the hamper, his mind drifting to the memory of the farm. Dennis was the only one who asked to go fishing not to learn how to gut the catch, but just to sit in the silence with Will. He was the only one who climbed into their bed during a thunderstorm, wet-cheeked and trembling, asking for comfort.
Dennis is a sensitive creature. He is sweet in a way Henry, Maddie, and Thomas were never afforded to be. They all share the same bloody, jagged backstory –rescued from varying degrees of hell– but Dennis felt it the deepest.
Will remembers Abigail’s funeral. It was a private, quiet affair, burying a ghost that had haunted them for too long. Dennis was eleven then, too old to be carried, but he had clung to Hannibal’s suit jacket like a toddler. He had sobbed through the entire eulogy, his small body shaking, ruining the clean lines of Hannibal’s coat with snot and tears. And Hannibal, usually so averse to rudeness and mess, had simply held him.
Will had watched them that day and profiled his son: High empathy. Low tolerance for pain. He feels the world too loudly.
They had expected Dennis to be the one to never leave. They wanted Dennis to never leave. He was the one who cried on the first day of school. He cried when Will and Hannibal went to Europe for a month, even though his siblings were there to care for him. He cried when the seasons changed, when the old dogs passed, when he held his sister’s hand while she birthed her first daughter.
Will moves to the bathroom sink, watching Hannibal in the mirror. Hannibal is applying his night cream, methodically, efficiently, undeniably beautiful.
They had even expected Dennis to reject their… lifestyle. Will remembers the "Vegetarian Phase." It had lasted five months. Henry’s eldest son had been experimenting with the darker family traits and had "accidentally" killed Dennis’ favorite pig. Hannibal had done nothing to punish the grandchild –claiming it was nature taking its course– and Dennis had retaliated by refusing to eat anything with a face.
It wasn't just a moral stance; it was a punishment. Dennis knew the only way to hurt Hannibal was to reject his hospitality.
He has teeth, Will thinks, watching the water swirl down the drain. They are milk teeth, but they are sharp.
So why is this boy –this sensitive, moral, superior boy– putting himself in such a compromised position?
“He is hiding something,” Will says aloud, breaking the silence of the room.
Hannibal meets his eyes in the reflection. “He is young, Will. He is hiding the fact that he is embarrassed by his parents. It is a natural developmental stage.”
“No,” Will counters. He turns off the tap and leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “Dennis’ rebellions are always centered around morals. Around being ‘better’ than us. Vegetarianism. saving lives in the ER. Refusing the family money.”
“And sleeping with his boss?” Hannibal asks, arching a brow. “Is that a moral high ground?”
“That’s the contradiction,” Will mutters.
Why would Dennis, who craves purity, attach himself to a man like Michael Robinavitch? Robby is a good doctor, yes, but he is weary. He is part of the system Dennis hates. And more importantly, he was Hannibal’s student.
Dennis ran away to escape Hannibal’s shadow, only to sleep with a man who learned to hold a scalpel from Hannibal himself.
“It feels… transactional,” Will says, the word tasting sour. “He didn't look like a man in love at dinner. He looked like a man digging in his heels.”
“Perhaps he simply likes the attention,” Hannibal suggests, wiping his hands on a towel. “Michael is authoritative. Paternal. Dennis has always responded well to a strong hand.”
“Or he’s scared,” Will says. The thought settles in his gut, heavy and cold.
“Scared of what?”
“Of us,” Will answers. “Of what we might do to his stray.”
Hannibal turns off the bathroom light, plunging them into the soft shadows of the bedroom. “Then we must prove him wrong,” Hannibal says smoothly. “We must show him that we are perfectly capable of accepting his choices. No matter how… pedestrian they are.”
Will climbs into bed, but his mind doesn't settle. He thinks of Dennis’ oversized shirt. He thinks of the defensive tilt of Dennis’ chin.
I caught the Ripper, Will thinks, closing his eyes. I can catch my son.