this is probably the worst thing i've ever made

Once More, With Feeling

A birthday present for @damnslippyplanet - here is a shameless fluffy, cracky mash-up of two of your favourite things. Enjoy, darling!


Da da da dat da dat da da da da ya da

Da da dat dat da ya da!

Will is bobbing his head before he even realizes it.

“This is catchy, what is this?”

Hannibal neatly flip-folds his newspaper over, brows raised just a touch.


Will points his finger in the air, waving in the general direction of the music that pipes in through speakers recessed in the walls. Of course Hannibal would have an extravagant sound system built into a safe house.

Hannibal tilts his head, makes a show of cocking his ear.

“Oh, this,” he notes, “this is from Hamilton.”

Will sputters a little. “The - the musical? I’m listening to show tunes?”

Hannibal casts him a withering look. “Not thirty seconds ago you said you liked it.”

“I said it was catchy,” Will corrects, “there’s a difference.”

Hannibal snaps his paper back up, crosses his legs at the knee.

“It’s an excellent musical, Will. The composer is quite brilliant - it’s astoundingly well constructed - very moving.”

I will kill your friends and family

To remind you of my love

Will raises an eyebrow.

“You would find that moving.”

He shakes his head, grabs the remote and hits the skip button.

“I’m not listening to fucking show tunes, Hannibal.”

The paper rustles, from behind it comes a world-weary sigh.

“You’ve been listening to show tunes for the past twenty minutes.”


At least my dear Eliza’s his wife

At least I keep his eyes in my life

Hannibal pokes his head into the study at the sounds of vague sniffling.

“Will, are you alright?”

Will snaps up straight like he’s been shocked with a cattle prod. He wipes under his eyes with the heel of his hand and frantically mashes the space bar on his laptop. The music stops. Hannibal just stares.

“Were you listening to Hamilton?”

Will shakes his head, tries to hide his guilt behind his curls.

“No,” he says, but his voice is thickened with the aftermath of tears.

He closes his laptop blindly with one hand, tugs it under one harm and makes a hasty exit from the study. His bedroom door opens and closes.

May you always be satisified

Hannibal stands silent for a few moments, then takes a spare box of tissues from the linen closet.

He sets it down next to the door with a quiet knock and walks away.

When Will opens the door, he sees a little Post-It note stuck to the Kleenex.

For Act Two


No! No! Say no to this!

No! No! Say no to this!

“NO! Goddamnit, fucking say no!”

Hannibal glances up from the roux he’s mixing, lips quirking.

From within his room, Will kicks something, curses again.

“Fucking idiot,” Hannibal hears him say, “this is gonna bite you in the ass.”

Hannibal smiles, keeps stirring.


Will pops out from his room, shoulders bobbing though he’s completely unaware of it.

I wanna be in the room where it happens, the room where it happens, the room where it happens,” he sings under his breath.

Hannibal watches the display with fond amusement. Will actually seems to be… shimmying. He crosses past Hannibal to the fridge, grabs himself a beer and pops it open, all to his own little rhythm. He dips a finger in the roux as he crosses back, sticks it in his mouth.

“Mmm,” he says, and pats Hannibal on the butt. Hannibal jerks in surprise.

Room where it happens, room where it happens…

He continues his chorus until the door shuts behind him, shaking his hips the whole way.


Un deux trois quatre

Cinq six sept huit neuf

Sept huit neuf

Sept huit

For a few seconds, Hannibal hears nothing. Then, the quiet rustle of a tissue pulling free from the box, then another. The badly muffled sound of a sob.

“Will?” he calls out. “Do you need any-”

“Shut up!” Will calls back, voice wrecked.

The messy sound of his noise being blown echoes all the way to the kitchen.


I put myself back in the narrative

It’s very difficult to ignore the choked weeping sounds that are being badly tamped down in the next room. Dinner has been ready for the past ten minutes and is rapidly growing cold. Hannibal hasn’t even bothered to call it to Will’s attention.

I stop wasting time on tears, I live another fifty years

It’s not enough

He stands quietly on the other side of the door, palm pressed warm against the wood. It would be rude, unforgivably rude, to interrupt now, but he can feel Will’s sorrow like a living thing and it slides uncomfortably in his gut.

He slides his hand down to the handle, tests it.

The door slowly swings open.

Will is curled up on the bed, tissues strewn around him. Hannibal can’t see his face but his shoulders are shaking. The music is playing quietly through the tinny speakers of his laptop.

The orphanage

A fresh peel of sobs wracks through him. Hannibal sits silently next to him on the bed, places a hand on his back. Quietly, he soothes.

Will reaches out a hand to take Hannibal’s free one, grips tightly. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t let go.

Hannibal strokes him as he cries, runs gentle fingers through his hair, across his shoulders and down the plane of his back. He holds his hand. The music swells, dies down, draws to a close.

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story

They sit together, wordlessly. Will sniffles a bit more, his breath begins to even out. Eventually, he sits up. His eyes are red-rimmed, a little puffy.

Hannibal pushes one of many stray curls behind his ear, tucks Will’s face in his palm.

“You have always been so beautiful in your pain, Will.”

Will laughs drily.

“If you ever tell anyone I cried over show tunes, I will murder you so horribly they’ll think you did it to yourself.”

Hannibal’s eyes flash, dark and aroused. He says nothing, but he stares at Will’s mouth.

Will sighs in mostly feigned exasperation.

“Well go ahead then,” he says, “we’ve just broken the last of any possible barriers between us, why not go for the gold.”

Hannibal doesn’t need to be asked twice. He kisses Will, softly at first, but the passion bleeds and rises through his fingertips and tongue and straight out of him, leaving Will gasping and grasping, feeding helplessly off of Hannibal’s need and delivering his own, hard and merciless.

“Dinner is on the table,” Hannibal says between kisses, “it’s been growing cold.”

Will smiles around his mouth, breathes hot against him. “Do I care?”

He falls back, lets Hannibal pin him down.

“You’re taking me to New York,” he informs him, “we’re seeing this show.”

Hannibal nods, bends to suck at his neck.

“Yes,” he agrees, “and you’re moving into my bedroom.”

Will legs rise and lock around his hips, an answer in itself.

They never touch dinner.



“Have you seen these videos?”

Hannibal bends over the couch to peek at the tablet in Will’s lap.

For some godforsaken reason it’s open on Twitter.

Will hits play.

All our Elizas are down! Do you know the part?

Every word.

“Shakespeare in Love,” Hannibal says in tandem with the man on the screen.

“That’s Hamilton,” Will points out, “and King George.”

Hannibal nods. “Yes. And?”

“Well, look,” Will says. He plays the video again. And again. Pulls up another one.

“They keep making these.”

Hannibal frowns in puzzlement. “I suppose they’re entertaining?”

Will laughs, reaches behind and crooks an elbow to reach the man behind him, fondly pets at his hair.

“Not the point,” he says, pinching and zooming at a paused moment in the video for emphasis, “look at the way they look at each other.”

He looks up at Hannibal, eyes weighted and serious.

“They’re totally fucking.”

Hannibal sputters out a laugh, kisses the side of Will’s face. “You are ridiculous. The composer is married.”

Will shrugs, gestures magnanimously at the tablet. “The evidence doesn’t lie.”

“And why,” Hannibal asks, “does this matter to you at all, my dear?”

Will purses his lips, considering.

“It doesn’t,” he concedes, pressing his lips to the corner of Hannibal’s mouth. He plays the video again and honest-to-God giggles.

“I just think they’re cute.”