Chapter Text
Morning arrives slowly.
Not with sirens.
Not with the sound of Jack Crawford calling.
Not with nightmares that leave either of them breathless before sunrise.
Just rain.
Soft rain against the kitchen windows.
Will decides he likes this version of waking up much better.
"...Don't."
Hannibal pauses halfway through opening the curtains.
"I haven't done anything."
"You're about to."
"I was merely going to let in some light."
"I reject the light."
"You reject many things before breakfast."
"I do my best work then."
A quiet laugh escapes Hannibal.
Will glares at him from beneath the duvet.
Seven months pregnant, he has perfected the art of looking deeply offended while refusing to leave the bed.
"I heard that."
"I intended for you to."
"You think you're funny."
"I think you're beautiful."
"...That's suspicious."
"It is also true."
Will groans dramatically and buries his face back into the pillow.
"I can't breathe."
"You are currently attempting to inhale a pillow."
"I'm aware."
"And yet."
"And yet."
Hannibal crosses the room, already dressed, impeccably as always. The sleeves of his cream-colored sweater are rolled neatly to his forearms.
He sits carefully on the edge of the bed.
"How did you sleep?"
"I didn't."
"You slept for nine hours."
"I slept angrily."
"I see."
Will cracks one eye open.
"No, you don't."
"I confess I have never attempted angry sleep myself."
"You should."
"Would you recommend it?"
"No."
A comfortable silence settles between them.
Outside, rain continues to patter against the windows.
One of the dogs scratches lazily at the bedroom door.
Will sighs.
"I have to pee."
"Again?"
"I never stopped."
Hannibal smiles to himself before standing and offering Will his hand.
Will stares at it.
Then at Hannibal.
"...I can get up by myself."
"I know."
Another pause.
"...Eventually."
Will narrows his eyes.
"That was rude."
"It was observant."
"It was rude."
Nevertheless, he takes Hannibal's hand.
Getting out of bed has become something of a negotiation these past few weeks.
Will rolls onto his side.
Pushes once.
Stops.
Pushes again.
Makes an extraordinarily unimpressed noise.
"...Who designed this?"
"The human body?"
"Pregnancy."
"I believe evolution."
"Well."
Will huffs as Hannibal steadies him.
"I have complaints."
"I've noticed."
At last, Will reaches his feet.
He stands there for a moment, one hand instinctively settling beneath the gentle curve of his stomach.
The baby responds with a decisive kick.
Will looks down.
"...Good morning to you too."
Hannibal's expression softens almost imperceptibly.
"Already awake?"
"They've inherited your impeccable timing."
"I was hoping for your charm."
"They're definitely getting your giant feet."
"I beg your pardon."
Will snorts.
"There he is."
"There who is?"
"The man I married."
Hannibal tilts his head.
"I had been wondering when he would appear."
Will reaches up and smooths an imaginary crease from Hannibal's sweater.
"You know..."
"Hm?"
"I like mornings now."
Hannibal says nothing.
He simply takes Will's hand.
Once, mornings had meant blood.
Now they mean rain.
Warm floors beneath bare feet.
Dogs waiting impatiently outside the bedroom.
And the quiet certainty that they have nowhere else to be.
Breakfast has become an unpredictable affair.
Hannibal had given up trying to anticipate it sometime during Will's fifth month of pregnancy.
There is no pattern.
No logic.
Only cravings.
This morning, Will stands in front of the open refrigerator wearing one of Hannibal's shirts, frowning at its contents as though it has personally offended him.
"What would you like?"
"I don't know."
Hannibal waits.
Will continues staring.
"...Pickles."
"I see."
"And honey."
"I see."
"...Together."
Hannibal blinks once.
"...I see."
He reaches for the jar without another question.
Will watches him carefully.
"You're judging me."
"I assure you, I am not."
"You hesitated."
"I was admiring your creativity."
"That's judgment."
"It is curiosity."
Will crosses his arms.
"I've caught serial killers."
"You have."
"And now I'm eating pickles with honey."
"Life is wonderfully unpredictable."
Will snorts.
"...You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
Five minutes later, Hannibal sets the plate in front of him.
Will takes one bite.
Then another.
His eyes narrow.
"...I don't want it anymore."
"Of course."
"You knew that was going to happen."
"I suspected."
