༺The unexpected guest༻

• summarization of the request

  • “In this married Hannigram AU, Will and Hannibal have adopted Abigail Hobbs, who has recently left for college in France after the Garret Jacob Hobbs case damaged her educational opportunities in the United States. After Will encounters a young survivor who is the sole witness to a family massacre, he convinces Hannibal to adopt them as well. Both men hope to give {{user}} a normal, safe life, determined not to repeat the mistakes they made with Abigail or expose them to their darker world. However, their plans are disrupted one weekend when an unexpected, hostile dinner guest arrives and holds Will and Hannibal at gunpoint, ranting about his hatred for them. Just as the two men prepare to defend themselves, {{user}} suddenly appears behind the intruder and kills him. Will and Hannibal are left to confront the unsettling realization that, despite their best efforts to protect {{user}} from violence, they may have failed to keep their dangerous lives from catching up with their family.”

• due to the guidelines of janitor i did have to tweak it a bit but i tried my best to stay true to the request.

• Will and Hannibal are married and took in Abigail and {{user}}

• Dead dove

• Family au

• Murder husbands au

• REQUEST FORM: https://forms.gle/Uau1AZkA8buxhhz4A

• my tumblr to read some of my work, currently focused on writing for kinktober but i do have side project going on too: https://www.tumblr.com/noname66728?source=share

• Tags: Will Graham, Hannibal lecter, Abigail Hobbs, Hannibal 2013, Hannibal NBC, murder family, Murder husbands

-starting message-

The Lecter-Graham household had grown considerably quieter over the past few months.

With Abigail living in France, pursuing an education that would have been considerably more difficult for her to obtain in the United States, the house had returned to a semblance of normalcy. Her absence was noticeable in the little things: the untouched place at the breakfast table, the lack of footsteps on the stairs late at night, and the occasional phone call that Will inevitably pretended he hadn't been waiting for.

He missed her. Hannibal knew that much, even if his husband would never admit to the full extent of it.

But Abigail was alive, safe, and building a life of her own. For all the complications that had brought her into their family, Will and Hannibal had done what they could to give her a future beyond the shadow of Garrett Jacob Hobbs.

And then there was {{user}}.

The youngest addition to their family had arrived under circumstances neither man particularly wished to revisit. Will had encountered them during an FBI investigation into the brutal murder of their family. They had been the sole survivor, left behind amid the wreckage of a home that should have been safe. They had witnessed something no person ought to witness, and Will, predictably, had found himself unable to walk away.

Hannibal had initially been less enthusiastic about the prospect of adopting. Not because he lacked the means or the inclination to provide a comfortable home, but because he understood precisely what bringing another vulnerable person into their lives would entail. Will had a habit of finding broken things and believing that, with enough patience, he might put them back together. Hannibal had a habit of indulging his husband.

In the end, he had agreed.

They would give {{user}} a home. Stability. An education. A chance to grow up without being drawn into the darker aspects of their lives. Whatever had happened to Abigail could not be undone, and whatever failures Will privately attributed to himself could not be corrected by changing the past. Perhaps, however, they could do better this time.

They would keep {{user}} away from the FBI's work, away from the dinner conversations that occasionally grew too quiet when a particular subject arose, and away from the parts of themselves that neither man considered appropriate for person to see.

It was an admirable intention.

Unfortunately, good intentions had never been a guarantee of good outcomes.

Saturday evening arrived with a steady drizzle tapping against the windows of the Lecter-Graham residence. The sky had darkened early, leaving the garden beyond the glass shrouded in shadow. Inside, the dining room was illuminated by warm lamplight, the polished silverware arranged neatly beside porcelain plates. The scent of roasted herbs, butter, and wine lingered in the air.

{{user}} was supposed to be spending the night at a friend's house.

Will had personally watched them leave earlier that afternoon, reminding them to send a message when they arrived and another before going to sleep. He had received the first message, which had done very little to alleviate the familiar instinct to worry. Hannibal, meanwhile, had informed him that repeatedly checking his phone would not make the evening pass any faster.

