#looking forward to the hypothermia and cannibalism

[reduxulousoctopus]

"Resemblance"

Flash/Orion established relationship, post-JLU, slice-of-life/domestic, daddy issues, short story

(sorry in advance to fans of the New Gods for things I definitely got wrong, this is based almost exclusively on Orion's like 4? 5? appearances in the entire DCAU and even then mostly just the two times he was in the Justice League cartoon)

--

"You should let me cut your hair."

Orion doesn't respond at first, too focused on the latest drama unfolding between the residents of Wisteria Lane. It's only when the broadcast switches to a commercial break a few seconds later that he finally turns his attention to the other end of the sofa, where Wally is slouched with one bare, lean, well-sculpted leg slung casually over the arm of the couch. He's poking at the touch-screen of his phone, playing some sort of game that involves rearranging several brightly-colored sweets into rows and columns before smashing them apart.

"Did you say something?" Orion asks.

"Huh? Oh, yeah," Wally remembers with a smile. "I wanna cut your hair."

"Why?"

Wally shrugs one shoulder. "I think you'd look good with a buzz-cut. And lets face it, not everyone can pull off bangs."

He runs a hand through his own boyish fringe, which flops back down and sticks to his slightly damp forehead. This hemisphere of the Earth is currently going through its warm season and the air conditioner in Wally's apartment is only nominally functional. Even though Wally dressed light in just a pair of shorts and a tank top, he's covered in a faint layer of sweat. Besides its intended function, Orion has noticed a strangely erotic appeal to the way sweat glistens in the light and draws the eye to every contour, lending an almost tactile awareness of his human lover's body even when they aren't touching. Even the scent evokes memories of the many times he made Wally sweat.

After yanking his attention back from the turn his thoughts have taken long enough to remember what Wally said, Orion frowns (and expression his facial features are both familiar with and especially well-suited to convey) and tries to determine whether or not he should be offended. On the one hand, why should it matter whether or not he can 'pull off bangs'? He's a warrior feared by the vilest scum of Apokolips, not some well-coiffed pretty-boy like the actors on his favorite Earth broadcasts.

On the other hand... Orion has never felt so attractive in his entire life as he has since they started this odd, unlikely relationship. Wally is practically rhapsodic during their encounters, openly marveling at the thickness of his arms, the span of his shoulders, the ampleness of his buttocks, and the girth and form of his godhood. Even the rugged severity of his features seem to hold a beauty of their own in Wally's eyes.

If something so simple as changing his hairstyle would make him even more appealing to his human lover... perhaps it is worth considering.

--

The loud buzzing cacophony finally ceases as Wally turns off the electric hair-trimmer and steps back to admire his handiwork.

"How do I look?" Orion asks. He reaches up to touch the back of his head. His hair feels soft yet bristly, and shorter than it's been since he reached adulthood.

"Very hot," Wally assures him with a lascivious smirk. He runs a hand back and forth over Orion's freshly shorn head, brushing away any loose hairs, before unwinding the towel from his shoulders. "Come on, handsome, check it out for yourself."

Feeling his face grow warm at the still-unexpected compliments, Orion allows Wally to usher him into the bathroom. When the light flicks on, however, it isn't the reflection of his own supposed beauty that catches Orion's breath. He barely even takes notice of his new hairstyle or neatly trimmed brows, except for their culpability in what he does notice. His features reflexively furrow into a scowl, carving deep crags across his now fully-exposed forehead.

Orion glares into the mirror and sees the son of Darkseid glaring back.

"You don't like it," Wally guesses. He smiles to cover his clear disappointment. "Well, it's just hair, right? It'll grow back."

"It's not that. It... looks very nice," Orion forces himself to say.

"Then what's with the angry eyes?" Wally asks. He pouts while holding both his index fingers up to his own forehead, angled down in an imitation of a scowling brow.

Orion doesn't answer right away, unable to put what he's feeling into words. Besides, if he waits long enough, Wally will probably get bored and divert his attention elsewhere for a while.

Wally does get bored; his attention does not divert.