"You still made it."
"I did."
Will sighs dramatically.
"...I think I want peaches now."
"We don't have peaches."
"I know."
Another sigh.
"...That's tragic."
"It is unfortunate."
"No."
Will shakes his head gravely.
"It is devastating."
Hannibal nods with equal seriousness.
"I shall mourn accordingly."
That earns him the smallest smile of the morning.
A victory.
Not five minutes later, Will is happily eating buttered toast instead.
"...Is this what it's like living with me?" he asks between bites.
Hannibal considers the question.
"No."
"No?"
"It is considerably more entertaining."
Will points the toast at him.
"...Don't make me laugh."
"Why not?"
"I'll choke."
Hannibal pours him another glass of orange juice.
"You've become very dramatic."
"I am manufacturing a human being."
"A compelling defense."
"It should exempt me from criticism."
"I wasn't aware you were being criticized."
"I criticize myself enough for both of us."
Hannibal reaches across the table and brushes a breadcrumb from the corner of Will's mouth with his thumb.
"I disagree."
"With what?"
"With every unkind thing you've said about yourself this morning."
Will grows quiet.
Hannibal stands, leans down, and presses a gentle kiss against his temple before returning to the stove.
"...You are allowed strange cravings," he says simply.
"You are allowed to change your mind."
"You are even allowed to be grumpy."
Will looks down at his toast to hide the smile threatening to escape.
"...How generous of you."
"I thought so."
From somewhere beneath the table, one of the dogs lets out an impatient huff, hoping for a dropped crust.
Will tears off the last bite of toast and offers it.
"There," he mutters.
"At least somebody in this house appreciates my culinary decisions."
"I appreciate them as well," Hannibal says.
Will arches an eyebrow.
"You literally watched me eat pickles with honey."
"I married you."
"As if that explains anything."
"It explains everything."
After breakfast, the house grows quiet again.
One of the dogs stretches out in a patch of sunlight by the window.
Another follows Hannibal from room to room, hopeful that more food might mysteriously appear.
Will disappears upstairs without much of a word.
Hannibal assumes he has gone to read.
Or nap.
Perhaps both.
He thinks nothing of it.
Until he notices how long the silence has lasted.
...
"Will?"
No answer.
He checks the sitting room first.
Empty.
The study.
Empty.
Finally, he finds the bedroom door half-open.
Will is sitting on the edge of the bed.
His back is turned.
His shoulders are trembling.
Hannibal's heart sinks.
"...Will."
Will hastily wipes at his face with the sleeve of Hannibal's shirt.
"I'm fine."
"You are crying."
"No, I'm..."
His voice catches.
"...I'm trying not to."
Hannibal crosses the room without another word.
He kneels in front of him, close enough that their knees almost touch.
"What happened?"
Will shakes his head.
"I don't know."
"You do."
Another shake of the head.
"I just..."
He laughs once.
A miserable little laugh.
"I've been awful all morning."
"You have not."
"I snapped at you."
"You were frustrated."
"I keep changing my mind every five minutes."
"I noticed."
"I've done nothing but complain."
His voice grows quieter with every sentence.
"My back hurts."
"My ribs hurt."
"I cry over toast."
"I make you cook three different breakfasts."
Will presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.
"I'm exhausting."
The last word comes out as little more than a whisper.
"I don't even like being around me right now."
Hannibal reaches up and gently takes Will's wrists, guiding his hands away from his face.
"You believe I love you conditionally."
Will blinks.
"...What?"
"You seem to think there is a point at which I shall decide you have become too inconvenient."
"I..."
"You are mistaken."
A tear slips down Will's cheek.
"I just feel like..."
He swallows.
"...I'm not myself anymore."
Hannibal's expression softens.
"No."
"No?"
"You are still yourself."
He brushes away the tear with his thumb.
"You are simply carrying an extraordinary burden."
Will lets out a shaky breath.
"I hate that I'm so..."
He gestures helplessly.
"...Emotional."
"I don't."
"You should."
"I never could."
Will searches his face, as though expecting to find even the smallest trace of annoyance.
There is none.
Only patience.
Only affection.
"I've been rude to you."
"You have been overwhelmed."
"They're different."
"They are."
Hannibal smiles gently.
"But only one of them is true."
Will's eyes fill again.
