#even though their aggression is just an attempt to protect themselves from unkindness of the outside world?
Note
francesarchie 😈
Also asked by @sebastianofprussia & @ixnay-on-the-ipshay
— SHIP QUESTIONS: Franbald! Arches! (I jest, Franarchie)
PRE-RELATIONSHIP
How did they first meet?
As children: Frances’s mother paid the Dowager Countess a social call and Frances insisted on accompanying her. After the appropriate degree of cooing over Frances’s pretty manners and countenance, she was handed off to Archie who was expected to keep her occupied so that the adults could converse (an insult for a girl who had expected to have tea with the ladies).
As adults: At Vauxhall, when Archie entreated her for assistance in the most serious of matters.
What was their first impression of each other?
As a child: Too tall, too skinny, too pompous, too unimpressed with her.
As an adult: Easily flustered, foolishly virtuous, unexpected.
Did any of their friends or family want them to get together?
In an abstract, "wouldn't their respective coat of arms look darling side by side" way, but not in earnest.
Who felt romantic feelings first?
It’s difficult to separate genuine feeling from going through the motions of what’s expected. Affection quietly develops which helps silence some of the reservations they each held about the other and lead to something more.
Did either of them try to resist their feelings?
Not particularly, but they don’t actively encourage them either. In society’s eyes they are a suitable match so there isn’t much to object to, but they’re both a “stiff upper lip” type and less comfortable with the softer sides of themselves.
If you had told one of them that the other would be their soulmate, what would they think?
The concept of a “soulmate” is for dreamers. Even if the concept of “souls” wasn’t a fanciful notion, Frances doubts hers and Archie’s would look the same. Frances has a partner, not a soulmate, and in her opinion that’s better.
What would their lives be like if they had never met?
Lonelier.
GENERAL
Who initiated the relationship, and how did it go?
Meddling familial influences set the stage, Frances acquiesced, but it was Archie’s consideration for her opinion that made her willing.
Did they have an official first date? If so, what was it like?
Almack’s. It had a rocky start but it ended with the Queen’s blessing, an indisputable success.
What was their first kiss like?
Chaste and proper. They’re both surprised by how much they like it. Frances breaks the tension by remarking that she’s pleased Archie was able to bravely overcome her displeasing chin.
Were they each other’s first anything (kiss, relationship, etc.)?
A few firsts for Frances, but most importantly Archie is the first man she has properly trusted.
What’s their height difference? Age difference?
6" / 8 years
What’s their relationship with each other’s families?
Frances’s relationship with almost all of Archie’s family is amicable, except with the Dowager, who is loathed. Archie undergoes a stress test each time the three of them get together for tea.
Archie has a positive relationship with the Fitzroys. Frances’s aunt derives an inordinate amount of pleasure in taking credit for having arranged the match (who can claim true responsibility is the biggest source of interfamilial contention.)
Who takes the lead in social situations?
Archie thinks he does, Frances knows she does. The neck turns the head.
Who gets jealous easier?
Frances. She knows it’s illogical, he’s unerringly loyal, but it’s in her nature.
Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear?
Frances, she likes to tease.
LOVE
Who said “I love you” first?
It’s said in a letter before it’s said aloud. Archie hides it amidst his report of a dozen other inane things. In Frances’s reply and in all letters thereafter her closing salutation is altered.
What are their primary love languages?
Words of Affirmation & Quality Time
Who uses cheesy pick-up lines?
Archie might attempt to use them earnestly, affectionate mockery ensues. Indirectly, they’re effective.
How often do they cuddle/engage in PDA?
In public, nothing beyond hand-holding.
Who initiates kisses?
Frances (Archie has concerns about offending her “delicate sensibilities”). He initiates more often with time, but never in public.
Who’s the big and little spoon?
Frances is the little spoon. She likes the reassurance of being held.
What are their favorite things to do together?
Gossip about others: Archie will insist he’s above rumormongering but Frances will strategically place hms and oh mys as she reads her correspondence until he’s lured into reading over her shoulder.
Exchanging letters: Frances enjoys the prestige associated with being married to a Navy man, but the distance is disheartening and she’s alone more often than she would like. The letters are a necessity and stored in a bedside table upon receipt.
Reading: Frances hates reading but likes to be read to.
Who’s better at comforting the other?
It doesn’t necessarily come naturally to either of them, but they get by. Frances knows when to let Archie whip himself up into a frenzy and when to put her foot down. Archie is dedicated and sincere, so he often inadvertently gets it right.
Who’s more protective?
Archie.
Do they prefer verbal or physical affection?