"Hellooo, Earth to Sega Genesis." He prods Orion's cheek with his finger. "Why the grumpy face?"

"Stop that," Orion growls after Wally pokes him again. Before yet a third attempt can be made, Orion smacks his hand away.

Wally sighs and leans his head on Orion's arm. "Sorry. I thought you'd like it."

"The obnoxious prodding?"

"The haircut. I didn't mean to push you into doing something you don't wanna do."

"No force in the universe could make me do something I don't want to do," Orion boasts. "I agreed willingly."

"So what's the deal?" Wally asks, lifting his head. "You know I'm not psychic, right? I'm not even smart."

Orion glowers down at him. "I would kill anyone else who said that about you. Don't assume that exemption will last forever."

"Okay, fine, I'm smart," Wally says, even as a mischievous smile tugs at his mouth. "Sometimes. When I try."

Orion grumbles.

"But what I'm not good at is figuring out what people are thinking if they won't just tell me." Wally gives a little half-shrug. "Sooo, what are we gonna do, here?"

With a heavy sigh, Orion braces his hands against the laminate countertop and gazes for a long moment at the hateful visage in the mirror before him. Finally he asks, "Quite the resemblance, isn't it?"

Wally's gaze snaps up guiltily from Orion's bent backside. "Hu-what? To who?"

"My father."

Orion watches in the mirror as Wally stares uncomprehendingly at him for a moment longer, before his mouth forms a small 'o' of silent realization. He nods, crosses his arms over his chest, and leans one hip against the counter.

"Fathers, huh?" he says with a bitter attempt at a laugh. "I know how that is. I mean, I can't claim that my bio-dad was the universe-conquering embodiment of all evil, obviously, but it's not a competition."

Wally has mentioned his birth father only once before, to briefly explain how he came to be adopted by his aunt and uncle. Apparently, the man abandoned his wife and son when Wally was only ten years old; however, Orion got the impression that there was more to it—that Mr. West had not treated his family well even during the brief period when he was present.

Perhaps it shouldn't be so surprising, that someone happy and kind had an unhappy, unkind childhood. After all, Orion was raised in the paradise of Celestial City by Highfather himself, yet turned out angry and cruel. Still, it's hard to imagine anyone choosing to hurt Wally when he was a child—at least, it's difficult for Orion to imagine without straining even Mother Box's ability to control his rage.

"It used to mess me up, how much I look like him," Wally continues. "There were days I couldn't look in the mirror without seeing his face. Here, I'll show you—let me see if I can find—"

Wally darts out of the room in a blur of superspeed. Orion hears one of the closet doors in the bedroom swish open, the rustling of clothes, a grunt of exertion, then a loud THUMP followed very quickly by a muttered expletive.

A second later, Wally appears in the bathroom triumphantly brandishing a photograph, which he shows to Orion. In the center of the image are a pair of human children playing with tiny facsimiles of terrestrial vehicles. The older boy is immediately recognizable by his unruly mop of red hair and bright blue eyes. Young Wally smiles as he demonstrates how to send the colorful little toy cars down a track made of bright orange plastic while a toddler with brown skin and short, tightly-curled black hair watches in amazement.

"That's my bio-dad, back there," Wally says, pointing to a light-skinned man with a mustache standing in the background of the photograph. He's holding a canned beverage in one hand and appears to be talking to someone standing just out of frame.

Orion frowns a little in confusion. The photograph's lack of resolution leaves some details to the imagination, but he can't really see much of a resemblance. The man is lean but not especially athletic or muscular. His hair is a dull, mousy shade of brown and his eyes are dark. His brows are sparse and unkempt, the bone beneath prominent and protruding. The nose is all wrong. The general shape of his face is somewhat similar to Wally's but his chin is too broad and his cheeks are too sunken and gaunt.

If he hadn't been told that this man was Wally's biological father, Orion would not have thought they were even related.

"I don't understand," Orion admits. "You look nothing like your father."

The smirk on Wally's face is unbearably smug. "Darkseid was a nine-foot tall monster with glowing red eyes and craggy gray skin. You're a normal-looking guy with a wrinkly forehead because you keep scowling all the time."