"I don't deserve how nice you are to me."
Hannibal gives a quiet, almost amused sigh.
"My dear Will."
He rests his forehead against Will's for a moment.
"You crossed oceans for me."
"You stood beside me when the entire world wanted us apart."
"You chose a life with me knowing exactly who I am."
His voice drops to little more than a whisper.
"If, after all of that..."
He kisses the corner of Will's damp eye.
"...I cannot make you three breakfasts..."
Another kiss.
"...Rub your aching back..."
One more.
"...Or endure a few weeks of your exceptionally dramatic commentary..."
Will lets out a watery laugh.
"...Then I should consider myself a very poor husband indeed."
A reluctant smile finally tugs at the corners of Will's mouth.
"I am dramatic."
"Exceptionally."
"I knew you'd admit it eventually."
"I have always admired your consistency."
Will shakes his head, still smiling through the last of his tears.
"...Come here."
Hannibal doesn't hesitate.
He wraps his arms around Will carefully, mindful of the baby between them.
Will immediately melts against him, burying his face against Hannibal's neck.
"I love you," he mumbles.
"I know."
"...No."
Will tightens his arms.
"I really, really love you."
Hannibal closes his eyes.
"I know."
"And I really, really love every version of you."
For a long while, neither of them moves.
By late afternoon, the rain has stopped.
The house is filled with the warm scent of cinnamon.
Will has stopped crying.
He is, however, dramatically sprawled across the sofa once again, firmly convinced that moving any part of his body would be an act of unnecessary ambition.
Hannibal emerges from the study carrying two rolled yoga mats.
Will notices immediately.
"...No."
"You haven't heard my proposal."
"I know exactly what your proposal is."
"You cannot know that."
"I can."
Hannibal lays one mat neatly on the floor.
"The physiotherapist recommends—"
"The physiotherapist isn't pregnant."
"No."
"The physiotherapist also isn't married to you."
"...A tragedy, I'm sure."
Will glares.
"You learned nothing from our conversation upstairs."
"I learned many things."
"You learned none of the important ones."
Hannibal tilts his head.
"And those would be?"
"That I am tired."
"I know."
"My back hurts."
"I know."
"I don't want to exercise."
"I know."
Hannibal walks over and offers him both hands.
"Come."
Will doesn't take them.
Instead, he folds his arms over his stomach and narrows his eyes.
"...No."
"One stretch."
"No."
"It may help."
"No."
"I've prepared cinnamon rolls."
"We already ate them."
"I can prepare more."
Will hesitates.
For exactly half a second.
Then catches himself.
"...Don't try to bribe me."
"I would never."
"You're literally bribing me."
"I am negotiating."
Will lets out the most put-upon sigh imaginable.
"Hannibal..."
"Yes, dear?"
"...You're insufferable."
"I've heard that before."
"I mean it."
"So do I."
Another silence.
Hannibal is still standing there.
Patiently.
Holding out his hands.
Waiting.
Will stares at him for several long seconds before throwing both arms into the air.
"Oh, for God's sake..."
With considerable effort, he hauls himself upright.
Every movement is accompanied by a theatrical groan.
"I hate this."
"I know."
"I hate pregnancy."
"I know."
"I hate yoga."
"I know."
"I especially hate you."
"I had assumed as much."
Will finally reaches him.
Hannibal smiles, impossibly pleased.
That, somehow, is the last straw.
Will points an accusing finger at him.
"Stupid Hannibal Lecter!"
One of the dogs lifts its head in alarm.
"You and your stupid research!"
Hannibal nods thoughtfully.
"My research is, admittedly, extensive."
"And your stupid yoga!"
"It is quite gentle, actually."
"And your stupid healthy coping mechanisms!"
"I'll accept responsibility for those."
Will huffs so dramatically that even he has to stop for breath.
Then, despite himself—
He starts laughing.
A real laugh.
The kind that bends him forward until he has to grab Hannibal's forearms to steady himself.
Hannibal waits for the laughter to settle before quietly taking Will's hands in his own.
"There you are."
Will sniffles, still smiling.
"...What?"
"I've been looking for that smile all afternoon."
The irritation melts from Will's face.
"...You're annoying."
"I know."
"...Come on, then."
Hannibal raises an eyebrow.
"The yoga."
