Chapter Text
—Holly—Holly—Holly—Holly—Holly—
Harry stopped them just before they walked into the airport, checking her, their trunk, and backpacks… again, making sure that they still did, in fact, have all their worldly possessions on them.
Holly thinks it's sad that all they have fits into one suitcase and two ratty old bags. She's also immensely grateful that they don’t have much, because any more stuff would have just slowed them down—and then Uncle James might have caught up to them, and…
Best not to think about that.
“All right, we have everything,” her brother declared as he zipped her backpack back up after rummaging through it for the hundredth time. Holly rolls her eyes at him to show her exasperation. Harry’s such a worrywart.
He snorts out a small puff of laughter. “Yeah, yeah. I’m a worrywart, I know.”
Her brother knows her so well—he even knows when she’s making fun of him without her having to use any words. Not that Holly would have said anything anyway. Not today.
Today is a mute day. Holly has them sometimes. They’re basically just days where talking feels… wrong. Difficult and slimy. Writing doesn’t work either; that feels bad too—almost as much as forcing herself to talk on mute days feels. Like she’s choking and drowning and wrong, wrong, wrong.
Harry had come up with a simple way of communicating that works: knocking.
One for yes or good, two for no or bad, three for maybe or I don’t know—all depending on context. And of course, rapid knocking for look at me or I need your attention now. It works. Doesn’t feel bad, and it’s simple enough to remember without prompting. It’s second nature now, after four years of using it as their go-to system.
Harry handed her the noise-canceling headphones he got her last year for their birthday. They were blue like their left eyes and sparkly.
Holly likes shiny things. Harry often calls her a magpie.
“Come on, let’s go in,” Harry said after he grabbed the handle of the suitcase—thank Cthulhu for wheels—“and remember to hold my hand. There’s going to be a bunch of people rushing around in there.”
Her brother’s so bossy, and such a mother hen, but he did wait for her to okay it before grabbing her hand and dragging her along beside him.
He was also right, of course. How is he always right? The airport is crowded, with mostly adults running and panicked or yelling at one another, arguing with the staff, and just generally being a giant nuisance.
Even with the headphones, Holly feels too much noise echoing around in her brain. A headache started developing before they even got to one of the desk thingies where a woman was sitting behind a computer and checking people in.
“Good morning,” Harry too cheerfully greeted the lady before he asked about their flight and showed her their passports. Goblins are wonderful people who do fantastic things even with such short notice.
As they spoke, Holly grew more uncomfortable. It wasn’t just the noise and the people and the uncertainty. The overhead lights were so blindingly bright, her eyes hurt. They burned. As they had walked over to the lady, Holly had kept her head down, humming to herself in a desperate attempt to drown out the people all around them. But now that she was looking around more—yeah, the light was killer.
She tugged on Harry’s coat harshly. He would fix the problem. Harry’s good at making things less… too much. Less big.
Like always, when Holly needed him, he gave her his complete attention with little to no regard for anything or anyone else. Holly was vaguely aware that Harry had just stopped talking mid-conversation, and that, that was rude, but she couldn’t care at the moment. Her retinas are on fire.
“Holls?” he asked, then caught up pretty quick when he noticed her closed eyes and ducked head.
“Ah, right. Bright light,” he muttered to himself as he flung his backpack around to unzip and search through it. Soon the cool feeling of plastic was being pushed against her face as Harry fixed a pair of cheap black sunglasses on her. She peeked an eye open and was relieved to see the world in tinted darkness. Holly would have worn a blindfold if she weren’t so clumsy, and if it weren’t such a terrible idea that Harry said tempted fate far too much for him to be comfortable with.
With a dead mother and a mental case for an uncle, Harry said it would be stupid to tempt any possible higher being into shoving them into more unfortunate circumstances.
Holly’s not sure how things could get more lousy, but she trusts Harry when he says that things could always get worse.
Her brother turned back around to face the lady at the desk. “So do we have an hour before we need to board, or do we have an hour before the plane’s due to take off?”
He was perfectly polite. Harry nearly always is when talking to a stranger, but for some reason, this woman was looking at him and Holly… well, she’s not sure how the woman is looking at them—only that it’s a different look than the one she gave them before.
“Before you board…” the lady said slowly, still holding onto their passport books and now frowning at them. Weird woman.
“Thank you. Have a good day, miss,” Harry said while he snatched their documents back from her and gave her a megawatt smile that Holly knew was his not-real one. He never smiled at her like that.
She was weird Holly said with raised eyebrows and open palms as she and Harry made their way over to a little café for breakfast. They hadn’t had time earlier. Harry understood her easily.
“Kids our age don’t normally go on planes by themselves,” Harry said with a half shrug.
We’re seven, not two! Holly huffed in her head. They’re not babies, and they take the bus on their own all the time. How much different can a plane be? And the librarian at Godric’s Hollow Public Library said they were advanced for their age!
“Guess they’re not used to seven-year-olds using their brains. What do you want for breakfast?”
She knows he’s using food to distract her. She knows. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still work.
