Chapter Text
The cacophony of Elias’ grief is making Hannibal seethe.
The man is sobbing over Abigail’s open casket like a child. It is a vulgar, wet sound that completely disrupts the solemn acoustics of the church viewing room. Dennis was crying just minutes ago against Hannibal’s shoulder, but Dennis is a ten-year-old boy. Dennis is soft –just as Abigail was soft– and his tears were quiet and devastating.
Elias is a grown man. He is Abigail's widower and a father himself. He should know better than to put his lack of emotional control on display for the congregation. Resting against Elias’ shaking shoulder, one-year-old Isaac is somehow sleeping peacefully, entirely oblivious as his father wails with an unseemly lack of restraint over his mother’s body.
Hannibal closes his eyes and hides a quiet, disdainful snort in Dennis’ light curls.
“He passed out,” Will comments softly, stepping closer to inspect the heavy weight of their youngest son slouched against Hannibal’s chest.
“I gave him a soft massage to his carotid sinus,” Hannibal tells him. “The emotional distress was elevating his heart rate to an uncomfortable degree. It was kinder to let him sleep.”
Will nods, understanding the clinical mercy of it. He reaches out, gently pushing Dennis' sweat-dampened hair back to assess the red, tear-stained mess of the boy's face.
“Maybe we should leave him asleep in the car,” Will offers, his voice low. “I can watch him while the service finishes.”
“He would be furious if he slept through Abigail’s interment,” Hannibal answers, sighing softly. His arms tighten around Dennis just a fraction, supporting the boy's dead weight easily. “I don’t mind holding him.”
“We’ll need to stop holding him eventually, Hannibal,” Will says.
Hannibal looks up, meeting his husband’s eyes over Dennis’ head. He knows Will isn’t talking about the physical act of carrying a sleeping child. He is talking about the shield they have built around him. The walls keeping Dennis entirely separate from the blood and the basement.
“Eventually,” Hannibal repeats, his voice entirely too soft.
Will smiles a razor-thin smile and rests his hand over Hannibal’s where it supports Dennis’ back. The touch is grounding.
Then, Elias lets out a loud, shuddering sniff from across the room that sounds wet and absolutely disgusting.
Hannibal decides right then, with perfect clarity, that he will kill Elias. Abigail was a strong, resilient woman, and she would have raised her sons to be the same. But this spineless, weeping creature will ruin them. He will teach Isaac and Jacob to be victims.
“His wife just died, Hannibal,” Will points out, reading the murderous micro-expressions shifting across Hannibal’s face as easily as reading large print. “Give him time to grieve.”
“He will not raise the boys well,” Hannibal counters quietly. “He lacks the fortitude.”
“We’ll help raise them,” Will replies, a dark promise in his tone. “But we won’t do anything drastic until he stops mourning. It would be highly suspicious, and frankly, bad form.”
Will looks over at Elias. For all that Will sometimes pretends to be the moral anchor of their marriage, the man is just as cautious, territorial, and bloodthirsty when it comes to their family.
“I miss seeing you hunt,” Hannibal murmurs, the sudden wave of nostalgia catching him off guard.
Will smiles back, his eyes flashing, and raises his hand to lightly stroke Dennis’ head again.
They cannot hunt like they used to. Before Dennis, they used to go out together twice a month to fill the pantry, a beautifully orchestrated ballet of pursuit and harvest. But Dennis is too attached, too perceptive, and requires too much of their time. Now, they are forced to hunt closer to home, taking turns, rushing the process. Hannibal misses watching Will get lost in the art of the kill. The sight of his husband holding a hunting knife, breathless and magnificent in the moonlight, is a memory that plays on a continuous loop in Hannibal’s mind.
“Maybe we can convince Dennis to stay with Henry and Tiffany for a week next month,” Will offers, his voice dropping into a sultry, conspiratorial whisper. “We can’t go to Europe right now, but maybe Canada?”
Hannibal smiles, the prospect lifting the stifling gloom of the funeral.