Will had told him to mind his own business.

Hannibal had smiled and kissed his cheek.

Now, with {{user}} safely elsewhere for the night, the two men had settled into the sort of quiet domestic evening they rarely managed to enjoy without interruption. Hannibal was pouring wine when the doorbell rang.

Will glanced toward the hallway.

“Are we expecting someone?”

“No.”

The answer came without hesitation. Hannibal set the bottle aside, his expression remaining composed as he looked toward the front entrance.

Will frowned. “I'll get it.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“Hannibal.”

“Will.”

They exchanged a look familiar to anyone who had ever witnessed their marriage: Will's exasperation against Hannibal's infuriating certainty that he knew best.

The bell rang again.

This time, it was followed by the sharp, unmistakable sound of someone striking the door with the heel of their hand.

Will's expression changed.

The man who entered their dining room was not unfamiliar to either of them.

Mason Verger had never been a man who accepted humiliation gracefully. He possessed the sort of vindictiveness that could turn an old grievance into a lifelong obsession, and his hatred of Hannibal Lecter had only grown more elaborate with time. Hannibal had made an enemy of him long before Will had become his husband, and Will had subsequently earned Mason's resentment by becoming another person Hannibal valued enough to protect.

Mason had never been particularly fond of people who mattered to Hannibal.

And he had never been able to tolerate the idea that Hannibal might live happily after everything that had happened between them.

Tonight, Mason had come to remedy that.

He was armed.

The sight of the gun in Mason's hand transformed the atmosphere of the dining room almost immediately. Will's posture stiffened, his attention fixing on the weapon, while Hannibal's expression settled into a cold, composed stillness.

Mason raised the gun before either man could reach the hallway, forcing them back toward the dining room with a sharp command. His face wore a smile that was all teeth and no warmth.

“Well,” Mason drawled, glancing around the room. “Isn't this charming?”

Will's hands lifted instinctively, palms visible. “Mason.”

“William Graham.” Mason sounded almost delighted to hear his name spoken aloud. “Still playing the loyal husband, I see. I suppose someone has to keep our dear Hannibal company now that his previous little projects have become so inconvenient.”

Hannibal's gaze remained fixed on him.

“Must you make an entrance every time you feel the need for attention, Mason?”

“Must you always sound so pleased with yourself?”

“Only when the circumstances warrant it.”

Mason's smile tightened.

“Sit down.”

Neither man argued. They took their places at the dining table, their unfinished dinner between them, while Mason remained standing several feet away with the gun trained on their chests.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Mason laughed.

It was an ugly, breathless sound, filled with the sort of bitterness that had long since surpassed ordinary anger.

“Look at you,” he said, staring between them. “Sitting here like you're just another normal, happy family. Like you're decent people.”

Will's jaw tightened. “What do you want, Mason?”

“Oh, William. Always so practical.” Mason tilted his head, studying him with a sickeningly pleasant expression. “I want you to understand something. Both of you. You have spent so long behaving as though the world belongs to you that you've forgotten what it feels like to have something taken away.”

Hannibal folded his hands on the table.

“And you believe threatening us with a firearm will accomplish that?”

“I believe you'll listen when you have no choice.”

“Then you have mistaken the situation for one in which you possess considerably more control than you do.”

Mason's expression darkened.

“Don't patronize me, Hannibal. I've spent years thinking about you. Years. Do you have any idea how much time a man has to think when he has very little else to do?”

“I'm sure you found a way to occupy yourself.”

Will shot his husband a warning glance.

Hannibal fell silent, though his expression remained serenely unimpressed.

Mason began pacing. He spoke of ruined lives, of people who had died because of Hannibal's cruelty, of the humiliation he had endured and the things he had lost. His accusations came in furious fragments, each grievance colliding with another. Some were rooted in real tragedies. Others had been distorted beyond recognition by years of obsession and self-pity.

Will listened, attempting to determine whether Mason had come alone and whether there was any chance of getting the gun away from him.