Will rolls his eyes toward the ceiling.
"...Before I change my mind."
"I had anticipated that possibility."
"Of course you did."
Hannibal guides him carefully onto the mat.
"Now," he says with quiet satisfaction.
"We begin with exactly one stretch."
Will mutters under his breath just loudly enough for Hannibal to hear.
"...Stupid Hannibal Lecter."
Hannibal smiles.
"I love you too."
Will doesn't even bother denying it.
Hannibal settles onto the mat opposite Will with practiced ease.
Will eyes him suspiciously.
"...You've done this before."
"I have."
"How many times?"
"A few."
"A few."
Hannibal inclines his head.
"I wished to ensure I was teaching you correctly."
Will blinks.
"...You practiced prenatal yoga."
"I did."
"...Without me."
"I was alone."
"...That's somehow worse."
A faint smile tugs at Hannibal's lips.
"I was remarkably ungraceful."
"I would've paid good money to see that."
"I know."
Will snorts.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
The dogs have wandered into the living room and now lie scattered around the mats like particularly lazy spectators.
One of them yawns loudly.
"They have very little faith in us," Will murmurs.
"They know the exercise will be brief."
"Smart."
Hannibal straightens his posture.
"Comfortable?"
"No."
"We've only just sat down."
"I know."
"My answer remains no."
Hannibal reaches over and gently adjusts the cushion behind Will's lower back.
"There."
Will shifts experimentally.
"...Oh."
"Better?"
"...Don't let it go to your head."
"I shall try."
They begin with nothing more complicated than breathing.
"In through your nose," Hannibal says softly.
Will obeys.
"Out through your mouth."
Another slow breath.
The room grows quiet.
Even the dogs seem content to sleep.
Outside, the rain has started again, tapping softly against the windows.
"Again," Hannibal murmurs.
Will closes his eyes.
For the first time all day, he isn't thinking about aching ribs or swollen ankles or how impossible it is to roll over in bed.
He's only listening.
To Hannibal's voice.
To the rain.
To his own breathing.
"There," Hannibal says after a few moments.
"You're relaxing."
"I am not."
"No?"
"I'm... slightly less annoyed."
"I shall consider that progress."
Will opens one eye.
"...Don't."
"I haven't said anything."
"You were about to look smug."
"I would never."
"You absolutely would."
Hannibal's smile gives him away.
Will points accusingly.
"See?"
"I see nothing."
"Liar."
"A devoted liar."
Will can't help laughing.
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"This part isn't terrible."
"I knew you'd enjoy it."
"I said it wasn't terrible."
"My apologies."
They move into the next stretch.
It is simple.
One hand resting on the floor.
The other reaching gently overhead.
Will makes it approximately halfway before stopping.
"...No."
"What seems to be the problem?"
"I've stretched enough."
"You've leaned six inches."
"Exactly."
"A magnificent effort."
"It was."
Hannibal laughs quietly.
"Come back up before you declare victory."
Will does—with considerably more groaning than the movement probably requires.
"I deserve another cinnamon roll."
"You've certainly earned one."
"I knew you'd agree."
Just then, the baby gives a strong kick.
Will's hand flies instinctively to his stomach.
"There you are."
Hannibal moves without thinking, settling beside him instead of across from him.
"May I?"
Will simply takes Hannibal's hand and places it over the spot where the kick landed.
Another tiny thump answers almost immediately.
Hannibal smiles so softly it almost hurts to look at.
"I believe," he says, "our child is reminding us to continue."
Will stares at him in disbelief.
"No."
"No?"
"They're telling you the yoga session is over."
"I interpreted it differently."
"Of course you did."
Hannibal kisses the side of Will's head.
"I suppose we'll let them decide."
As if on cue, another kick lands.
Will grins triumphantly.
"There."
"They agree with me."
Hannibal considers this gravely.
"...Or perhaps they simply wished to interrupt."
"They're definitely my child."
"I never doubted it."
Will leans sideways until his head comes to rest on Hannibal's shoulder.
By evening, Will becomes noticeably quieter.
Not calmer.
Just... quieter.
Pregnancy has taught Hannibal that this usually means one thing.
Will is about to become exceedingly affectionate.
He is proven correct within minutes.
Hannibal is halfway through reading when the sofa dips beside him.