Verbal. Frances craves affirmation and Archie is unaccustomed to it. Even when Frances profusely compliments him to tease, there is always a degree of truth in it.
What are some songs that apply to their relationship, in-universe or otherwise?
PS I Love You - Billie Holliday
What kind of nicknames do they call each other?
Archie, Lord Gander, Archibald when she’s cross.
Who remembers the little things?
Frances, but Archie always shows up, even if he’s not sure what he’s showing up for.
DOMESTIC LIFE
If they get married, who proposes?
Archie. It’s a rambling, slightly disorganized proposal. Frances’s favorite part is when he makes it abundantly clear she’s under no obligation to say yes. She accepts immediately.
What’s the wedding like? Who attends?
It’s the wedding mothers dream of (and passive aggressively argued over during the planning process.) It’s a “who’s who” sort of affair.
How many kids do they have, if any? What are they like?
Frances would be amenable to one out of obligation to continue the family line. There is considerable pressure from the Dowager for more but after Frances and Archie have a private conversation about Frances’s feelings on the matter he puts his foot down on her behalf.
Do they have any pets?
Horses. Jove.
Who’s the stricter parent?
Archie has more opinions about the proper behavior of a child, but Frances is less of a pushover.
Nanny is the strictest, though not unkind (neither would allow it).
Who worries the most?
Archie by nature (however no matter how much Frances insists there is no need to make such a thing of him being away at sea, she regularly reads the Naval & Military Gazette to track the movements of his ship.)
Who kills the bugs in the house?
Whichever servant is closest.
How do they celebrate holidays?
They do the proper societal thing and host all the necessary balls, dinners, etc. Neither has ever said it, but their favorite moments are after the party when everyone has gone home and it’s just the two of them, satisfied with a job well done.
Who’s more likely to convince the other to come back to sleep in the morning?
Frances, though it’s really drawing him back to bed for a chat since he’s already been up and about for some time. Regardless, she often succeeds.
Who’s the better cook?
Whoever their cook is (Frances can't remember her name).
Who likes to dance?
Frances.
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Unquiet Grave: Chapter 16
[Support My Patreon] [Read on Ao3]
A special thanks to my patrons: @evertonem @starlit-catastrophe @kenobi-is-king @frostylicker @sylarana Mendacious Bean, Superlurk, Duhaunt6, and Cecily!
Chapter 16:
Beverly is walking away from his doorstep when Hannibal pulls into the driveway. The dogs are going nuts inside, and Will uses that as the perfect distraction to avoid her bemused expression at seeing him get out of his therapist’s car.
The dogs rush about, and Buster frantically sniffs at him, begging treats. Will crouches to rub his belly, and he stares at the toe of Beverly’s shoe just at the corner of his eye. Beverly has always been a surefire read, a genuine one. She has something to say, and she’s radiating with an energy of something bordering antagonistic.
Will imagines his walls, where they rise high. He can’t handle channeling her anger right now. He has his own, something a potent bled of antagonistic and afraid all in one.
“Was wondering where you were.”
“I didn’t know you knew where I lived.”
“Do you know where I work?”
They both smile, and she accepts Buster’s affection and excitement, reaching down to scratch behind his ears.
“I’m getting insight into the rogue empath that Jack asked me to look into. He pulled me away for something else, but I’ll be back to hunting Dolarhyde soon, promise.”
It was a shitty promise, but he wasn’t feeling too awful about it.
“Bull shit, you’re coming out with me,” she replies easily, and she picks Buster up, much to his delight. “We haven’t gone out for a beer in awhile.”
“Now isn’t exactly…”
“Will and I were going to go out to dinner, actually. Would you care to join us, then go to drinks after?” Hannibal cuts in smoothly. His smile is as warm as his tone, and Will barely manages to repress a look of utmost disdain. He really doesn’t have time for this shit.
“Where were you thinking of going?”
“I haven’t had taken either of you to an excellent Greek restaurant just a on the edge of Baltimore. Are there any allergies I should be aware of?”
There are no allergies to fear, and the plan is set. The dogs make their rounds, and Will apologetically ushers them back into the house, giving them an extra treat each on the way out. They take Hannibal’s car, and maybe it’s a calculative move on Hannibal’s part as much as a political one because now someone is less likely to kill him if they think he has company over for the evening.
Beverly is quiet only through the appetizer. She seems to be observing as much as she is enjoying the ambiance of an artificial waterfall in the corner, as well as the tangy scent of olive oil and vinaigrette. That buzzing energy sits with a cloud around her, and Will imagines her leaning in with aggression, hearing something she’s not entirely pleased about.