Orion scowls even harder as he looks back at his own reflection. His expression sours still further the longer he stares until, with great reluctance, he grumbles, "You... may... have a point."

Wally laughs. "Well, like Grammy Flash always says, even a broken clock is right twice a day."

After parsing the metaphor and realizing that Wally just called himself stupid again, Orion turns and, with the tiniest fraction of his full strength, effortlessly pins the speedster against the bathroom wall with one hand. He feels Wally's heart-rate suddenly accelerate under his palm until he can no longer discern the individual beats and it feels more like a constant vibration.

He lets just a hint of his actual voice through the illusion created by Mother Box as he leans in close and purrs, "I warned you."

--

"You know," Wally says several minutes later, rousing Orion from a light dose, "if you really want me to stop doing something, I'm not sure sex is the most effective deterrent."

Both of them are lying naked on the living room's faux- hardwood floor, skin damp with Wally's sweat (and other fluids). They'll need to clean themselves soon—and unfortunately, they'll have to do so separately, as previous attempts have proven that the apartment's tiny, lukewarm shower is too small for men their size to comfortably occupy at the same time.

If Wally only asks, Orion would have a luxurious human-style shower constructed in his quarters at Highfather's citadel, large enough for them both. They would share a bed larger than the two of them would ever need, a never-ending pantry and larder full of all of Wally's favorite Earth foods, and an enormous flatscreen television with all the channels—including the premium cable package. Wally would never go hungry, never have to worry about paying rent, never need to work for any reason except personal gratification and fulfillment, for the rest of his all-too-short mortal lifespan.

If only Wally asks.

Orion smirks as he peers at Wally through one cracked-open eye. "Are you complaining? I granted you mercy, but if you'd prefer..."

He turns onto his side and lays a hand on Wally's throat, not quite squeezing, but firm enough to tease at the possibility that he might do so. Orion feels his mortal lover's pulse quicken with excitement again.

"No, no," Wally hastens to reply in a slightly strained voice. "Just pointing out that it's a bit, uh, counterproductive is all. Maybe try positive reinforcement instead."

"Sex as a reward for good behavior," Orion surmises, while idly stroking his thumb in the dip between Wally's clavicle bones.

"Exactly. Now there's some cognitive therapy I can get behind—or in front of and underneath."

Orion huffs a rusty laugh. "Have you considered that I'm actually rewarding myself for good behavior?"

"Oh. In that case, I'm glad I could help."

"You help me," Orion says, sliding his hand back up the length of Wally's neck to cup his jaw. "More than you know."

In the conversational lull, Orion belatedly realizes that they left the television on. The screen is turned away from them, but he listens in for a moment and recognizes an episode of Scrubs he's already seen before—not exactly the ideal soundtrack for an afternoon tryst. He hooks his foot around the powercord and pulls it free from the outlet, allowing a pleasant quiet to settle over the apartment. Though the white noise of Central City's hustle and bustle continues outside, the apartment itself feels all the more peaceful by contrast. In moments like these, Orion can almost understand why Wally likes living in this squalor.

Even so, whether it's a side-effect of his mortality or the accelerated perception granted him by his superspeed, Wally can't allow the moment to last without filling the void with talk. "Seriously though, daddy issues aside, do you really like your new haircut?"

"I haven't given it much consideration, yet," Orion admits. "Does my opinion really matter?"

"Yeah? It's your hair, man."

"I'm not the one who has to look at it."

"Well, I think it looks good."

"So it does."

"Fine," Wally replies, annoyed and fond all in one; his due, given how often he inspires those same feelings in others.

"It will take some getting used to," Orion relents after a moment. "But it's good to see myself with fresh eyes, even if I initially tricked myself into seeing something that wasn't there."

--

[internalsealpanic]

Respectful Cannibalism

Summary:  Watching mystery movie with a bunch of detective was a bad idea

A/n: While this is part 3 to my Space Case series, you’re not required to read Art Gallery Smile or Cosmonauts to understand the context to this. The only note I do have is that Dick and Steph are friends with Reader much to Tim’s everlasting horror.  Special thanks to @littleredwing89 and @glorified-red for proof reading this mess.