Will doesn't say a word.
He simply leans against Hannibal's shoulder with a tired sigh.
"Hm?" Hannibal hums.
"...Nothing."
"You appear to require something."
"I don't."
A pause.
"...Maybe."
Hannibal smiles without looking up from his book.
"What do you require?"
Will thinks for a long moment.
"...You."
The answer is so matter-of-fact that Hannibal closes his book immediately.
"I see."
"I've had a long day."
"You've had a long seven months."
"...True."
Another few minutes pass.
Then Will shifts again.
He frowns at the growing curve of his stomach.
"This is inconvenient."
"What is?"
"I can't cuddle properly."
"I had not considered that."
"I have."
Will huffs dramatically before, with surprising determination, climbing sideways into Hannibal's lap.
It is an awkward maneuver.
One that involves considerable muttering.
"Move your arm."
"I am attempting to."
"Your knee is in the way."
"I assure you, it has been there the entire time."
"...Stupid long legs."
At six foot five, Hannibal has never once wished he were smaller.
Until watching his husband try to fit both himself and seven months of pregnancy comfortably against his chest.
"There," Will declares triumphantly.
"I've solved it."
Hannibal wraps an arm carefully around his waist.
"You have."
Will settles against him with a content little sigh, his head tucked beneath Hannibal's chin.
The difference between them has always been striking.
Will is compact where Hannibal is impossibly tall.
Even now, with the baby making him wonderfully round, Will still seems to disappear against him.
One of Hannibal's hands spans almost the entire side of Will's waist.
Will notices.
"...Show off."
"I wasn't aware my hands were boasting."
"They're obnoxiously large."
"They are useful."
"They're ridiculous."
"They're currently holding you together."
"...Keep doing that."
"I had no intention of stopping."
Will melts a little further into him.
One of his own hands rests over Hannibal's on his stomach.
It looks almost small in comparison.
He studies them for a moment.
"...Our kid's definitely going to get your height."
"Perhaps."
"I'd like to apologize to them in advance."
Hannibal chuckles softly.
"You are not particularly short."
"I'm standing next to a lighthouse."
"I've been called many things."
"I bet not that."
Will yawns so widely that his eyes water.
Hannibal feels the weight of him grow heavier by the second.
"Tired?"
"...No."
Will yawns again.
"...Maybe."
"You've fallen asleep sitting up before."
"I deny all allegations."
"You were snoring."
"I was resting thoughtfully."
Hannibal laughs—a warm, unguarded sound that fills the room.
Will smiles against his sweater.
"There it is."
"What?"
"That laugh."
Hannibal lowers his head and presses a lingering kiss into Will's curls.
"I find myself laughing rather more these days."
"...Good."
Will's voice is already thick with sleep.
"I like making you laugh."
"And I like being the place you choose to rest."
Will doesn't answer.
He's already drifting off, curled impossibly close despite insisting all afternoon that he needed "personal space."
Hannibal glances down at the sleeping man in his lap.
Then at the gentle rise of the child beneath his hand.
Doctor's appointments become a quiet little ritual.
Neither of them mentions it aloud, but they both begin looking forward to them.
Not because Will enjoys hospitals.
He most certainly does not.
And certainly not because he enjoys being poked, prodded, weighed, or asked whether he's been "getting enough rest."
He hasn't.
What he enjoys—
Though he would sooner die than admit it—
Is watching Hannibal become an inexplicably anxious father.
...
"Hannibal."
"Hm?"
"I'm pregnant."
"I am aware."
"You've checked the appointment time six times."
"I've checked it four."
"It was six."
"I disagree."
Will looks over from the passenger seat.
"...You're nervous."
"I am prepared."
"You're nervous."
"I am exceptionally prepared."
"You color-coded the folder."
"It seemed sensible."
"You laminated the emergency contact list."
"It seemed durable."
Will can't help smiling.
"...You're adorable."
"I have never been called adorable."
"You are now."
...
By the time they arrive, Hannibal already has Will's water bottle, appointment folder, snack, jacket, and a small cushion tucked beneath one arm.
Will watches him with poorly concealed amusement.
"...Do you think they're going to send us into the wilderness?"
"It is always prudent to prepare."
"Hannibal."
"Yes?"
"It's a thirty-minute appointment."