He blinks away the thought, the Dream. If he looks too closely, he’ll fall in, and sometimes falling in is scary when you’re not quite sure where you’ll land. These days, it’s unsettling enough that he can’t account for how he’ll react once he’s inside, either.
Just Mr. Jackson, now.
Will picks at his cloth napkin idly, and Hannibal informs them of the best of the menu, along with some of the recipes he’s attempted to replicate. The air hums with socialites’ laughter and the clatter of fine china. Live music plays, Beverly hums along. It’s the setting to a perfect scene of three friends from wildly varying lifestyles coming together, and if he was in more control of himself and his surroundings, Will would have laughed out loud at it.
“Sometimes, Will, I think it’s a shame that you can’t eat meat. Some of the flavors Greek cuisine bring out linger in a way that is difficult to mimic in other dishes.”
“They have a roast lamb that I’m going to have to devour,” Beverly says by way of agreement. Her eyes lighten at something, and she taps the menu pointedly. “This was a good suggestion, Dr. Lecter.”
“I’m happy you could come along.”
“Well this guy usually makes a point to clam up and avoid social situations, so this is one of the few times I get to have a conversation with the illustrious Will Graham outside of work,” Beverly says with a laugh.
It’s light, not unkind. Will manages a smile and accepts the wine from the waiter as he returns. The waiter’s eyes linger, focus on his gloves still on inside the restaurant. Will tucks his hands under the table and waits for him to leave. While empaths aren’t hated within society, they aren’t entirely enjoyed, either. He can sense the immediate assumption and judging.
Far different from the taxi driver that supposed him to be cold but far too polite to voice it.
“Have you been waiting for a moment to question him extensively on something?” Hannibal asks.
“What’s on your mind?” Will asks distractedly, looking back to them.
Sometimes, he thinks about how Hannibal had looked, standing so close to him in the house of mirrors. Perhaps he Dreamed it, something his mind created because it wanted to be, and yet; there was something in the way he spoke words that would be treason should Jack Crawford hear them, and here he was ensuring that Will was in a position to be protected. His question now is much the same, and Will swears he can see that same hint of hunger as he studies Beverly with a keen attention to her squared shoulders despite the casual setting.
I’m fond of you.
“I was wondering what your thoughts were on the empath Jack’s having you track on the side.”
Can you see?
“What do you mean?” Will frowns.
“I just want to hear what you have to say,” she says, but that’s not quite how it sounds.
“I don’t think that’s true,” he retorts, and it grants him a laugh.
“You’re going to probably think I’m an ass hole after this,” she warns. “But I like taking things head on.”
“I’ll live,” Will promises, taking a sip of white wine. It is light, buttery on the palate as the server said when he first suggested it. He notes Beverly tracking it, and he forces a smile.
“When you first put your hands in the victim’s chest cavity, afterwards you described this as being some sort of homage to you. You said that the person asked you if you could see.”
He thinks of Slowinski, how his life hangs in the balance of whether or not Dolarhyde can find him. He tastes the bitter burn of monkshood, and it takes another long sip of wine before he can sound perfectly normal.
“It was a disorienting experience, but I recall” he says. Barriers. Compartmentalize. “What about it?”
She takes a sip of her wine –to steady herself, Will notes –and she accepts a plate and an offering of hummus from Hannibal. “The second time, you tell Jack he’s an empath, but you make no mention of this person saying anything specifically. Just that they were weaponizing their gift.”
Will could see where this was going. He busies his hands with his food, and he savors the warmth of the naan in his palms.
“Did he say anything that time? Or did it go from him reaching out to you to nothing at all?”
One thing Will both loves yet loathes is Beverly Katz’s tenacity for diving right to the point. Maybe, if Will hadn’t yet felt such a distinctive…need to protect this person in the moment, odd as it was, he’d tell her the words ringing in his head, nudging, pushing? And yet it would be a disservice, somehow, to tell her how protective, almost endearing it was that in the midst of all of this someone is attempting to save him from himself. From the institution that holds him.
He can’t quite say it like that to Jack, though. That’s a surefire way to fail his psyche-evaluation. To retirement.
To turning out like Dolarhyde.
“He likely lost interest when I didn’t respond. I think Jack was right to pull me. No action led to boredom, so he’s escalating,” Will says, swiping the bread through the hummus. He won’t look at her eyes.
He’d hissed to Lecter that the rogue empath was taunting him. It seemed Hannibal had kept his secret, left it there among the distorted glass and tilting halls.
“Do psychopaths do that? Or rogue empaths, for that matter?” Beverly asks, confused.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Hannibal admits, cutting in smoothly. “It depends on the ultimate intentions of the empath. Are they attempting to draw Agent Graham out specifically, or are they comfortable so long as they have someone’s attention?”