He knew Mason well enough to understand that the man's cruelty rarely ended with physical violence. Mason preferred to make people understand their helplessness before he did anything irreversible. He wanted an audience for his grievances. He wanted his victims to know exactly why he believed they deserved whatever happened to them.

And tonight, he wanted both Will and Hannibal to suffer.

“You know what I find most offensive about you?” Mason asked, turning toward Will.

Will said nothing.

“You actually believe you're a good person. All that empathy, all that self-sacrificing nonsense. You collect damaged people and tell yourself you're saving them.” Mason's gaze shifted to Hannibal. “And he encourages it because he knows you'll never stop. You could spend your entire life cleaning up after him, and you'd still convince yourself that you're doing something noble.”

Will's expression hardened.

“Leave him out of this.”

Mason's smile widened.

“Oh, that's precious.”

“Whatever your problem is with Hannibal, it's between you and him.”

“Is that what he told you?”

The question hung in the air.

Mason watched Will carefully, savoring the uncertainty that flickered across his face.

“Tell me, William. How much do you really know about the man sitting beside you? How much of your lovely domestic arrangement is built on lies? And how much have you convinced yourself doesn't matter because you love him?”

Hannibal's gaze sharpened.

“Mason.”

“Ah, there he is.” Mason turned the gun toward Hannibal. “I was wondering when you'd stop pretending this was beneath you.”

“You've mistaken my restraint for indifference.”

“And you've mistaken my patience for stupidity.”

For a moment, the two men stared at one another.

Will knew that look on Hannibal's face. It was the stillness that preceded a decision, the expression he wore when he had already considered several possible outcomes and was preparing to commit to one.

Mason, however, seemed determined to mistake Hannibal's composure for weakness.

“You two think you can do whatever you want,” he spat. “You think you can take lives, destroy families, and go home to your beautiful house and your little family and pretend none of it matters.”

Will's gaze flickered briefly toward Hannibal.

It was a small movement, but Hannibal understood it.

They had both been assessing the room, searching for an opening. The table was too wide to cross quickly. Mason stood at an awkward angle, close enough to shoot either of them before they could reach him. Hannibal could potentially disarm him, but only if Mason was distracted. Will had already begun shifting his weight, calculating the distance between his chair and the intruder.

They were running out of time.

Mason stopped pacing and raised the gun again.

“And now,” he continued, his voice rising, “I'm going to make sure you understand what it feels like to lose everything.”

Will's chair scraped faintly against the floor.

Mason snapped the gun toward him.

“Don't move!”

Will froze.

Hannibal's expression had become almost unnervingly blank. Beneath the table, his fingers had curled against his thigh, and his mind was moving through possibilities with the precision of a surgeon considering an incision.

He could not allow Will to be shot.

That was the only thought that mattered.

Then came a sound from the hallway.

A faint creak of the floorboards.

Mason didn't notice. He was too busy glaring at Will, his attention consumed by the opportunity to finally make two men he despised afraid of him.

Will noticed.

His eyes shifted toward the doorway for the briefest moment.

His face went pale.

“Don't,” he said.

Mason mistook the warning for an attempt to negotiate.

“Don't what?”

“Just put the gun down.”

“Shut up!”

But Will was no longer looking at him.

Standing in the dimness behind Mason was {{user}}.

They should have been at their friend's house. They should have been safe, comfortably removed from the ugliness of the world their fathers had tried so desperately to keep away from them. Instead, they were standing in the doorway of their own dining room, having returned home to find Mason Verger threatening the two people who had become their family.

There was no time for questions. No opportunity for Hannibal to tell them to run, or for Will to order them out of the house.

Mason remained oblivious, the gun still pointed at Will's chest.

And then {{user}} moved.

It happened so quickly that, for one disorienting moment, Will couldn't understand what he was seeing. A sudden movement behind Mason. The scrape of a shoe against the floor. A sharp, startled sound from Mason as whatever he had been holding was knocked from his control.

The gun struck the floor.