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff and a confusing amount of batkids in one scene.

Main Masterlist

Tim Drake Masterlist

Tim coughs, loud and ragged into the speaker. You find yourself wincing at the phone tucked against your ear. Tim sounds like he’s dying or, at the very least, he’s on his way there. 

“I’m so-”

“Fucking tired of saying sorry that you decided to go skinny dipping in Gotham Harbor? Yeah. Great, I’m sick of hearing it too. Glad, we’re on the same page, Space Cadet.” You exasperate, pulling on your jeans violently enough for Tim to hear the angry shuffling of fabric. 

“Skinny dipping?” Tim huffs, a fond smile playing on his lips as he drinks in the timber of your voice. Even when you were absolutely exasperated, your voice was still soothing or maybe he just misses your company. God, he’s such a sap. 

You shake your head in disbelief. That was his take away? “Yes, Timmy, Buck-ass skinny dipping,” you laugh, coming out derisive and sharp. Tim groans this time filled with guilt. The first few sounds of another ‘I’m sorry’ form in the back of his throat as he runs his hand through his bed head. For once, you’re thankful that you’re nowhere near Tim because you are one apology away from decking him and you’re pretty sure that that’s a terrible thing to do to a sick person, especially one with no brain cells to spare. 

“I- You were really looking forward to this (Y/n), don’t try to deny it.” You weren’t going to. He was right. You were looking forward to this date. You were impossibly, unreasonably giddy over the prospect of going to the planetarium with Tim this afternoon. WITH Tim. Sure, you’re pretty down about it but you were the tiniest bit more  concerned about the fact that your boyfriend had water in his lungs and almost died of hypothermia for a hot second. You pinch the bridge of your nose, hoping that worry and murder radiate off of you in equal measure.  “I was also looking forward to my letter from Hogwarts,” you sneer, pausing dramatically to look at your watch, “and it’s been roughly a decade.”  You hear Tim swallow and the hairs on your neck bristle in petty satisfaction. 

Tim chortles, a lively sound that startles you, then coughs but the sound comes out somehow sounding doubtful and teasing. Embarrassment flares up in you. “You were too!” you protest, hackles drawn to full height. A short breathy laugh leaves Tim and you feel the flush on your face ease into something softer and more rounded. All the sharpness in your veins dissipates as the flash of fondness for that stupid laugh takes over. You can imagine him warm under the covers smiling at the phone at your blunder. “Please, (y/n), my hopes were dashed when I was 4  and still not in the Jedi order.”

“Bullshit, you were never a child,”  you snort, sharpening the grin on your face into something vicious. “I refuse to believe you were ever a child! You probably sprang out of a textbook fully formed- Wait, I’m getting off-topic. ” Tim hums innocently and you narrow your eyes at the phone, hoping he can feel the ‘I am revoking your breathing privileges’ look.  “You always are.” Tim says before falling into a coughing fit. 

“Sorry, Cosmo, I just keep getting lost in your eyes,”  you whisper, pitching your voice rich and caramel smooth. There’s a sound on the other line. Tim is babbling you realize. You hear a shuffle of fabric and a body rising. Tim sucks in a breath, red-faced and caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. He can practically see the cocky grin playing on your face, the light of the sun reflecting as golden flecks in your eyes.  “You can’t even see them!” Tim stammers, glowering at you through the phone. You cackle at him as if sensing the venomous look he’s giving you. “You can barely open them!” Tim rolls his, very much, open eyes, falling back into an unnecessarily large pile of pillows that Alfred insisted was necessary for bed rest with a loud ‘fwoof’. “Yes, I can,” Tim mumbles, sounding young for once. You do your level best to smother a grin on your face. “I’m just really drowsy from the chamomile tea Alfie gave me.” You stop dead in your tracks, one hand half in your coat the other on the doorknob. You blink. “You’re at the Manor?”