“I guess that’s what I’m wondering if you gleaned something the second time. I’m confused that it’s so…contrasting from the first time they struck.”
Will polishes off the rest of the wine and tears into the hummus with a single-minded vengeance. “That, and you had to ensure that if I drank tonight, it wasn’t alone.”
She snickers rather than blusters, and maybe that’s why he likes her, for a neurotypical.
“If he strikes again, get me there asap, and you’ll get the reaction in real time so you trust the source,” he suggests. “I’m thinking back now, and what I said in the moment would have been the most honest. In the moment, we say what we see, we say what we feel. If that’s what I said, that’s what I said.”
“Thanks for the permission,” she replies after a beat, saluting him with her glass. “Now, I’ll make up for the interrogation with a round of drinks after dinner. You’re always a good sport, Graham.”
It’s not alcoholism if he drinks with others. Will allows himself to relax.
It’ll look good right before the evaluation.
-
He’s drunk by the time Hannibal safely returns them to his humble abode. Everything is slippery, falling away, and he thinks of the first time he watched a fish die. How his father hit it, and he’d barfed later, unable to peel the death from his eyes.
“Are you comfortable walking by yourself, Will?” Hannibal asks, and everything’s damp to the touch. Will isn’t sure if he sounds angry or if he’s amused, and gloved hands tuck themselves into pockets. Beverly had gone home in an Uber, promising to pick up her car in the morning. If she felt liquor as much as Will currently did, she was going to regret her life choices in the morning. He would, too, but right now he feels nice. Things feel nice. Damp, but nice. Why damp? He inhales, and the air is wet. He wonders if he’s thinking too much about that fucking fish. How it gaped, staring, dying.
“Yes, thanks, Dr. Lecter.”
“Please, call me Hannibal.”
Will likes the feel of that, how it compresses in his chest and makes his heart constrict. He thinks of how close they’d pressed together in the wardrobe, his cheek to the woolen coat, and Hannibal had held him so tightly.
He’s drunk, and it sounds like a god damn dream. He needs to hold it together but he can’t, and this was the sort of drunk he’d once told Hannibal about, the kind of drunk where being an empath wasn’t so bad. The dangerous kind. The kind where reality can be a dream, the dream being a life where one could touch someone whenever they wanted.
He doesn’t often think about touching people, but dreams are like that. You want something you don’t allow yourself to normally think of. You long for it. You hope for it.
“Dreams,” he manages to say –out of all of that –and he follows Hannibal into the house, taking his jacket off and allowing it to hang in the hallway. “How did you follow me into my headspace? I thought to ask at the time, but I…”
He inhales the taste of Hannibal Lecter’s home, and he trails off, studying the warm tone and how it continues to constrict his heart, panging tight and hungry. He wonders what Alana would say, if she could see him now. Obsessed, indeed.
“You grabbed my hand. I’ve heard it sometimes possible with E-2’s, so I supposed it plausible with an E-3. It’s never happened to me before, but it’s an experience I’ll never forget. I thought to thank you for it after, but it seemed a tasteless thing to thank you for.”
Hannibal leads him straight to the guest bedroom. It makes sense, given how he struggles up the stairs, but it makes Will think of how closely they’d been pressed, how lightly he’d been touched. Fuck, he’s too drunk. He can’t handle the overwhelming sense of his own feelings at the moment. He’s once again grateful he can’t sense anything from Hannibal.
He’d eaten monkshood within the shabby shelter of Will’s crumbling brain. Hannibal Lecter truly was something else.
He wants to say as such, but he forgets to, somewhere between shuffling into a spare set of pajamas and having a glass of water forced down. He watches Hannibal’s ease, how his vision wavers in and out but still continues to fixate solely on him.
Alana thought of it as obsession. Will wonders what Hannibal would think of his breaking into his office.
“You didn’t tell them what I said about the empath,” he recalls, just before Hannibal leaves the room.
Hannibal pauses and acknowledges it with a tilt of his head. Will’s vision swims, and he fully accepts he will be vomiting in the morning. “I am in your corner, Will. I wouldn’t have you doubt that.”
A rogue empath hunting him down to make him Become wouldn’t look good while his mind crumbled as he chased Dolarhyde. Hannibal is protecting him.
“Do you remember when you asked about my sex life, Dr. Lecter?” Will asks, unprompted.
Hannibal’s amused, and Will’s too drunk to yet feel shame. “Good night, Will.”
“No, I’m going somewhere with this. For your study of empathy.”