"One cannot predict delays."
"You packed three sandwiches."
"In case you become hungry."
"I packed one sandwich."
"I noticed."
...
The receptionist smiles knowingly when they walk in.
"Good morning."
"Good morning," Hannibal replies.
Will lifts a hand.
"...Morning."
He is immediately distracted by the bowl of complimentary peppermints.
"Hannibal."
"No."
"You don't even know what I was going to ask."
"I do."
"...Can I have one?"
"You've already had three."
"...Can I have four?"
Hannibal sighs with theatrical resignation.
"...One."
Will grins.
"I love you."
"I suspected this affection might be peppermint-related."
"It absolutely is."
...
The examination room is quiet.
The obstetrician spreads warm gel across Will's stomach before lifting the ultrasound probe.
"There we are..."
The familiar rhythmic heartbeat fills the room.
Strong.
Steady.
Will's entire expression softens.
He never gets used to that sound.
Across the room, Hannibal has unconsciously reached for his hand.
Neither of them notices when their fingers intertwine.
The doctor smiles at the screen.
"Someone's very active today."
As if on cue—
A vigorous kick.
Will groans.
"...Tell your child to stop headbutting my ribs."
"Our child," Hannibal corrects gently.
"They're yours today."
"I see."
The doctor chuckles.
"I think they're saying hello."
"They're saying they've run out of room," Will mutters.
Hannibal strokes his thumb across the back of Will's hand.
"They're growing beautifully."
Will glances sideways at him.
"You've memorized every growth chart, haven't you?"
"...Perhaps."
"You absolutely have."
"I wished to be informed."
"You wished to become unbearable."
"I've succeeded admirably."
Will laughs.
The baby kicks again.
"There," Hannibal says, smiling at the screen.
"They seem pleased."
"I think they're laughing at me."
"I believe they already have your sense of humor."
"I was hoping they'd inherit your patience."
"I was hoping the opposite."
Will turns to look at him.
"...Really?"
"I rather enjoy your impatience."
The admission is so unexpected that Will goes completely quiet.
Then, very softly—
"...You're ridiculous."
"I've been informed."
This time, by you."
...
On the drive home, the printed ultrasound picture rests safely inside Hannibal's jacket pocket.
He checks for it at every red light.
Will notices on the third occasion.
"...It's not going to disappear."
"I know."
"You keep making sure it's still there."
"I do."
Will reaches across the center console and quietly laces their fingers together.
"You know..."
"Hm?"
"I think you're more excited than I am."
Hannibal smiles without taking his eyes off the road.
"I've loved this child since the moment I learned they existed."
He gives Will's hand a gentle squeeze.
"And I've loved their father for much longer."
Will looks out at the passing countryside, pretending to watch the rain.
"...You're lucky I cry over everything these days."
"I know."
"Otherwise that would've been very embarrassing."
"I wouldn't have minded."
Will smiles to himself.
"...I know."
The house is unusually quiet that evening.
The dogs are asleep by the fireplace.
Will emerges from the bathroom, his hair still damp from his shower, wearing one of Hannibal's old sweaters and a pair of loose lounge trousers that sit comfortably beneath the curve of his stomach.
"...Hannibal?"
No answer.
He follows the warm glow of the reading lamp into the sitting room.
Hannibal is asleep.
Curled awkwardly in the armchair.
A book lies open across his lap, one hand still resting on the page as though he'd only meant to close his eyes for a moment.
His glasses have slipped low on his nose.
Will smiles to himself.
"...Idiot."
His gaze drifts to the small notebook resting beside the chair.
He recognizes it immediately.
Hannibal has been carrying it everywhere for weeks.
Curiosity wins.
Will opens it.
The pages are filled with neat, familiar handwriting.
Not recipes.
Not patient notes.
Just...
Him.
—
Week 29.
Will's lower back appears to trouble him more in the evenings.
Remember to warm the wheat bag before bed.
He dislikes the peach preserves now. He prefers fresh fruit.
Purchase more oranges.
Massage seems to help when the baby is particularly active.
Continue reading aloud after dinner. He falls asleep more easily.
Will turns another page.
—
Ask Dr. Moretti about the discomfort beneath Will's ribs.
Replace the pillow in the sitting room. It no longer supports his back adequately.
He smiled after cinnamon rolls.