“We could,” Hannibal agrees smoothly. “I do have a couple of names in Canada.”
“Names for us to use, or names for us to look out for?” Will jokes dryly. Hannibal chuckles, a low vibration in his chest that doesn't wake the boy in his arms. “I’ll go get Isaac and Jacob,” Will decides, his tolerance for the public performance of grief officially depleted.
He turns and walks over to Elias’ side. Will moves calmly, if not gently, seamlessly extracting the sleeping Isaac from Elias’ trembling arms and taking three-year-old Jacob by the hand. Without offering a single word of hollow comfort to the widower, Will picks Jacob up, carrying both of Abigail's children toward the side exit and out into the parking lot.
Hannibal watches him go with deep affection. He is absolutely certain that his husband is going to lock himself inside the SUV with their grandchildren for a good while. Hannibal highly doubts Will will even come back inside for the burial.
Alone in the crowd, Hannibal adjusts his grip on Dennis and begins a slow, methodical visual sweep of the room.
He checks the sightlines, making sure no one has a camera, evaluating the floral arrangements and the seating. Henry and Tiffany are sitting near the front, speaking in hushed, somber tones. Hannibal feels a rare flicker of pity for them; the joy of their recent engagement –celebrated with a grand dinner just a fortnight past– is completely eclipsed by the shadow of Abigail’s death. He remembers the picture taken that night, Abigail laughing and hugging Tiffany when Henry’s fiancée asked her to be a bridesmaid. A tragic waste of potential.
Before returning to the center of the nave, Hannibal paces near the back corridor to check the perimeter. As he passes the heavy oak door of the church restrooms, he hears a muffled, rhythmic thud against the tile.
Hannibal pushes the door open a fraction of an inch.
It is Maddie. His wild, intensely emotional daughter is backed against the marble sink, her black mourning dress hitched up around her thighs, intertwined with a young man –one of Elias’ cousins, if Hannibal recalls the guest list correctly. Grief manifests in crude, animalistic ways for the unrefined. Hannibal doesn't interrupt. He merely lets the door click shut, making a clinical note of the absolute lack of dignity.
He walks back into the main hall and looks toward the entrance. Thomas is there.
At seventeen, Thomas is nearly as tall as Hannibal, broad-shouldered and imposing. But as the boy steps into the light of the stained glass, Hannibal’s eyes snap to his wrist. There is a distinct smear of rust-brown blood on the stark white cuff of his dress shirt.
Hannibal approaches, his aura dropping twenty degrees.
“Do we need to have another lesson in evidence?” Hannibal hisses, his voice a silken blade meant only for Thomas’ ears.
Thomas’ jaw clenches. He looks down at his own wrist, noticing the stain, and looks properly chastised.
“Did you at least manage to secure our guest?” Hannibal asks coldly. “Or were you useless at even that?”
“He’s in the pantry at the farm,” Thomas answers softly. He glances at the sleeping boy slumped against Hannibal’s chest. “Do you want me to hold him?”
“I can care for your brother,” Hannibal answers smoothly, a possessive tightness entering his tone. “Go see if your father has a spare shirt for you. He is in the car with the boys.”
Thomas nods, his expression blank, and begins to turn away.
Hannibal pauses. Rearing a killer requires a delicate psychological balance. The stick must be followed by the carrot. Bite and blow. If he wants Thomas to respect and obey his design, he cannot purely act the tyrant.
“Thomas,” Hannibal calls softly. The boy stops. “Well done. Your sister deserves vengeance.”
“Yes, Father. Thank you,” Thomas answers, his posture straightening with pride before he slips out the side door.
Hannibal sighs, adjusting his hold on his youngest. He bounces Dennis slightly. He feels the boy stir, his small hand tightening convulsively against Hannibal’s lapel. Hannibal instantly schools his sharp, predatory features into a mask of absolute, unconditional warmth.
“Hello,” Hannibal murmurs, turning Dennis' back to the casket so the boy won't have to wake up looking at Abigail's waxen face. “Are you feeling better?”