There’s something about Hannibal, how he looks at Will. Sometimes Will thinks it’s that he’s intrigued or amused, or he wonders if he is a puzzle that the doctor is trying to put together. Perhaps there is something less professional in how his eyes darken perceptively, but this is the sort of thing that is dangerous for Will. He’s only feeding off of his own emotions, and his own emotions are terrible at best and terrifying at their worst.
“I spoke of being able to numb myself enough that another person’s emotions and skin didn’t overwhelm me.”
Hannibal’s smile is lethal. “I recall.”
“This is how drunk I have to be in order to bear it.”
Hannibal takes that information with the same expression he had when he first found Will stumbling through the hallways of the house of mirrors –hunger. Something a little wicked, and Will thinks of bare hands passing over poetry, tasting the first sense of the good doctor for who he was behind such a normally modest façade.
Will falls into a drunken stupor that could be called sleep, if it wasn’t for such wonderful Dreams.
-
He dreams Hannibal is behind his sturdy walls. They rise high, and the stag paces along the tree line, watching. Somehow, the space feels bigger, a little more room for another row of herbs to grow. The poisoner and the healing hand. The air has a hint of thyme.
He isn’t sure how they are naked together, only that they are. There is something in the way of his dreams that he blinks, and he is there, as though it always was. Then he blinks again and it is another place that he always was, but one thing that is for certain is that Hannibal is there, his kiss is enough to get drunk off of; Will is certainly drunk off of it, and it is to the early morning he wakes, still drunk, puking into the first toilet he can find.
He thanks whatever God is listening at the moment that he managed to get to a toilet in time. He’s not quite sure he’d live down the shame of having to clean vomit off of Hannibal Lecter’s woven rug that belonged somewhere in a museum rather than someone’s floor.
His dreams pass over his eyes, but mornings are the best times to forget dreams. They become hazy, odd, and as he digs through the cupboards and is relieved to find mouthwash, Will is able to convince himself that he didn’t have wildly inappropriate dreams about his therapist, that he didn’t dream that they pressed monkshood to one another’s lips, that they didn’t dare and share a kiss.
It takes another round of dry-heaving and a good scrubbing of cold water to his face, but Will Graham walks out of the guest bathroom having managed to do what most people are able to do with dreams –forget them entirely. He thinks instead of the row of thyme that’d sprouted since his last trip into the bone arena of his skull.
“How are you feeling?” Hannibal asks the moment Will walks into the kitchen.
He’s already prepared a breakfast that was surely made with drinking in mind, a healthy helping of grease wrapped in lemon and honey-glazed salmon with eggs on the side. Will accepts it and sits up to the bar where Hannibal is busy with finishing his cup of coffee, newspaper in hand.
“Nothing I haven’t felt before,” Will reassures him.
“Were you ill?”
It’s a nice way of asking if he vomited. He shrugs a shoulder and focuses instead on the scents of the breakfast, testing the water. Is it safe to eat? The lingering flavors sit in the back of his throat before he swallows them down and deems them safe.
“Anything good?” Will asks, nodding to the paper.
“I woke thinking about your killer,” Hannibal replies, and he sets the paper down, smoothing the creases along the article he’s reading. “He’s made the front page.”
It’s the house of mirrors where Randall Tier was found. Police tape sections it off despite the fact the body is long gone and the stains are removed. The scene was a symbol, but the location in of itself is irrelevant because it was only a prop, used merely to mock Will as his mind attempts to rend itself in two.
Will remembers vaguely mentioning the killer, but it’s like attempting to look through a windowpane in a downpour. Everything is streaked, grey somehow, and he absentmindedly takes a bite of food, gloved hand gripping the fork with just a little too much pressure.
“Why did you wake thinking about him?”
“You never explained why you thought he was taunting you.”
Will chews the salmon to a paste before he swallows. “Why didn’t you tell them what I said?”
“Because I first wanted to understand what you said,” says Hannibal without missing a beat. He tracks Will’s next bite, lips pressed to a flat line. “How can I relay something I myself don’t know?”
Will manages another two bites before he thinks he can explain himself in a way that doesn’t make him sound just mentally unstable enough for Hannibal to turn him in. Despite the richness of the food, it’s not overwhelming. The tightness in his stomach seems to be hunger rather than nausea.
“He spoke to me,” he says, spearing a bite of egg.
“You heard him?”
He glances up and studies the curiosity on Hannibal Lecter’s face. So perfectly neutral, and Will is tempted to remove his gloves just to reach out his bare hands and maybe see something for once.
“With noise and clarity.”
“What did he ask you?”
“He asked if I could see.”
Can you see?