Darn her brother and his manipulative distraction methods! He knows she’s always hungry.
She looked over the menu on the wall behind the counter and pointed at what she wanted—an order of bacon, sausage, eggs, and baked beans. Meat-heavy, just like Harry said was important for her diet.
Harry says it's because she’s like their mum, who had a creature inheritance.
They had found their mum's old school trunk last year around Yule—the one they have with them now—which contained all her school things: her wand, a photo book, and her diary.
Holly remembers holding her mum’s wand. It worked for her. Wasn't a true fit, but it worked. Holly had practiced some simple charms from Lily's first-year school books while Harry had flicked through her diary.
No privacy for the dead, he had said.
And it was a good thing too, because Harry had found out what was wrong with Holly. She had always been a sickly child, and Uncle James had refused to take her to the healers. She's light-sensitive, her skin is colder than most everyone else's, she's always hungry no matter how much she eats. She bruises too easily, and when she gets cuts, they bleed like stab wounds.
All her teeth that aren't for grinding things are too pointy and needle-like at the ends. She sees better in the dark, her sense of smell and eyesight are too good to be normal, and she's more lethargic during the day and more energized in the later hours.
Oh, and her bones are denser, less breakable, at least that's when the book says. No real way for her and Harry to check for that.
Point is, Holly's different. Apparently, their mum was too, and her diary explained everything Lily had known about it. It's a creature inheritance, people in magical Britain would probably kill her for it, the symptoms she had, what helped, and all the small scraps of information Lily had gotten, she had written down—alongside all her heartbreak at knowing her brother would see her as a monster if she ever told him. That her parents might turn her in to the Ministry to be ‘put down’ if they figured it out.
Lily Potter had lived in fear of her own family for years.
Harry had also said that there were worse things written in the book—later on, when their mother had been in her later years at Hogwarts—but said that Holly was ‘too young’ to know.
She and Harry are twins—they’re literally the same age! Well, he's like a few minutes older, but still. It’s ridiculous.
Anyway, Harry said that a meat-heavy diet would help and that when they're older, he would be able to get her what she really needed to be healthy. He wouldn’t say what that was, only that it was a special type of food.
When their breakfast was served, Holly inhaled it within minutes. She hadn't been lying when she said she was always hungry.
Even after her big breakfast, she still felt hungry. It’s a different type of hunger though. As she got older, Holly had started to realize the difference. When she hadn’t had a meal in a while, she would get ‘regular’ hungry—something fixed with a quick snack. The other hunger, however?
Always there. No amount or type of food has ever satisfied it.
And it felt… different from regular hunger. Deeper, somehow.
Still, the light-headedness she hadn’t realized she was suffering from eased up after she finished eating.
They browsed around the airport bits-and-bobs shop after that, grabbing a bunch of junk food to add to their carry-ons. They also got a book each to help kill off the boredom they would likely suffer from. Holly got Frankenstein, and Harry got Murder on the Orient Express.
With everything sorted and still half an hour to kill, they settled into the hard plastic waiting chairs, with Holly harassing Harry until he agreed to read his book aloud. Harry has a good reading voice. It’s all steady, unlike hers. Holly tends to trip over her words when she's reading aloud.
When it came to boarding the plane, it was a lot more involved than Holly thought it would be. First, they had to take off anything metal they had on them, their shoes, and put it all—as well as their backpacks—into plastic trays to go through some sort of machine that could look inside them to see if there was something in them that wasn’t meant to be.
Worse, Holly had to take off her sunglasses and headphones. It was torture. Terrible, horrible torture.
Why don’t they just open them? Holly had thought. It made no sense.
Then she and Harry had to step through a human-sized version of the machine to see if they were hiding something. What they were looking for, Holly doesn’t know, but these airport staff are just as paranoid as her brother.
Finally, they were told to walk down a corridor that led to the plane that would grant them their freedom. It was bigger on the inside than she thought it would be. Then again, the planes looked really little from so far away when Holly had seen them through the windows.
They got their seats together—thank Cthulhu—and Holly took the window seat. Not because she particularly cared for the view, but more so because she didn’t want people walking past her to go to the bathroom or whatever else it was that people did on a plane mid-flight.
Harry had buckled her in just as a man's voice spoke to them and all the other passengers. They would be taking off soon, and suddenly Holly realized that she was maybe a little afraid of flying.
Typical, really, for her to realize she was scared of something just as said something was happening.
Good thing Harry was always prepared. She had on her sunglasses and headphones. He passed her a bag of hard-boiled sweets that were meant to help with ear-popping and give her a good sensation to focus on—sweet sugary goodness.
The plane started rolling forward and Holly reached out to grab Harry’s hand in a death grip. When they started going up, her stomach flip-flopped and her eyes felt strange, and she sucked on her rhubarb and custard-flavoured sweet and kept up the attempt at breaking her brother’s hand.
It felt like a lifetime before the plane evened out and the man said they could get up and go to the bathroom now. Holly thought he must have said that for the people who nearly pissed themselves during take-off.