Dennis sniffs, burying his face into Hannibal’s collarbone before pushing back slightly to look at him. His eyes are red and swollen but better than before.
“I’m sorry I cried on you, Daddy,” Dennis whispers softly.
“I do not mind, puppy,” Hannibal tells the boy, and it is a terrifyingly sincere truth.
Being a father –and a grandfather– has fundamentally rewired Hannibal. Before Will, before this cobbled-together family, he would have abhorred a child ruining a bespoke suit with tears and snot. Now, it just invokes a fierce, violent protective instinct.
“Do you want to go down?” Hannibal asks.
Dennis looks around the room. Seeing the somber, weeping adults, he shakes his head emphatically and presses his cheek back against Hannibal’s shoulder.
“Where is Papa?” Dennis asks.
“He took the boys to have some quiet time in the car,” Hannibal explains.
“Can we go there?” Dennis asks. It doesn't surprise Hannibal; even as Dennis clings to him, the boy has always sought out Will for raw, emotional comfort.
“Of course.”
Hannibal walks out of the church, moving calmly through the crisp air toward the dark SUV parked under the shade of an oak tree.
Will is sitting in the passenger seat with the door open, three-year-old Jacob dozing on his chest. Isaac is asleep in his car seat in the back. The trunk is popped open, and Thomas is standing behind it, having stripped off his ruined shirt, searching a duffel bag for a spare. They don’t have one his size; there is only spare clothes for Dennis, infinitely too small for Thomas’ broad frame.
“Papa!” Dennis calls softly when Will looks up.
Will’s tense face melts into a soft, tired smile. “There are my boys,” Will jokes, his voice a low rumble. Hannibal can barely contain the fond smile pulling at his own lips. “Did you have a good nap, mon petit?”
“I was just tired,” Dennis excuses himself quietly.
Then, Dennis looks toward the trunk and sees Thomas. Instantly, the desire to not be perceived as a baby by his older brother overrides his exhaustion. He begins to wiggle, signaling Hannibal to put him down. Hannibal obliges, setting the boy on his feet.
Dennis walks around the back of the SUV toward Thomas.
As he gets closer, Hannibal watches the scene unfold. Without his shirt, the damage from subduing Abigail’s killer is visible on Thomas’ torso. There is a harsh, blooming purple bruise across his ribs, and a shallow, bleeding scrape tearing down his oblique.
Dennis stops in his tracks. His small brow furrows in deep, innocent distress.
He steps right into Thomas’ space. Dennis reaches out, his tiny, soft fingers hovering just a millimeter over the raw scrape on Thomas’ side.
“Tommy, you’re hurt,” Dennis whispers, his voice thick with genuine sorrow. He looks up into his older brother’s eyes. “Does it bleed? Let me take care of it.”
Thomas freezes completely. He looks down at the small boy, then at the gentle, hovering fingers on his shoulder.
Something dark, heavy, and irreversible shifts in Thomas’ eyes. It is a terrifying kind of awe. The violence inside Thomas suddenly finds a focal point: this soft, pure thing that wants to heal him.
“Thank you, Denny,” Thomas says softly.
Dennis climbs into the back of the SUV, retrieving the leather-bound first aid kit. His small, precise fingers clean the scrape with antiseptic and dress it perfectly with an adhesive bandage. Hannibal watches, properly proud of the boy’s neat, methodical work.
“That’s very nice of you, Petit,” Will calls warmly from the front seat.
“Yes,” Thomas echoes, following Will’s lead. His gaze is fixed intensely on his little brother. “Very nice.”
“Get dressed,” Hannibal orders, cutting through the moment the second Dennis is done playing doctor. “Your sister is waiting.”
Thomas complies, pulling on an old, spare dress shirt that Hannibal had forgotten he left in the trunk. It stretches tight across Thomas’ broad chest. But as Hannibal crosses behind the car to offer his arms to his youngest, Thomas beats him to it. Thomas wraps his large hands around Dennis’ waist and twirls the boy off the tailgate with an easy, charming smile. Dennis laughs –a soft, bright, innocent sound– as he is gently lowered to the grass.
