true-savior

[true-savior]

HEADCANONS

About how Frederick Chilton would celebrate his birthday

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1.Chilton rents a prestigious but slightly tacky hall, orders an expensive buffet and champagne, and sends out ostentatious invitations with his own photo. He imagines himself as the center of attention in a glittering society. However, only a couple of coerced colleagues, his lawyer (to whom he owes money), and an awkward distant relative show up.

2. Chilton spends an exorbitant amount of money on a "perfect" gift, such as a handmade watch engraved with "Dr. Frederick Chilton: The Seer." He wears it for a week, constantly catching glances (which are not there), and then angrily notices that it is half a second slow.

3. In an attempt to appear relaxed, Chilton decides to "party" at a trendy bar. He dresses in something too youthful and inappropriate, orders complex cocktails that he can't pronounce, and attempts to flirt. However, he ends up obsessively discussing his theory on the Hannibal Lecter case with the bartender, who politely asks him to vacate the chair.

4. Even on his birthday, Hannibal doesn't leave him alone. Chilton receives an anonymous delivery: an exquisite box of French chocolates. Inside, there's a card with a quote from Shakespeare about vanity, signed "Your Most Humble Servant." Terrified, Chilton discards the chocolates (which are probably completely safe), but he remains paranoid and checks his apartment for intruders for several days. The mere thought that Lecter remembers his birthday drives him crazy.

5. After drinking too much expensive whiskey alone, Chillington dials the number of his ex-wife or someone he considers a "lost love." He begins by complaining about being underappreciated, moves on to lamenting how everyone has betrayed him (especially Crawford and Bloom), and ends with slobbering apologies and declarations that he is "too good for this world." The next morning, he will cut all ties and change his number.

6. To emphasize his depth, Chilton buys a ticket to the opera or a contemporary art exhibition. He posts a hundred stories about it, pretending to be smart. In reality, he is bored, doesn't understand half of what's happening, and constantly checks his phone for congratulations.

[true-savior]

A sketch based on Hannibal, a Hannibal/Will ship

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The water from the shower was almost scalding hot, but it was the right kind of fire. It wasn't so much about washing away the dirt—there was surprisingly little of it, given the nature of their "work”—but rather about removing the lingering electric charge of violence, the smell of iron and dust from the abandoned warehouse. The steam swirled, enveloping the tiled walls of their temporary sanctuary.

Hannibal stood under the stream, his eyes closed, his face raised to the water. His movements were precise, economical, as always. He lathered his hands with an expensive, pungent-smelling soap with hints of cedar and bergamot, washing away the last invisible traces. His back, covered in old and new scars—a map of their shared escape and "creativity"—was tense, not from fatigue, but from the focused awareness of the ritual.

Will stood a little behind him, his back to the wall, out of the main flow. He looked at Hannibal through a haze of steam. His own hands were trembling, not with fear, but with the adrenaline rush of the raw fury they had unleashed together. Water dripped down his stubbled cheeks, mixing with the sweat at his temples. His gaze was unfocused, inward, where the shadows of their recent act still lingered.

"You've gone far, Will," Hannibal's voice was low, almost gentle, barely audible over the sound of the water. He didn't open his eyes.

Will shuddered, returning to the stifling reality of the bathroom. His gaze swept over the muscular contours of Hannibal's back, the damp strands of his hair. "Gone?" He hadn't just gone; he'd jumped into the abyss after Hannibal, and the bottom now seemed like the only possible place to exist. He remained silent, simply stepping forward and placing his shoulder under the stream of water next to Hannibal.

Hannibal finally opened his eyes. His gaze, sharp and assessing even in this intimate moment, swept over Will's face, his tense shoulders, and his slightly trembling hands. He handed the soapy washcloth to Will.

"Your turn. You've been doing most of the physical work today," he said, his tone devoid of mockery, merely a statement of fact and... concern? Will took the washcloth. The rough fabric slid over his skin, washing away the remnants of someone else's life, the remnants of his own doubts. He focused on the sensations: the heat of the water, the scent of Hannibal's soap, the tang of cedar that overshadowed everything else. He began with his hands, thoroughly washing each finger, each nail, as if he could erase the act itself with such a simple act.

Hannibal watched him, his movements slowing. He picked up the bottle of shampoo, poured some into his palm, and then, with unexpected gentleness, applied it to Will's wet hair. Will paused for a moment, allowing Hannibal's fingers to sink into his curls. The touch was both practical and deeply intimate. The massage of his scalp under Hannibal's strong, knowledgeable fingers caused Will's shoulders to relax involuntarily. A deep sigh escaped his lips. It wasn't just a shampoo; it was a cleansing performed by the hands of someone who knew his darkness better than anyone, who had created it and embraced it.

They switched places under the water. Hannibal rinsed Will's hair, his fingers guiding the flow with confidence. Then he took the washcloth from Will's hands. His touch on Will's body was methodical, almost surgical in its precision, but there was no coldness in it. As he touched the line of Will's jaw to wash away a speck of foam, Hannibal lingered. His thumb brushed across Will's cheekbone, erasing an invisible dusting of dirt. Water ran down their faces, down their bodies, mixing into a single stream at their feet.

Will looked into Hannibal's dark eyes, so close to him now. In them, he saw not a monster or a predator, but an accomplice. A mirror reflecting his own transformed essence. He saw satisfaction, deep and calm as a pool. Satisfaction from a job well done. Satisfaction that Will was here, with him, his.

Hannibal leaned in. Slowly, giving Will time to pull away if he wanted to. But Will didn't pull away. Hannibal's lips touched the corner of his mouth, a light, almost fleeting touch. Salt, steam, purity, and something inexpressible. Then a second kiss, just below the jawline, where his finger had been. It wasn't a kiss of passion, but a kiss of possession, recognition, and gratitude. A sign: "You are mine. We are one. What we have done is sacred."

Will responded by pressing his forehead against Hannibal's wet shoulder. His breathing calmed, and the trembling in his hands subsided. The adrenaline was replaced by a deep, exhausting emptiness that was filled only by Hannibal's presence. The scent of his skin, mixed with the aroma of cedar, was now the only scent that mattered.

Hannibal turned off the water. The sudden silence after the sound of the shower was deafening. Droplets fell from their bodies onto the tiles. He handed Will a large, soft towel before wrapping himself in his own. The ritual of purification was complete. Physically, yes. But their souls? They had been washed in blood and bound by it forever, and this was the purification they both needed. They dried themselves in silence, in the pre-dawn quiet of the shelter, knowing that at dawn a new canvas awaited them, a new opportunity to create something beautiful and terrible together.