Holly might not have peed her pants, but she sure felt lightheaded and a little faint. Good thing this whole flying thing was a one-time thing. No way was she getting back on this thing.
If anyone tries to get her on a plane in the future shell bite them.
Holly felt jumpy for the first forty-ish minutes of the flight, but eventually fell asleep partway through and woke up drooling on Harry's shoulder, still holding one of his hands as he shook her awake with the other.
"Afternoon," Harry said with a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
Holly pushed his face away, then stretched back against her chair and felt her spine crack like a twig that had just been stepped on. She wiped the drool off her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt. She was still somehow exhausted despite the long nap.
Harry hummed as went about getting their backpacks from the overhead storage, leaving Holly to battle the seatbelt by herself.
The seatbelt won.
They left the plane and got through the airport much more quickly than when they were boarding. They caught a bus heading toward the Virginia FBI headquarters—a cramped, uncomfortable forty-one-minute ride in which Holly got more and more anxious the closer they came to finding their dad.
A man who didn’t even know they existed, and might not want to.
That was another thing they’d found in their mum’s school trunk—a summer romance with a guy named Will Graham. A man their mother had loved for a few months before they’d gone their separate ways. A man who, apparently, was their father.
Someone they were about to surprise at work with a “congratulations, it’s a boy… and a girl,” because all they had was his name and the fact that he’d been training as an FBI profiler. No home address. No phone number.
They really should’ve just sent an email or something.
Why hadn’t they just sent an email? Or a letter? They could’ve tracked down an address, or even sent it straight to his workplace. No need to storm the castle.
"If he doesn't want us, then he’s not worth it," Harry whispered in her ear, making her pause mid-leg bounce. She hadn't even realized she was doing it.
He was trying to be reassuring, but honestly, Holly didn’t want to think about the what ifs. Because if he didn't want them, then they had no one else left to go searching for. No other long-lost family that might take them in.
And he’s their dad.
He has to want them. Doesn’t he?
She knocked three times on the window of the bus because she didn’t know anything. She didn’t know what she was feeling or how to explain it.
She didn’t know whether or not their dad would want them, and if he rejected them… she didn’t know how—or if—she’d cope afterwards.
Harry pressed a spare light switch button into her hands. She flicked it from side to side in a constant motion of her thumb, the click-clicking soothing something unexplainable in her belly, loosening the tight ball of mild anxiety that always tangled her guts up in knots.
Harry squeezed her forearm. "We’ll be okay either way, Holls. I promise."
Harry doesn’t break promises.
They got off at the next stop and walked a short way before coming to a halt in front of an intimidating-looking building that Holly felt like running away from, not marching toward.
Not that she’d let that stop her. Even so, Harry would make a great meat shield for all the people they were bound to run into.
—Will—Will—Will—Will—Will—
Will had been fending off both Jack and a headache all morning. So far, the headache was winning and slowly evolving into a full-on migraine. At some point, he’d turned off the lights and closed the blinds. The sun was too bright, the flickering bulb was doing something infuriating and, frankly, deeply personal to his sanity.
Blackout blinds are a miracle. So was the fact that his students listened to him when he made it a rule that they weren't allowed to attend his lectures after being sprayed down in too-strong cologne and perfume.
Though that may be more to do with him kicking out and failing the students who had ignored him the first time he told them to stop showing up smelling like hookers.
Now his classroom smelt like new books, wet earth from the potted plant Hannibal had abandoned and refused to take back, and the window cleaner the janitors used.
Yet despite the gentle dark of the room and lack of overwhelming smells, he was still stuck on his latest case.
He’d been staring at the picture of a dead girl for hours—her bloodless body and too-wide eyes that had been pinned open with sewing needles.
He had, foolishly, agreed to do some consultant work a few months ago, and as always, when given an inch Jack Crawford took it and ran a fucking marathon. It felt like he was looking at a fresh corpse every other day now; he spent less time in his classroom and more time reconstructing murders in his mind.
He was neglecting his students, his paperwork, and himself because of the demands of that man. Even his dogs were suffering; he’s hardly at home and hasn't taken them on a proper long walk since he shattered doing extra work.
He’s not getting paid enough for this, and the only thing currently keeping him semi-sane was the fact that it’s Friday, which meant he had dinner with Hannibal to look forward to—one of the two proper meals he had a week. Meals that came without burnt edges and too much salt.
In the beginning, Jack had tried to offload him onto Hannibal as a psychiatrist. No strings. No professionalism. Just a soft leash disguised as therapy. Hannibal, thankfully, had declined the role with grace and a rubber stamp that declared him fit for duty. Then he promptly ended their professional relationship before it had ever truly become.
The surprises had kept coming as Hannibal offered friendship next, with the condition that Will would let him cook for them twice a week. Will is pretty sure he’s getting the better end of their little deal—not that he’s complaining… much.
Now every Tuesday and Friday Will found himself at Baltimore, willingly socializing and even enjoying himself, against his will and better judgement. Hannibal would fuss over him, always insisting on taking his coat and pulling out his chair. He would feed Will literal five-star, sometimes five-course, meals with the flair and dramatics of a showman.