Hannibal’s eyes narrow slightly.
He needs to curb Thomas better. It is entirely unbecoming for a man to mimic another, especially when the man being mimicked is Hannibal himself. That smile, that smooth, paternal gesture –it was a stolen pantomime. Thomas is his instrument and his heir, not his replacement, and the boy had better learn that distinction quickly before his arrogance becomes a liability.
“Come, puppy,” Hannibal calls, stepping forward and extending his hand. He holds the sleeping Jacob securely in his other arm, while Will stays behind with Isaac. “Thomas, with us.”
“Coming, Dad,” Thomas answers. He falls into step beside them, looking down at the small boy walking between them. “Are you okay, Dennis?”
“I’m going to miss Abigail,” Dennis answers sincerely. His voice wavers, and Hannibal can see the boy is on the verge of crying again. “It’s not fair.”
Thomas’ face hardens into something cold and sharp. “No, it isn’t fair.”
Hannibal feels a familiar, dark knot of rage tighten in his chest. It isn't fair, and it is entirely Elias’ fault.
A capable man would have protected his wife. He never should have let her work completely unguarded. Abigail had run a small, gingham-covered stall at the local farmer's market to sell the surplus products from the farm. They utilized almost everything they grew and killed on their land, but there was always a little left over that even their vast family couldn't consume.
One Saturday a month, she and Dennis would sit behind that counter, selling homemade wine, jams, and uniquely sourced cured bacon. While they waited for customers, Abigail taught Dennis how to whittle and carve figurines out of bone. Hannibal still keeps the very first bone flute Dennis ever carved for him in his desk displayed like a trophy.
“I’m sorry it doesn’t sound good,” the seven-year-old boy had apologized, climbing into Hannibal’s lap to present the gift. “I’m still learning. The next one will be better.”
“It is perfect,” Hannibal had promised, kissing his boy’s curls. And it was.
The murder had happened on a Saturday. Mercifully, Dennis had been with Tiffany that day, safely picking out flowers for her wedding. Abigail was loading the unsold inventory back into her car when a man approached. He was a relative of one of Garret Hobbs’s old victims, and he began baiting her, screaming that she was just as guilty as her father.
The witnesses later said that Abigail was courteous. She tried to de-escalate, explaining that she was just the daughter of a flawed, dead man, and that Garret was the one at fault.
The man couldn’t have cared less. He shot her right there on the sunny asphalt.
And her useless husband? Elias had been sitting inside the air-conditioned cabin of the car the entire time. He only started screaming after the gunshots rang out, with their children crying in the backseat.
Useless man. Because of his cowardice, Abigail is dead, and Hannibal now has to carefully orchestrate therapy sessions just to ensure his youngest son’s mind doesn't fracture from the grief.
“Go sit down, Thomas,” Hannibal orders as they step back into the cool, shadowed nave of the church.
Thomas immediately reaches out to take Dennis’ hand to lead him to the pews. Hannibal steps smoothly between them, blocking the contact.
“Do you want to stay with me, puppy?” Hannibal asks, looking down at the boy.
“Yes, Daddy,” Dennis answers softly, pressing himself against Hannibal’s leg.
Hannibal smiles a razor-thin smile of victory as Thomas drops his hand, his jaw clenching slightly before he turns and walks to an empty pew.
Scanning the room, Hannibal notes that Maddie is finally sitting down, smoothing her black skirts. He will deal with her bathroom indiscretion later. If all his children behaved with the sweet, pure devotion of Dennis, his life would not be nearly this complicated.
He steps up to the front of the pulpit, Dennis clinging to his side, Jacob heavy and warm in his arms. He looks out over the sea of grieving faces, taking a steadying breath.
He begins his final goodbye to the brilliant, broken daughter who first brought Will Graham into his life. And for that gift, Hannibal will always be indebted to Abigail.