“What is it he wanted you to see?” Hannibal wonders, and he presses his palms to the warm coffee cup. He leans back against the counter and props himself up, a generally rumpled appearance for the good doctor.
This takes somewhat longer for Will to share, and he forces a few more bites of salmon down, the lemon bitter but welcome on his tongue.
“Myself.”
Hannibal’s head tilts just slightly to the side, but the corners of his eyes tighten, and Will can see that hint of hunger, of craving for something.
I’m fond of you.
“Did you see yourself in the house of mirrors? Or did you see yourself in Randall Tier?”
“Both. I…Randall Tier is the house of mirrors. Every time he contorted himself into some shape that wasn’t his, every time he made himself into something else for every person he came across, I’ve done something like that.”
Hannibal’s laugh was light, not unkind. “You have refused to contort yourself to many of us.”
“No, but I can’t help but take just enough of everyone along with me that I can’t separate it anymore. He…he knows how Hobbs…”
He doesn’t want to say it. How he and Hobbs are the same, even now with him six feet under. He needs to see Abigail today, needs to prepare for the evaluation. He needs to see Abigail, but in his most terrifying dreams he is Abigail –but aren’t they? They both died that day, died then returned not completely whole. Maybe there is something to the thought, that he has to see her because it seems to be the only way he can marginally feel whole.
“What does he gain from making you see? What is he wanting from you?”
Will finishes the eggs and lets the tines of the fork drag through the honeyed sauce. That is perhaps what is the most terrifying aspect of it, alongside somehow sympathizing with the monster murdering these people. Tools, he reminds himself. He thinks of these people as tools.
“He wants me to see what they’re trying to make me become,” he admits, and this isn’t like before when fear and adrenaline forced him to be intimate and confined in tight spaces with Hannibal. It’s a quiet, immaculate kitchen, nothing in the world to distract him from honestly apart from his own blunt, stubborn refusal. “I think that…that this person is trying to save me from dying at the hands of the FBI. I think he knows something that we don’t.”
He chances a look to Hannibal’s face. It’s contemplative, his brow furrowed as he makes quick work of wiping down the counter where his mug left a ring of fog on the granite. Hazy, grey streaks of dreams come, unprompted, and Will wonders if he managed to mention that the night before, or if he’d said something otherwise embarrassing that’s caused the talk this morning.
He finishes his plate, and there’s something bordering on domestic as Hannibal takes it to rinse it in the sink.
“Why didn’t you feel comfortable telling me then?��
Will thinks of the hunger in Hannibal’s eyes that day, that tenseness as though he’d been prepared to hold Will there until he fucking talked. “I wasn’t sure if I could trust you.”
Hannibal’s smile is graceful that time. He offers coffee and makes short work of preparing he grounds, fresh from this morning. “You trust me now, though?”
“Dr. Lecter –”
“Hannibal.”
“Hannibal,” Will corrects, “you literally have every reason in the world to call Jack Crawford right now and have me arrested for at least four felonies. Why haven’t you?”
Hannibal doesn’t miss a beat, focused on the espresso machine. “I’ve already told you that, Will. I’m fond of you.”
“Yeah, well,” Will huffs, “I’m fond of you, too.”
And then it’s said, and it’s too big for the room they’re sitting in. It’s too big for his lungs that quite suddenly deflate, and it’s too big for the way he’s entirely sure Hannibal’s smile is more telling than it should be. He likes that smile, though. There’s something nice about it, and there’s something nice about not quite being able to read him despite the complaints to the contrary. Dr. Lecter is interesting. Dr. Lecter is different.
Dr. Lecter is staring at him.
He offers Will the cup of espresso, his lips curved ever-so-slightly. “Will you drink this without your gloves on?”
For a wild moment, Will thinks of dragging his hands over Lecter’s office, craving every inch and marveling at the vast sensations. How close he felt, yet far enough away to only catch imprints. And now he’s suddenly being given permission? He wants to rip his gloves off, touch his palms to the surface of the kitchen where Hannibal so clearly loves to work; wants to press his palms to cheeks with hollowed, cruel edges that seem sharp enough to cut.
If Alana could see him now…
He removes his gloves slowly so that the good doctor can see and understand the motion. Then, he reaches out and accepts the piping hot cup, small enough that his palms encase it.
There is a hunger there, something that drags across his ribs as a bow along cello strings. He blows on the cup, both resigned and wickedly excited for the way it’s going to burn all the way down. When his lips press to the edge of the cup, there’s a wild feeling that he’s somehow sharing a kiss, and without anymore preamble, he tilts his head back and sucks the piping hot drink down.