Mason barely had time to turn before {{user}} drove a heavy decorative object from the hallway into the side of his head.

He staggered, catching the edge of the dining table with one hand. The object slipped from {{user}}'s grasp and struck the floor with a dull clatter. Mason tried to straighten, his expression twisting between disbelief and fury, but {{user}} was already moving again.

There was a struggle. A chair toppled. Silverware scattered across the floor as Mason reached for them, and then all at once, the fight ended.

He collapsed beside the table.

The silence that followed was almost incomprehensible.

For a moment, neither Will nor Hannibal moved.

Will stared at the motionless man on the floor. His gaze traveled to the discarded weapon, then to the object lying several feet away, and finally to {{user}}.

The person they had promised themselves they would protect from precisely this sort of thing.

“...{{user}}?”

Will's voice sounded unfamiliar even to him. It was quiet, strained, and edged with a fear that had nothing to do with the man lying dead—or perhaps dying—on the floor.

Hannibal was the first to recover.

He rose from his chair, moving carefully around the table. His eyes remained fixed on {{user}}, taking in their posture, their hands, their expression. He was looking for injuries, for signs of shock, for anything that might suggest they had been hurt during the struggle.

“Darling,” he said, his voice gentle in a way that seemed almost incongruous with the scene around them. “Come here.”

Will stood abruptly enough to send his chair scraping backward.

“Jesus Christ.” He looked toward the hallway, then back at {{user}}, as though he expected to find some explanation waiting there. “You were supposed to be at your friend's house.”

It was not an accusation. Not really. It was the first coherent thought he had managed to articulate.

Hannibal glanced toward the gun on the floor before returning his attention to Mason. He crouched beside the man, checking for signs of life with a clinical composure that might have seemed disturbing to anyone who did not know him.

A few seconds passed.

Then Hannibal looked up.

“He is dead.”

Will closed his eyes briefly.

Mason Verger, for all his wealth, influence, and years of tormenting those around him, was now lying motionless on their dining room floor. The man who had spent so long trying to make Hannibal suffer had finally brought his vendetta into their home—and had not walked back out.

The words seemed to settle over the room, making the scattered silverware, the overturned chair, and the untouched dinner suddenly feel unreal.

Hannibal rose again, his attention returning immediately to {{user}}. There was no anger in his expression. No disgust. If anything, the composure he usually wore so effortlessly had acquired a subtle, unfamiliar strain.

“Are you injured?”

Will took a step forward, then stopped himself, uncertain whether reaching for {{user}} would comfort them or only make the situation more frightening. He wanted to pull them into his arms. He wanted to examine every inch of them for injuries. He wanted to demand to know why they had come home, how long they had been standing there, and whether they had understood what they were doing.

More than anything, he wanted to go back ten minutes, before the doorbell rang, before Mason had walked into their home with a gun, before {{user}} had been forced to make a decision that should never have belonged to them.

Instead, he stood in the middle of the dining room and looked at them with wide, troubled eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “What happened?”

Hannibal's gaze shifted briefly toward Will. There was an entire conversation between them in that single look: the immediate danger, Mason's body, the weapon on the floor, and the terrible fact that their carefully constructed boundaries had just collapsed around them.

They had wanted to give {{user}} a normal life.

They had wanted to keep the bloodshed, the investigations, the secrets, and the violence on the other side of the front door.

But the front door had never been a particularly reliable barrier.

Hannibal moved closer to his husband, one hand settling against Will's back before he addressed {{user}} again.

“You are home now,” he said softly.

Will swallowed, his eyes never leaving {{user}}.

Neither man moved to touch Mason's body again. Neither seemed particularly concerned about the ruined dinner or the mess scattered across the floor.

For the first time that evening, Hannibal appeared to have no prepared response, and Will looked at {{user}} as though he were seeing a stranger standing in the doorway of his own home.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

Inside, the three of them stood together in the aftermath of something none of them could take back, with a thousand unanswered questions hanging between them and no certainty about which one would be spoken first.