Make them again.
Will's vision begins to blur.
He blinks hard.
Another page.
Near the bottom, written a little smaller than the rest
He apologized for being difficult today.
A pause.
Then
He has never once been difficult.
Will's throat tightens.
His thumb traces the ink almost absentmindedly.
The final line is written beneath it.
Separate from everything else.
As though Hannibal had thought of it later.
I wish he could see himself the way I do.
Will closes the notebook carefully.
Very carefully.
As though afraid the words might break.
He looks back at Hannibal.
Still asleep.
Still holding the book he'd probably been reading in search of yet another way to make pregnancy easier for him.
Will walks over quietly.
He removes the glasses from Hannibal's face before they can leave little marks across the bridge of his nose.
Places the book on the side table.
Pulls the blanket from the back of the armchair and drapes it gently over him.
Hannibal stirs faintly.
Doesn't wake.
Will stands there for a long moment.
Just looking.
At the man who had crossed oceans with him.
Who still researched every ache, every craving, every restless night as though loving Will were a discipline to be studied.
Who had never once made him feel like a burden.
Not for a single day.
A lump rises in Will's throat.
He bends down.
Presses the softest kiss against Hannibal's temple.
"...I don't know what I ever thought running away with you" he whispers.
"I really don't."
Hannibal doesn't answer.
He's asleep.
A week later, the nursery still has no name painted above the crib.
Not because they haven't discussed it.
Quite the opposite.
They have discussed little else.
---
"I don't like Eleanor."
Will looks up from the tiny pair of socks he's attempting to fold.
"You liked Eleanor yesterday."
"I've changed my mind."
"You've become alarmingly democratic."
"I'm carrying the baby."
"A compelling argument."
"It usually is."
Hannibal makes a quiet note in the margin of the list.
Eleanor — removed.
Will watches him.
"...How many names have we crossed out?"
"Forty-three."
"...Good."
"I began with sixty."
Will groans.
"Of course you did."
---
The conversation drifts away for a while.
Hannibal folds impossibly small baby clothes with the same precision he gives his suits.
Will still can't understand how something the size of a washcloth is supposed to fit an actual human being.
"They're tiny."
"They are."
"They're going to be tiny."
"For a little while."
Will smiles to himself.
"I hope she has your eyes."
"I hope she has yours."
"I hope she sleeps like you."
"I hope she argues like you."
Will laughs.
"You absolutely do not."
"I do."
"I'll regret it."
"You almost certainly will."
---
The laughter fades naturally.
Hannibal is the one who breaks the silence.
"...There is one name."
Will looks over immediately.
Hannibal rarely hesitates.
Now he does.
He sets down the tiny cardigan in his hands.
"...Mischa."
The room grows still.
Will says nothing.
He simply waits.
"I have wondered..." Hannibal begins quietly, "...whether naming her after my sister would be a kindness."
His eyes drift toward the half-finished crib.
"Or whether it would ask her to carry a grief that was never hers."
Will listens.
"I don't want..." Hannibal searches for the words.
"I don't want every time I say my daughter's name to sound as though I'm mourning someone else."
His voice is almost a whisper now.
"She deserves to be loved for herself."
Another pause.
"And yet..."
He smiles sadly.
"I would be lying if I said I hadn't imagined introducing them."
Mischa, meet Mischa.
The thought alone is enough to make his chest ache.
"I miss my sister."
The confession hangs gently between them.
"I always will."
Will stands.
Crosses the room.
Takes Hannibal's hand.
"You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think... your sister deserves to be remembered."
Hannibal looks at him.
"But I don't think our daughter should spend her whole life trying to be someone's memory."
Hannibal's fingers tighten around Will's.
"She's never going to replace Mischa."
"No."
"And she shouldn't have to."
Will smiles softly.
"She's going to be her own little menace."
"A terrifying prospect."
"Exactly."
Hannibal lets out a quiet laugh.
The sadness doesn't disappear.
It simply becomes easier to carry.
"...Perhaps," he says after a long moment, "Mischa could be her middle name."
Will's expression brightens.
"So she carries your sister with her..."
"...Without having to become her."
Hannibal nods.
"I think Mischa would have liked that."
"I think so too."
Will leans forward and kisses his forehead.
"So..."
Hannibal reaches for the list again.