Will liked the doctor’s company and pampering more than he should. Even if he grumbled and protested it, more for the sake of appearance than any true desire for it to end.
Idly, Will glanced up at the lecture hall clock for the twenty-sixth time and wondered what he would get for dinner later tonight. He’s hungry, and probably shouldn't have skipped breakfast, but it’s close enough to call it lunch, so he reached for his—
"Special Agent Will Graham to the front desk. Repeat, Special Agent Will Graham is required to come to the front desk."
—and there it went. His plans, his peace, and probably the rest of his day too.
He let his head fall and bang against his desk; it did nothing to ease his headache and everything to make it worse.
After a minute or so of letting himself pretend nothing was wrong, he got up and dragged his feet down to reception to find out who needed him and what he did wrong this time. It wasn't Jack; he would have just barged into any room Will was in to yell at him. And it wasn't Hannibal; he would find Will himself—much like Jack—except he would knock before encroaching on his peace and quiet.
When he rounded the corner to confront the woman at the front desk, a forty-something-year-old called Lindsey, he was not expecting to be bodily tackled from the side by a little girl and nearly fall over.
Small arms snaked around his waist, and as he looked down, Will found an all-too-familiar head of brown curls. Wrenching his eyes away from the impossible child clinging to him, Will shot a what-the-fuck look at Lindsey—only to see another child, a boy this time, standing next to the front desk and staring at him and the girl who was obviously his sibling.
Will looked back down at the girl, then up at the boy—twins, if he's not mistaken.
Twins that have his hair.
The boy has mismatched eyes—heterochromia—with one eye an emerald green and the other... a blue he knows too well. The kind of blue Will sees in the mirror whenever he can stomach a glance. His skin is pale, porcelain-like, as if he's been hiding from the sun all his life.
No—not hiding. Denied.
Will looks away before he sees too much. It's harder to do than it normally is. He wants to find whoever kept these children from sunlight and drag them down into the bowels of darkness.
“Mr. Graham,” the receptionist finally breaks the awkwardness—and his own dark thoughts—“Mr. and Miss Potter here are claiming to be your children?”
A punch to the gut isn’t a good enough descriptor. It feels like he’s been shot—something high-caliber and powerful. He can practically feel the bruise and possible broken ribs from where the vest had only just stopped the bullet from ripping through him.
He thinks he hears himself make some sort of choked sound as his arms automatically, out of some instinct or knee-jerk response, wrap around the child still clinging to him, like he might try to make a run for it.
And why wouldn’t they think that? Will thinks, hysterically. If they are his—and they sure as shit look like his—then he’s been a non-entity their entire lives. Like some deadbeat who shouldn’t have been allowed to reproduce.
Like Will’s own mother, who had abandoned him and his daddy when she found out what they were. A woman he doesn’t know and never wanted to.
Would they forgive him? Maybe if he explained to them that he didn’t know about them... Would they give him a chance to prove he could be a good dad? What if they don’t like dogs? He has six of them.
A small, pointy chin dug into his hip as he panicked. He was going to get whiplash from looking up and down so quickly and so often.
The girl has the same eyes as her brother, but with a more innocent quality Will hadn’t seen in the boy—less calculating, more wide-eyed fawn.
He was careful. He was always careful not to make eye contact. Even so, he didn’t need it to feel what she whispered to him in the very marrow of his bones. Words so familiar he ached with them:
“Please don’t leave us.”
The urge to kill had never been so closely tied up in the need to protect before.
—Henry—Harry—Henry—Harry—Henry—
Henry’s not sure what to make of Will Graham.
On one hand, he hadn’t pushed Holly away when she surprise-hugged him—then even hugged her back after a while. On the other hand, he looks like an adult panicking while trying his best to look like he’s not panicking. He also mutters a lot under his breath.
Mr. Graham had ushered them both—Holly still attached to his leg—down a few corridors and into one of the labs. He then pulled out an ancient-looking flip phone from his pocket and texted… someone. A friend, he said, but the word friend sounded more like a question.
The room they were in is very white, clean, and full of medical-looking equipment on top of sterile counters.
They all stood there in silence for a while, until Holly did something she had never done before—broke her rules regarding mute days.
His ridiculous sister looked him dead in the eyes and said, “He smells bad.” She looked overjoyed, like their newly found father smelling bad was some great discovery.
Then she turned to peer back up at a wide-eyed Will. “You smell bad,” she told him, and Henry didn’t even try to hide his smile. Honestly, only his sister would inform a newly discovered parent that their choice in aftershave was a terrible one.
She continued, not blinking and seemingly trying to find his soul in his eyes while trying to explain why he smelled bad. “Like, like like, like… like the airport hairspray!”
Henry might have to wait for their father to take a shower before he goes near him if he does smell like the overly artificial, headache-inducing crap the little shop at the airport sold.
Luckily for their father, Holly stopped talking with the sound of approaching footsteps. When the door to their room opened, she had gone back to shyly half-hiding behind Will and burying her face in his hip.