When he looks back at Hannibal, there’s an intimate expression on the planes of his face that suggests Will had done everything Hannibal could have hoped for. Will’s palms are still tingling, stinging from the heat, but it compares nothing to the fire in his throat that claws down to his stomach. He has the briefest moment of indulging in a bad habit, and it’s difficult to say if he picked that up from the cup, or if it’s something much his own.
Either way, he’s drowning in it, that feeling. Something that is pronounced enough it lingers long after the heat does, after his throat stops complaining from the onslaught.
“To Abigail?” Will suggests hoarsely, when Hannibal makes no comment.
“To Abigail,” Hannibal agrees.
#LiaS scribbles#hannibal#nbc hannibal#hannibal au#hannigram#hannibal x will graham#empath au#someone help will graham#hannibal fanfic
16 notes
·
View notes
Text
So our goblin-loving asses started a new D&D campaign. This time Vel is the DM! Very exciting! Our lovely cast includes:
Nemeia, tiefling bard, so smol u think she’s 12, big on adopted families, can Vicious Mockery your ass into next week. Palilai, half-elf monk, string bean, full of book learnings, zero practical experience, wants to Know Things, super polite! Miri, elf druid, so fucking done, herbalism kit full of weed, cranky mom friend.
They meet on the road. Nemeia and Palilai immediately decide to travel together, inviting Miri along as well. Miri: these smol cinnamon rolls are going to die someone needs to keep an eye on them, guess it’ll be me.
They get to a walled town on a river called Nightstone. Place is empty as fuck, giant rocks everywhere, church bell ringing like crazy?
They investigate! Goblins are ringing the church bell for funsies. The gals act unthreatening and the goblins share that they got no idea what happened. The town was empty when they got there, so
They take care of some horses, not noticing the goblin frantically hiding in the hayloft until riiiight before they go to sleep for the night. He is Frighten. Nemeia and Palilai try to be reassuring, but he ends up booking it.
They follow him into the inn, only to find a different goblin bleeding out on the floor from a crossbow wound. Nemeia heals her! Her name is Sark and the other goblins hiding in the inn carry her off.
The lady who shot Sark , name of Kella, is hanging out in a room with a rock-hole punched through it and she’s got no idea what happened with the town either. She deigns to stay where she is.
The gals find a villager! She’s nearly dead under rubble, but through the power of emergency first aid and healing magic she is stabilized! Still unconscious, tho.
Some mercenaries Kella was waiting for as an escort arrive. Soon after, some orcs come rushing up! There is a Battle. Palilai almost dies, only to be revived and then kick an orc in the face so that he died. Baby’s First Murder. She has a bit of a breakdown.
The orcs managed to kill one of the mercenaries, and almost kill three others. When the gals find healing potions on the orcs, they promptly give them to the near-dead mercenaries. Their generosity is met with confusion.
After a short rest, Palilai, Nemeia, and a mercenary going by her last name Varcona go out to find some food. Palilai and Nemeia make soup! Varcona is taken aback by how willing they are to make nice things for the rest of them even though they’ve barely met. They search the trading post as well, seeing that the goblins had already gone through it, but! There are two healer’s kits set out with a bloody crossbow bolt laid across them. Sark and company apparently left a thank you! Nemeia is delighted. Varcona is baffled.
Meanwhile, Miri abhors social interaction.
Each of the three gals is paired with a mercenary for watch that night. There is general chatter about where they’re from and where they’re going. None of them really has a set destination in mind. Nemeia is paired with Varcona and ends up gushing about her precocious little brother who she is Very Proud Of. She found him herself! Adopting everyone ever is how her family do. She also shares her family’s determination to be kind in an unkind world.
Morning comes, and the mercenaries made porridge for breakfast! The gals go off to do dishes, which goes surprisingly fast thanks to Nemeia’s Prestidigitation. They come back and are given their bowls, only for Varcona to trip on her own feet and wipe out spectacularly. The bowls are broken and Nemeia gets landed on. Whoops!
After breakfast, they head out to check for any more survivors or supplies, and to try to reach the keep. They find a winged cat! After much coaxing and offering of tasty tidbits, it takes up residence on Nemeia’s shoulder, hidden by her hair.
Periodically, Vel asked us to roll Perception checks. The results were…not great. We noticed nothing.
As we reached the bridge to the keep and started debating how to get across the broken part, Shit Got Real.
Varcona grabbed Kella and held a knife to her throat, demanding that the three gals be allowed to leave immediately! Said gals are Confused and Concerned. Miri demands answers. Varcona says that they’d tried to poison them that morning with the porridge! The mercenary leader, Xolkin, tries to talk Varcona down, telling her to not throw everything away for nothing, to think about what she’s doing! He even calls her by her first name, Keth.