Tim pauses, making a frustrated noise. He shouldn’t have said that.  “Dick and B… insisted.” This draws another one of your sharp laughs. He says insisted as if it was ever negotiable. “Did they ‘insist’ before or after they blow-dried and hung you out to dry?” Tim squawks and you hear shuffling again. Tim tries to remember why he doesn’t hate you. “Tell me again how you found out about me getting sick? Steph? Cass?”

“Hmmmmmm, Dick.”

“THAT TRAITOR”

“Funny way to pronounce older brother,” you hum smug. You can feel Tim glaring daggers at you. “You-”

“There’s a home theater, yeah?” 

Tim pauses, this time longer. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“Answer the question, Space Case.”

He sighs. “Yes.”

“Great! It’s a date then,” you say, mentally preparing a route to the Manor from the vague directions Steph told you once. You could just use the maps app- 

“NO!” You freeze. Tim flinches at the volume of his own voice. He  whispers an indiscernible  ‘I’m sorry’. You turn it over in your mind before speaking. “No?” You ask, trying your best to sound hurt instead of amused. Maybe you should have pitched your voice higher, more shaky. “Look, Tim, I-” Tim heaves a loud sigh. “-(Y/n), you’re fine-” Well, you aren’t, you think. You bite your tongue, physically to make sure you don’t say anything unnecessary. “-It’s got nothing to do with you. It’s- It’s just my siblings...” Tim knows that his siblings have been talking about you.  

“Timmy, I can take whatever shovel talk they can give me,” you say with the confidence of someone who has never been dangled over the edge of a roof top. Ok, to be fair, YOU had nothing to worry about. Tim, on the other hand, was going to get roasted alive. Maybe he can persuade you into not- Tim hears the tell tale sputtering of your bike’s engine and he feels his blood pressure spike. The engine genuinely sounds like a death rattle. 

“You’ll get sick.”

You swear and he hears another sputter of the engine. “You’ll get sick,” he croaks again, louder this time hopefully over the dying engine. Maybe if your engine dies right now, he’ll be spared from a slow agonizing death via siblings. “Relax Cosmo, I have the strongest ward against whatever you got,” you say, giving the engine a light kick. Tim hears a few metallic clunks then the engine stutters to life. Tim looks up past the ceiling trying to glare at whatever cosmic being resurrected your engine. 

“Which is...”

“Being broke. It does wonders for your health.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s how it works,” Tim says, shifting burying his head against the too soft pillows. The soft fabric makes his eyes feel heavy. He yawns. He hears the sputter or your laugh. It’s hard to tell from the sudden drowsiness making his head swim. 

“I promise I’ll explain to your typical rich kid ass when I get there, Tim.”

“That’s not how it works,” Tim slurs, face pressed into a pillow. 

You laugh, he’s sure this time. 

“I’m-” Tim’s mind unfocuses and the words you say garble together ”-Tim. ”

Tim blinks, mouth moving to ask you to repeat that but the last thing he hears is a soft click. 

On the bright side, it would just be him and Alfred at the manor.

_________________________________________________________

Batmanisfake: I heard (y/n)'s coming over😶

Nightwingingit:👀 How do you even know that?

Batmanisfake: What are you? A cop?

Nightwingingit: say that again but slowly 🙄

Batmanisfake: ...

Damian: He bugged Drake's phone. For blackmail purposes, of course. 

Nightwingingit: JASON

The Cool One: Shush Dick! He's onto something

Batmanisfake: Thank you 

The Adult: I for once had nothing to do with it😌

Theactualbatman: I'm assuming we're all coming home tonight?

The Cool One: I'll bring popcorn

Damian: Nonsense Pennyworth will likely have some prepared

The Cool One:😭 We really do not deserve that man

Nightwingingit: Definitely

thesaneone: We're recording Tim's face when he sees us, right? 

Batmanisfake: From all angles

The Adult: You're all horrible

Batmanisfake: Please like you're not hacking into the cameras as we speak, Babs

The Adult: You have no proof👀

_________________________________________________________

Tim’s head felt thick and gooey like one of Alfred’s custards. He feels like he’s floating, like he’s in a fish tank. There’s a sickly Chlorine smell clogging his nostrils; it smells powdery and sterile and reminds him vaguely of aspirin. Tim blinks. His eyes hurt; they feel puffy and sore and hot. His vision is further obscured by a thick layer of fleece blankets Alfred had piled high over him. He shuts his eyes still feeling too overwhelmed by the low light coming from the window.