The woman—average height and Asian, Henry noted—whistled lowly when she spotted them.
“You sure you need a paternity test, Graham?” she asked, even as she opened drawers and cupboards for whatever she needed to perform the test.
Will grunted at her. Henry wonders if he’s going to end up doing all the talking in this family.
Mr. Graham had told them, on the way to the labs, that he would need proof they were his to be allowed to keep them. Holly had been ecstatic. Henry doesn’t think she’ll be so happy when she finds out that DNA tests include needles.
“Right,” the woman said. “Everything’s set up. Basic cheek swab—save the blood work for when you take them to an actual hospital. So which of you—?”
Henry stepped forward because he knew Holly would feel better about all this once she saw it was safe. At least he wouldn’t have to sacrifice a hand today while she got her blood taken.
“I’ll go first,” he said. Then, remembering his manners, stuck out a hand. “Henry,” he introduced himself.
“Beverly Katz. But you can call me Bev if you like.” Henry didn’t like—it was too familiar—but he nodded anyway and moved on.
Miss Katz snapped on a pair of blue plastic gloves and grabbed a swab and glass tube. It was a simple procedure, though it felt more invasive than if she had just stuck him with a needle. Done quickly and with little fuss.
Holly had a worse time of it than he did. She didn’t like strangers touching her or things near her face.
He was right to go first. She was less twitchy than expected, though she had flinched back multiple times when Katz got too close for comfort and held one of his and Will’s hands in a tight, white-knuckled grip the entire time.
“How long will it take?” Henry asked, as Holly went from clinging to Will to trying to wrap her entire body around him like some sort of demented, clingy octopus.
Something tight and uncomfortable in his chest relaxed at the contact. He doesn’t want to think that he was jealous over the attention Holly had been giving their new father—but he will privately admit, it was… strange, seeing her so comfortable with someone other than himself.
Miss Katz glanced up at him as she finished whatever it was she was doing. “About five to eight hours.”
“Can’t you rush it?” their father grumbled to his friend…? Colleague?
“Five hours is rushing it, Graham-Cracker,” she half-sang with a roll of her eyes. “Take the kiddos out for ice cream or something. Maybe even for a proper lunch like the responsible adults we’re all trying and failing to be.”
—Hannibal—Cannibal—Hannibal—Cannibal—Hannibal—
Hannibal, for the past hour, had been debating exactly how he would kill Franklyn—if not for the pesky little issue of the irritating man being too close for Hannibal to safely dispose of.
The man’s fatty meat would no doubt be foul, saturated with the cheese he consumes too much of and… sweaty. Hannibal wouldn’t eat this neurotic little man’s kidneys even if he had a loaded gun to his head.
A strange sensation. Typically, Hannibal enjoyed eating the rude—pigs to be butchered and cured with care. And Franklyn had been so rude: stalking him, attempting conversation outside their scheduled appointments, and constantly insisting on friendship.
Yet his entire body recoiled at the mere thought of cooking and consuming any part of him.
Hannibal idly considered gutting the cretin and leaving him in some shadowed alley, just another unfortunate victim of a mugging gone wrong. It would be so painfully easy.
Mr. Froideveaux blew his nose again into the abused, once-white handkerchief, then wiped his hands on his trousers.
Perhaps Hannibal would forgo his usual elegance and simply shoot the pig, if only to avoid touching him.
Hannibal rarely felt fear. But right now, he feared he might need to burn the chair his most unwanted patient had sullied—and disinfect the entire office so that the crawling sensation under his skin ceased.
He had to deploy his own therapeutic techniques—breathing exercises, mental imagery, restraint—to stay his hand from strangling the nuisance mid-sob.
He reminded himself, multiple times, that one mustn’t kill a patient, no matter how infuriating.
He couldn’t kill Franklyn now. But by God, he would, one day.
His reprieve came in the form of several messages—from his beloved.
A specific ding sounded: the custom tone he’d set for Will’s texts (Will leaned toward texting, not calling, a small but telling trait). The alert pinged in rapid succession.
Hannibal rushed Franklyn out the door with something bordering on rudeness. He didn’t care. Will had messaged him.
Feeling uncharacteristically giddy, Hannibal locked the office door and retreated to his desk, away from the lingering stench of his last patient.
He retrieved his phone from his jacket—a sleek, black device. No colour, of course. A garish phone would clash dreadfully with his more flamboyant ensembles.
From Sweet William:
wat do you feed small people
From Sweet William:
children not the vertically inclined
From Sweet William:
like seven year olds who just showed up and said you are my father
From Sweet William:
its a reverse star wars
From Sweet William:
and theres two of them
From Sweet William:
they sound british
From Sweet William:
wat do you feed british seven year olds while your waiting for a paternity test to finish
What an interesting development.
Though Hannibal is pained to be reminded of his beloved’s past sexual history, he understands that such things are inevitable. He himself is no blushing virgin, and yet... and yet, it feels like a betrayal—that Will has touched others. That others have touched Will.