Nemeia, deciding that she trusts Keth over the other mercenaries, pulls out her rapier and casts Dissonant Whispers on Xolkin, though he succeeds on his saving throw and doesn’t feel the need to run. Miri storms up to Xolkin and gives him five seconds to explain what’s going on. Two mercenaries try to shoot Palilai, only for her to catch the bolts in her hands and break them. Two others take swipes at Miri, one of them managing to hit her. Nemeia is underestimated and not aimed at.
Perception checks continue to be called for. We continue to notice nothing.
Kella rolls a natural 20 on an attempt to stab herself free of Keth. Nemeia’s Cutting Words keeps the damage from being too dire, but Kella is no longer a meat shield and Keth is bleeding freely. Xolkin goes to strike Miri when suddenly -
ZWING
- a crossbow bolt strikes him in the wrist! From hiding, fourteen goblins appear! Prominently placed is Sark, crossbow held in front of her.
“I missed.” She says, and fires again. Kella gets hit in the shoulder. Revenge!
The goblins declare this town is theirs and the mercenaries should gtfo before they get pincushioned. There is a tense moment as Xolkin weighs the odds, and then they make a break for it, leaving behind their horses and most of their gear.
Sark and company are, quite deservedly, pleased with themselves. Turns out they never actually left town. They snuck around, rolling well on stealth as we rolled poorly on perception, eavesdropping on the mercenaries and their plans, and when the time came they came onto the scene like Big Damn Heroes.
Nemeia rushes to Keth’s side and heals her. Miri still wants to know What The Fuck is Happening. Also Nice One, Goblins. Goblins preen at her praise.
Keth, somewhat in shock and being aggressively cuddled by Nemeia, explains that the mercenary group was actually members of the Zhentarim. Nemeia has never fucking heard of them. Palilai knows that their public face is of an elite mercenary company. Keth explains that they are Shady As Fuck. They do the Murder and Stealing Thing. And in order to be able to spin whatever story they wanted about what happened in the town, the three gals had to be gotten rid of. Also they stan the goblins (the usual ideal scapegoat) and that was inconvenient.
Keth, now having nowhere to go, is Shaken. Nemeia promptly insists that she stay with them. And later she can introduce her to her family! Palilai is also very earnestly welcoming. Miri is welcoming in a standoffish way. Keth is Moved. Miri wants to know why she decided to side with them over the Zhentarim. It can’t just be because they were nice. Keth says there was a reason, but she doesn’t feel up to explaining it right at that moment. Miri finds this acceptable.
Now that they have added Keth to their party, they decide to investigate the keep. The goblins help them cobble together a ramp over the broken bridge, and that’s where we had to call it a night!
Vel offered us some juicy insights as we were packing up.
The goblins literally never left. They hung out on the side of town we weren’t on and Sark and co informed the others about the cinnamon rolls and their standoffish chaperone. And they also eavesdropped on the Zhentarim guys’ plans for offing the three gals. They rolled Really Well on stealth and even as the difficulty class for noticing them kept dropping, we just kept rolling shittier on perception. WE WERE IN A REALLY INTENSE AND DISTRACTING SITUATION, OKAY.
If Xolkin had been able to talk Keth down from holding Kella at knifepoint, he would have told her that it’s okay, she’s still part of their group. She just needs to off those three right now to prove they can trust her. Oh, and they can undo the bandages on the unconscious villager and let her bleed out. : )
Every time the Zhentarim (other than Keth) struck up conversation with a gal about her family or what weapons she liked or where she was going? Gathering intel to make fighting them easier and also making sure that no one would notice them going missing. : )
Keth didn’t hear about the poisoning plan until after she’d been on watch with Nemeia and she was like what the FUCK.
Keth deciding to help them instead of letting them get killed was, yes, in part because Nemeia and Palilai were so nice to her. But it was also because they were nice even when it wasn’t easy. It was because of Nemeia having a whole family of people who chose to be kind and hadn’t been killed off young. She wanted to believe that kindness could exist in this world without being snuffed out. KETH MAKES ME EMOTIONAL. PROTECT HER.
The Zhentarim attacked Palilai and Miri first because Miri struck them as dangerous and they’d seen Palilai kill a man. Also the only person to hear Nemeia describe Vicious Mockery as “I can boil someone’s blood by insulting them :D” was Keth. Nemeia is perpetually underestimated because she is so smol and floof.
Nemeia has fucking adopted Keth I don’t make the rules.
Nemeia: She has had a hard life! She had to be so brave to help us! She needs gentleness! She needs to be protected! (ง •̀_•́)ง
5 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