Tim thinks he hears his window open with a soft click. Tim quiets his breathing. His hearing is too muddled to process anything beyond it.  There’s a soft thud of heavy boots in the room; it’s imperceptible and dreamlike the way it reaches his ears that it has him shifting under the covers trying his best to discern the sound. A dozen lighter footsteps follow it and he can sense 6 shapeless bodies hovering over him.

“Should we wake him up?” asks a voice that vaguely sounds like Cass. 

There’s a shuffling sound. Leather, he thinks. “Wait, lemme take a picture.”

“Red, why? It’s not like you can blackmail him with pictures of him sleeping.”

“Because, flashlight, I need proof that Timbo sleeps. ”

“Because?”

“Ok, how many times have you seen him asleep?” 

“Uh...”

“Exactly!”

Tim hears a laugh that distinctly sounds like Dick. “Does it count if Alfie drugged him?”

“Maybe?” Steph says, shrugging. 

“It doesn’t, Brown.”

“Damn it.”

“Does that mean B doesn’t sleep?”

“Nope.”

Maybe if Tim keeps sleeping, they’ll go away on their own. Tim wraps the sheets tightly around himself, hoping the large stack  of fleece would be enough to muffle his siblings. 

“I’m pretty sure I have dibs on waking him for opening the window for you shits.”

“Red, anyone could have opened that,” Duke laughs, stepping slightly behind Cass, who at the moment was paying more attention to the moving pile of fabric. Maybe if Tim stays really still she’ll turn her attention to something else. 

“Cass and Dickface would have just broken it.‘

“I would not!”

“Sorry, Cass, you would.”

“Steph, whose side are you on?”

“Why is no one defending me?” Dick sighs. 

“No one cares, Dickface. And Blondie’s clearly playing for the right team-” Steph cackles. “-none of you have any finesse.”

“Not all of us can be drama queens, Todd.”

“You’re like the third to the last person I wanna hear this from.”

“Third? You’re ranking us now? Who gave you the right?”

“Alfred,” Jason deadpans, “And yeah. Bruce and Dick are first and second.”

“Hey!”

“Can it Mr. Pretty Man Down.”

“That was one-”

“What rank am I?”

“uh … fifth.”

“Fifth?!”

“Sorry, Blondie, Cass has you beat with that ballet kick thingy.”

“Ok, yeah I can accept that. What about Babs?”

“What about Babs? The woman can kick my ass six ways to Sunday. ”

Tim’s head throbs all over. There are soft pin pricks pressing on the sole of his left foot; his leg jerks involuntarily. He wants to scream. Tim swears under his breath. A gloved hand pries the covers away from Tim’s face. Tim squints his eyes open only to be greeted by Dick’s kind, but still very punchable, face. Tim takes a long rasp, pinching his features in a mix of annoyance and despair. “Why are you-” Cough! “-here?”

There’s a slight quirk to Dick’s smile.“They wanted to meet (y/n),” Dick explains in a sweeping theatrical motion of his hand across the room directing Tim’s attention to the expressions on his sibling’s expressions which were all a variation of devious scheming. 

“How did-” cough. “- you even know-” cough. “-(y/n) was coming?” Tim asks, shooting up from his pile of pillows causing a couple of blankets to topple to the floor to the ground. Tim’s lightheaded.  He suddenly feels a shift in his balance, a feeling of vertigo.   He nearly topples to the ground, his blood not quite catching up to his movements, when feels hands wrap around his shoulders. “Woah there Baby Bird, slowdown.”

“Answer-” Cough!

“It was Todd.”

“You mutant sperm!”

“Jay, aren’t we all mutant sperm?” Steph laughs, slinging one arm over an irate Damian’s shoulders and another over a fuming Jason’s shoulders. Tim groans, sounding pained. “How much do I need to pay each of you to get all of you to go away?”

“A lifetime of IOUs,” Dick says, casually. 