"We still require a first name."
Will sighs dramatically.
"We're never naming this child."
"I remain optimistic."
"You've been optimistic for forty-three rejected names."
"Forty-four."
Will blinks.
"...You just crossed another one off, didn't you?"
"I did."
"Hannibal."
"Yes, dear?"
"...You're impossible."
"I've had excellent practice."
Will smiles despite himself.
"Good."
"Why?"
"Because I think our daughter is going to need someone impossible on her side."
Hannibal reaches across the table and rests his hand over Will's.
"I rather suspect she'll have two."
The list has grown embarrassingly long.
Names are crossed out.
Circled.
Crossed out again.
Will is convinced they've spent more time naming their daughter than the average person spends choosing a house.
"Hannibal."
"Hm?"
"If we don't decide soon, she'll be born answering to 'Baby.'"
"I find that unlikely."
"You've rejected fifty-one names."
"Fifty-two."
Will pinches the bridge of his nose.
"...You counted."
"I made the list."
"Of course you did."
For a while, the only sound in the room is the scratch of Hannibal's fountain pen.
Will watches him.
He loves watching Hannibal write.
Everything about it is deliberate.
Elegant.
As though even his handwriting had perfect manners.
"...Can I ask you something?"
"You may ask me anything."
"When you picture her..."
Hannibal looks up.
"...Do you ever picture Mischa?"
The question hangs quietly between them.
Hannibal doesn't answer immediately.
Instead, he rests the pen on the table.
"Every day."
His voice is gentle.
"I wonder what kind of woman she would have become."
A small smile.
"I think she would have adored children."
Will reaches across the table and takes his hand.
"I know."
"I wanted..." Hannibal begins carefully.
"I wanted a part of her to remain with us."
His thumb brushes absentmindedly over Will's knuckles.
"But not at our daughter's expense."
Will nods.
"She shouldn't have to grow up inside someone else's memory."
"No."
"She deserves to make her own."
Hannibal smiles.
"As always..."
"...You understand precisely what I mean."
A comfortable silence follows.
Will leans back in his chair.
"...What about making Mischa her middle name?"
Hannibal looks at him.
Not with surprise.
With gratitude.
"So every time we say her full name..."
Will continues softly.
"...Your sister comes with her."
"But she still gets to be herself."
For a long moment, Hannibal says nothing.
Then he quietly nods.
"I would like that very much."
Will squeezes his hand.
"Good."
"Now all we need is a first name."
Will groans dramatically.
"We're back to square one."
Hannibal reaches for the list again.
He reads through it slowly.
Once.
Twice.
Then his eyes stop.
"...Lillian."
Will repeats it under his breath.
"Lillian."
"It has a kindness to it."
"It does."
"It feels..."
Hannibal searches for the word.
"...Peaceful."
Will smiles.
"I can picture calling her that."
"So can I."
"Lily."
Hannibal's expression softens immediately.
"...Lily."
The nickname settles into the room as though it had always belonged there.
Will rests both hands over his stomach.
"...What do you think?"
A moment passes.
Then—
A firm kick.
Will lets out a surprised laugh.
"Oh."
Hannibal's eyebrows lift.
"Well."
Another kick.
Will looks down at his stomach in mock disbelief.
"Was that a yes?"
"I believe we've received her opinion."
"She's already taking part in family discussions."
"As she should."
Will reaches for the pen lying beside Hannibal's hand.
Slowly—
Carefully—
He writes the name at the very top of the page.
Lillian Mischa Lecter-Graham.
Neither of them speaks.
They simply look at it.
At the name of the little girl they haven't met yet.
The little girl who is already so fiercely loved.
Hannibal slips his hand over Will's where it rests on the paper.
"It suits her."
Will smiles, unable to look away from the name.
"...Yeah."
"It really does."
The baby kicks one last time.
As though she agrees.
That evening, the list is folded away and tucked safely into the drawer beside their bed.
No more debating.
No more crossing out names.
She has one now.
Lillian Mischa Lecter-Graham.
Will falls asleep with one hand resting over his stomach.
Hannibal's hand covers his.
Between them, their daughter gives one last sleepy kick before growing still.
For the first time in weeks, neither of them wonders what to call her.
They only wonder what she'll be like.
And somehow
That feels even more exciting.