He himself feels unworthy of Will’s touch, precisely because he has been intimate with others before his beloved.
But perhaps... perhaps this is a good thing. A point of commonality. A foundation for connection. It not as if he and Will would be able to bring children into this world without a third party.
And of course, Hannibal would love any child borne of his beloved.
For a moment, he allows himself the indulgence of imagining it: chocolate curls and ocean eyes—a Botticelli painting come to life, divinely rendered in flesh. Two sweet cherubs at either side of their father.
Yes. Any child of Will Graham will be cherished by Hannibal.
He had once considered cultivating a similar paternal bond with Abigail Hobbs. But no. The girl might look superficially like his dear Will, but she was not their daughter. And she posed... complications.
In his heart, Hannibal is already making space for Will’s children. their children. It is a full, warm feeling—one he has not experienced since his sister. Further proof of Miss Hobbs being a poor substitute for family. Hannibal felt noting for the young woman.
Enough musing. His darling needs reassurance.
From You:
Calm, Will. Remember the breathing exercise I showed you: in for four, out for four—four times. Then in for five, out for five. Continue until you reach eight.
A simple technique, but one that seems to ground Will. It gives him something to concentrate on and a small task to complete.
From Sweet William:
thanks for the reminder
From You:
I’m glad it helped. Now, please tell me in more detail what exactly is happening so I may be of use.
Of course, Hannibal already has a rather clear idea of what’s happening.
Either some woman who previously denied Will the knowledge of his children has suddenly decided she wants financial support—which seems unlikely, given Will has mentioned no such woman—or…
Or two seven-year-olds, presumably British, have crossed the Atlantic, wandered into the FBI building, and declared themselves the offspring of Special Agent Will Graham.
With seemingly no responsible adult in sight.
The second option seems far more plausible. It sounds exactly like something Will’s children would do.
Now that he considers it... perhaps their sudden arrival is not so joyous. What if the mother is dead? It would be convenient, yes—but also traumatic for the children.
Frowning now, Hannibal considered the unthinkable. What if they were neglected? Abused? What if their mother is not dead—but should be?
Hannibal would kill her, that's what.
He would hunt her down, butcher the wretched sow, who was both unworthy to birth such wonderful children and who's only worth in life was to do so. Hannibal would reduce her to nothing more than the base matter she deserves to be. He would roast her over oak, simmer her in cream, and feed the resulting delicacies to the very children she mistreated.
A message from his Will interrupted his plans for poetic justice.
From Sweet William:
i was going to go for an early lunch and swallow a bottle of aspirin when i was called to the front desk
From Sweet William:
then i was then tackled by a child who has my hair
From Sweet William:
then i looked up and there was another one
From Sweet William:
and there aint no one with them no mother or social worker or anything
From Sweet William:
the fuc do i do!?!?
From You:
Firstly, what are their names?
From Sweet William:
crap
From Sweet William:
give me a minute
Hannibal counted to twelve.
From Sweet William:
Henry William and Holly Wilhelmina Potter
From Sweet William:
what kind of sadist would name a child after me
From Sweet William:
let alone two
Perhaps the woman who bore them wasn’t entirely monstrous. Giving a second name to a child means she must have some sort of affection for them, if not she wouldn't have bothered. It suggests a measure of care, of intent, and of course she must have loved Will—or at least known he was worthy of love to have given them his name.
From You:
Lovely names. And I must disagree with your sentiment—naming them after you only strengthens their bond to you. In many cultures, it is a great honour to name a child after a parent.
Hannibal ponders how they might be named when he marries their father. Graham-Lecter, Graham-Lecter-Potter, or just Graham. Hannibal would happily take his husband’s name, relinquish his own, and wear the change like a brand of ownership.
Hannibal allows himself a private smile.
To belong to Will Graham in all ways—legally, spiritually, domestically. Yes. Yes, that would be quite perfect.
From Sweet William:
HANNIBAL!
From Sweet William:
what do i feed them
From Sweet William:
ill never be allowed to keep them if i can’t even feed them
He huffed at his phone, as if Hannibal would ever allow their children to be taken from them.
From You:
Might I suggest you bring them to my office for lunch? I have several meals kept in the miniature fridge freezer that I’m sure they would enjoy once reheated.
It was not the most subtle way of spending time with his beloved—or of meeting their children—but Will had always responded better to blunt honesty than delicate maneuvering.
From Sweet William:
i was hoping you would meet up someplace
From Sweet William:
neutral territory and all that
From Sweet William:
wouldn’t feel right to bring them to a stranger’s house let alone a stranger’s office
Hannibal would not remain a stranger for long. He was their father, after all.
He allowed himself to imagine being called Father by two tiny beings. Perhaps even Papa, if they were so inclined. They would call Will Daddy, most likely. Will calls his own father that particular honorific, a southern thing, he had said.
Sadly, their lunch would not be as private as Hannibal might prefer. He rarely ate out, preferring to prepare his own food. Still, he understood the sentiment. All of this must be overwhelming for Henry and Holly— all these new places, and new people.