"We will come back, mon petit," Will promises yet again. Over the crown of Dennis’ head, Will's eyes meet Hannibal's. The tense set of Will's jaw and the clouded uncertainty in his gaze tell Hannibal everything he needs to know: Will is on the precipice of cancelling this trip altogether.
"Puppy, come here," Hannibal murmurs, extending an arm.
Dennis shifts fluidly from Will's embrace into Hannibal's, burying his tear-streaked face against his father's chest.
"What do you want?" Hannibal asks, his tone velvet-soft. Dennis sniffs, tipping his head back to look at him in watery confusion. "As a souvenir," Hannibal clarifies, gently prompting him. "Henry asked for a wristwatch. Tiffany requested something blue to wear to her wedding. Maddie expects a new chef’s knife, and Thomas wants a bespoke suit. What is it that you want from us?"
Dennis seems to ponder this, successfully distracted from the open suitcases Will is methodically packing. "I want you to come back," the boy finally whispers.
A profound, possessive warmth blooms in the center of Hannibal’s chest. Oh, the intoxicating weight of this absolute devotion. To have such a precious, fragile creature depending entirely upon them –so sweet and innocent, yet so desperately needy. It renders Hannibal so wholly indispensable that the child cannot fathom enduring a single day without his fathers. It is a heady, magnificent feeling.
"You can count the days," Hannibal tells him, brushing a stray lock of hair from Dennis’ forehead. "We will be home in ten days, on the dot."
"What if you aren't?" Dennis asks worriedly, his small fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of Hannibal's shirt.
Hannibal shifts, pulling Dennis up properly so they are sitting face-to-face on the edge of the mattress. "We will be," Hannibal vows, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. "Dennis, we will always come back for you. No matter what happens, no matter where we are in this world, we will never leave you alone."
Dennis stares at him, wide-eyed and terrified. "What if someone tries to shoot you?"
Hannibal forces a slow blink to veil the sudden, white-hot spike of irritation that flares behind his eyes at the thought of Elias. It is Elias’ sheer, staggering incompetence that has planted these seeds of mortal terror in their son's mind.
"I will kill them first," Hannibal states, a simple, irrefutable fact. "We will kill whoever we must to keep our family safe."
He lifts his gaze to meet Will's. Will halts his packing, a silent, charged conversation passing between them. Will is already shaking his head in a sharp, minute fraction of an inch –a clear, unspoken warning. Will knows him too well; he reads the feral urge rising in Hannibal's dark eyes. Hannibal wants to take Dennis down to the hidden pantry. He wants to show his son the man who killed Abigail.
The creature is still alive down there, stripped naked and strung up by his bound hands, suspended from a meat hook so his feet merely graze the cold concrete. He has been bleeding out slowly for a month, kept barely breathing on a drip-feed of agony until Hannibal decides he has atoned enough to be tossed into a vat of alkaline solvent, erasing his miserable existence from the earth forever. Let the boy see what happens to monsters who threaten us, Hannibal thinks.
But Will's stern, pleading eyes anchor him back to the bedroom. Hannibal swallows the dark impulse and looks back down at Dennis, who is now staring miserably at his own small hands.
Will abandons the luggage and steps closer. "What is it, petit?" he asks, his voice an achingly gentle contrast to the violence lingering in the air.
"I don't think I can kill, Papa," Dennis admits in a frail, trembling whisper.
Will smiles, utterly enchanted by the boy's pure, untainted nature. Hannibal feels his own lips curve into a fond, mirroring smile.
"You don't have to," Will tells him, crouching down to meet Dennis at eye level. "We will kill for you."
"But what about when I'm alone?" Dennis asks, the fear clinging to him like a second skin.
"You will never be alone," Hannibal promises. He presses a firm, reassuring kiss to the crown of the boy's head, rewarded by a small, relieved sniffle. "We will always protect you, Dennis."
Will reaches out, gently squeezing Dennis’ knee. "Do you want some chocolate?" he offers softly.
Dennis finally nods, the dark shadows of his anxiety briefly kept at bay by the warmth of his fathers.