And of course, he was maddeningly pleased that Will wanted him there. Hannibal was quite satisfied to be the first person properly introduced to the twins (aside from whomever had performed their DNA test—not that that counted).
From You:
I know a charming little café not far from your workplace. I’ll send you the address and meet you there, shall I?
He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he donned his coat and headed to his Bentley, sending Will the name and location of the only café in miles that met his standards.
During the drive, Hannibal compiled a list on his phone of things two children would need—and the changes their homes would require to become child-friendly.
Another delightful consequence of these children was the excuse to cook more for Will. Sweet William would be obligated to accept his meals and snacks if they were “for the children.” He wouldn’t be able to refuse.
Hannibal would also be able to visit more frequently without appearing needy. And he could purchase gifts to make their lives easier—practical gifts, like a proper coffee machine to replace the instant swill Will insisted on drinking.
Naturally, the children’s education would need addressing. Private tutors, perhaps, until they were settled? Of course Hannibal would offer to sponsor their schooling. It would be a perfect way to further prove himself worthy of Will’s affection—taking responsibility for their children's futures.
Parking in the café’s private lot, Hannibal ensured he looked presentable. He removed his tie and rolled up his sleeves to appear less intimidating before exiting the vehicle and striding toward the door with confidence.
The aroma was just as pleasant as the last time he had visited Mrs. Honeys Coffee and Confections, sweet and bitter scents of hot drinks and freshly backed good wafted in the air that rushed to greet him as he opened the door, the tinkling chime of a small bell overhead announcing his arrival.
Immediately his eyes searched for Will and as he found him, Hannibal felt his heart stutter and momentarily stop in his chest.
Sitting beside Will were his two miniatures—neither his mirror image, and all the more precious for it. Their skin was pale, too pale to be healthy, especially the girl’s. Holly. Her complexion was unnaturally so. Their hair was indeed much like their fathers, rich, brown curls that made one think of hot drinks, sweet chocolate and a wood burning fireplace. Their eyes were jewels: a flawless emerald and sapphire each.
Doll-like, came to mind as a way he might describe them.
Predatory was another, they were both far to pretty to be human children.
Hannibal would know. And he would soon find out if they had inherited more than just their father’s good looks.
He himself was no mere human. And he was quite proud of what he was. Ravinstags were rare across the world—admired for their elegance and beauty, feared for their violence and appetite, and prized for their uses in potions, wands, and staves.
His kind are a noble sort, as is Will’s. And they shared certain tastes…
Seeing they hadn’t ordered yet, Hannibal approached their booth and greeted his beloved.
“Good afternoon, Will,” he said, adding as much warmth to his voice as he dared.
The boy, Henry, had been watching Hannibal since the moment he stepped inside, studying him closely with something sharp and calculating.
Any suspicion Hannibal had about the children suffering mistreatment seemed more plausible by the second. A child this young should not be so very aware and untrusting.
Holly, in contrast, seemed oblivious to her surroundings, scowling down at the menu—not as if offended, but as if overwhelmed by too many choices.
He’d seen that look before in patients, often while describing the discomfort of being given too many options. His last patient with such difficulties, a Mr. Glover, had confessed to simply grabbing the nearest items while out shopping just to escape the paralysis of choice.
“Hi, Doctor Lecter—Hannibal,” he corrected himself, “thanks for showing up.”
Will waved his free hand—the other firmly held hostage by their daughter—toward the empty seat opposite them.
“Please, sit. We were just trying to decide on lunch.”
As he took his seat, he felt more than saw one of Holly's legs bouncing up and down frantically. Her hands were also clenching and unclenching on the table as she looked over the laminated menu, her tongue having found its way between her teeth some minutes ago and now being chewed on furiously.
“I’m Henry. This is my sister, Holly. Nice to meet you, sir,” the polite yet childlike voice sounded from the girl’s right, wrenching him from his observations.
“Hannibal, please,” he insisted. It would not do to be called such a distant title by his son.
“Of course, Mr. Hannibal,” the cheeky thing replied.
He did not shy away from eye contact like his father and sister seemed to. He met Hannibal’s gaze almost challengingly, like an animal sizing up the competition, or a stray still on the fence about whether or not they'll bite the hand offered—or trust that this one will not strike them.
“Pleasure to meet you, Henry. Holly—have either of you decided on what you'd like to eat?”
The boy nodded and said their everything sandwich looked good. You could gain a lot simply by observing what one ate, and Henry’s order said much.
He is not a picky eater. He would most definitely eat everything on his plate, even if he didn’t particularly enjoy the flavour. He likely has no known allergies—but sadly has known hunger, if not outright starvation. When given the opportunity, he chose a large, filling meal over what other children would see as a rare treat. Hannibal was sure others his age would ask—or even demand—a pastry or a cake, and have to be cajoled into eating proper food before being allowed something sweet.
But not children like Henry.
“What about you, Holly?” Will asked gently, trying to get her attention.
When she didn’t seem to notice that she’d been spoken to, Henry squeezed her hand—so far, the only thing she had responded to. She finally unglued her eyes from the menu and looked to her brother, tongue still sticking out and her head tilted slightly like a puppy’s.
“Dad wants to know what you want to eat,” he told her simply.
She turned to look at Will, who was having some sort of revelation at being called ‘Dad’ for the first time, and shrugged.
Henry nodded, like he was used to her indecisiveness, and proceeded to point out three options he was sure she would like: tomato soup, chicken and lettuce wrap, and a turkey club sandwich.
While also throwing in things like “you’ve had this before,” “you like turkey,” and “I’m having a sandwich too,” to make her feel more comfortable and limit the options so she could actually pick something.
She stared at him blank-faced for less than a minute before holding up three fingers.
“Good choice, Holls. She’ll have the turkey sandwich and apple juice—no tomatoes, though. Holly hates tomatoes in sandwiches.”
Holly made a truly disgusted face each time he said tomatoes.
“Right. Yes. Good choice. Erm… what are you getting, Doc—Hannibal?” Will asked, perfect even as he stammered over his words. His darling really had no need to be so nervous with them.
Clearly, their daughter was already quite taken with him, clutching at his arm the way she was.
Henry would likely take more time to acclimate to having loving parents, but he also seemed to somewhat trust Will. He was allowing contact with his sister, after all—and clearly, Holly was the most important thing in his world.
“A duck salad would be refreshing. And water.”
Will nodded, tried to get up, and found himself at the mercy of a rather upset seven-year-old girl giving him an impressive set of wide, puppy eyes—complete with pouting, quivering lips.
She was rigorously shaking her head back and forth and, having let go of her brother, was clutching at him with both hands.
Abandonment issues, Hannibal added to the ever-growing list of concerns he had for Henry and Holly. Possible co-dependency and anxiety. Separation anxiety, too…
Will’s own deer-caught-in-headlights look blinked back at her.
“How about I order our lunch, dear Will?” he helpfully suggested. Being the one to order would also make it much easier to pay for their meal—Will wouldn’t be able to argue with them over the bill if he paid upfront.
“Erh, right. Thanks. I’ll have whatever the sandwich of the day is.”
Will sat back down as Hannibal rose to order. While he was there, he also perused the dessert options, wondering what his Will and their children would enjoy most—and if his darling would be upset with him for including too many treats with the meals he was planning to make for them.
Someone had to make sure he and the children were fed properly.
Before he made his way back to his little family, Penelope—the girl at the counter—offered him two sets of high-end colouring pencils and a few different pictures to be coloured in. He thanked her and brought the art supplies back with him. It most likely would not keep Henry’s interest, but when he offered them, Holly smiled at him shyly.
It was the first time she had looked at him so far, and with just that small smile alone she had him wrapped around her littlest finger, and he knew it.
Henry thanked him as Holly chose a picture with a pile of puppies on it and started happily colouring them in all different shades of brown, yellow, black, and grey, with one red one thrown in for good measure.
Hannibal had been right about Henry—he selected a picture of a forest but seemed much more interested in watching his sister than in truly enjoying the activity.
When their food arrived, both he and Will noticed the twins’ behaviour regarding their meals.
Henry acted restrained, like he was forcing himself to eat slowly. He would periodically, suspiciously glance between the two adults, watching their hands as if he thought they might strike out and steal his food.
Holly, on the other hand, seemed to radiate nervous energy rather than wary caution. Her small hands trembled, and she waited for everyone else to begin eating before she all but descended onto her sandwich like a starving bird of prey ripping into the juicy body of a fat rat or rabbit.
Hannibal’s phone pinged four times in the rapid succession that could only mean Will was messaging him.
Will, who was sitting right in front of him and apparently texting under the table.
If it were anyone else…
At the insistent “eyes” Will was sending him across the table, Hannibal resigned himself to showing terrible table manners and took out his phone—discreetly—to see what his love was so insistent on speaking about but unwilling to voice aloud in front of the children.
If this was to become a common form of communication, he would have to have them both learn American Sign Language.
From Sweet William:
you see it too right?
From Sweet William:
they said they had breakfast at the airport they shouldn’t be this hungry already
From Sweet William:
and i think holly might be somewhat mute shes barely said a handful of words in almost two hours
From Sweet William:
and henry seemed shocked when she did speak
Feeling dirty for doing so, Hannibal responded to the onslaught of texts.
From You:
Yes. I have noticed their unusual behaviours toward food. And yes, I believe you are right—Holly may have selective mutism or something similar. Perhaps she simply talks less during strenuous or unfamiliar situations? Henry seems familiar with her lack of speech.
From Sweet William:
wat do i do
There were, truly, many things to buy, much support to give, and countless little things they would need to do to help the twins. But in the end, it all boiled down to the most simple and most important thing.
From You:
Love them.
He replied. Then added.
From You:
And order dessert after we finish lunch. They clearly have issues centered around food—and Holly, at least, seems the type to feel wrong-footed eating while others are not. She likely wouldn’t be able to enjoy a treat unless we all had one.