“NO!”

“All of your share in W.E.,” Duke says, laughing. Steph elbows him lightly, also laughing. “You’re shooting prelow there, Slick,” Steph teases. Duke shrugs still grinning. “Gotta  keep it realistic, yanno?”  Steph and Duke keep bickering. 

“Drake, kindly, pay with your life.”

Tim scrunches his nose. “I’m already on my deathbed, you know, dying. What else do you want from me?”

“A more agonizing death.”

Jason grins, tilting his chin. “C’mon, Timbo, we can help with your little impromptu date.” Tim groans, placing his face in his hands. “Please just help me dig my own grave.”

“What would be the fun in that, Timbo?”

“For you or for me?”

“Come on, Tim, it’ll be fine,” Cass says,  clearly not believing the words herself. All seven of them dissolve into another round bickering. Damian, Jason, and Steph hellbent on giving Tim an aneurysm.  Duke and Cass playing at being neutral; Duke leaning on Tim’s side but laughing way too hard at Steph’s well placed jabs; Cass is only mildly siding with Tim to spite Jason. Why this time? Tim has no clue. 

The string of banter is broken up by the echoing the doorbell. Tim’s heart seizes as they all fall silent, enraptured by the odd sound of a doorbell filling the hallowed halls of Wayne Manor. The chiming of bells ends with the creaking of the large oak doors in the front of the manor. 

Before Tim’s sluggish brain could even formulate a thought, all of his siblings are all bounding towards the door, bouncing off the walls and flipping over obstacles. Tim scrambles, lagging, after the hoard of vigilantes barrelling towards you. Tim tries to shout after his siblings but his voice is drowned out by raucous laughter and bickering. 

You stand at the door, head haloed by the pale afternoon light as the sky catches fire, flecks of snow sparkling in your hair. You tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear as you sheepishly thank Alfred as he takes your coat.  

Tim struggles to breathe an he genuinely doesn’t know if it’s because of his lungs, you, or the fact that of all his siblings, Babs was the one who got there first and Tim genuinely doesn’t know if Babs is there to hold off the gaggle of vigilantes or to scare you off. From the jovial grin wrinkling your features, Tim’s pretty sure Babs just gave you some blackmail material instead of putting you through the ringer- an equally scary outcome. For your part, you don’t look even slightly phased by the fact that Babs is in a wheelchair or even by the way she’s clearly sizing you up. All of this rolls off of you with an easy motion of your shoulders as you answer her questions in the most frustratingly oblique way based off of Babs’s expression. Tim can’t help the curve on his lip as you blatantly dodge another of Babs’s questions with a smile. You spot him, winking, and the tips of Tim’s ears flush. 

Your cocky demeanor fades when a gaggle of batbrats crowd you; nervousness creeps into your form, ironing out your posture into something unnatural and defensive. “Is this a bad time?” You ask through a tight lipped smile. Babs glares at them but doesn’t make any effort to hide the satisfaction at your shaken demeanor. “Don’t mind them, Sweetie,” Babs says, patting your back and guiding you away from the gaggle. You shuffle awkwardly, trying to coax your spine back into a more natural curve. 

“(Y/n)!” Tim manages between gasps for air. Making a person with non functioning lungs run has to be some sort of human rights violation. His voice is  louder than he anticipated. He realizes, but the apprehension in his body flits away when you beam at him-a  wide cheeky smile that has his body vibrating with delight. He made you smile like that, Tim thinks, heart swelling almost enough to soften the impact of the next few words. “Hey, Duckie!” you chirp tilting your face in a cute lopsided smile. 

“Duckie?” Jason sniggers. 

Duke’s face passess from confusion, realization, then amusement in a matter of three seconds.“Duckie? As in ‘quack quack’?” Duke asks, pretending to still be dumbstruck. 

“Yes, Duckie, Tommy Terrific,” you say, the lopsided smile curving into a playful grin. The dumb nicknames earn you a loud, surprisingly nonthreatening, approving laugh from Jason who then says “We’ll keep those nicknames in mind” which just drags pained looks from both Tim and Duke. Dick and Damian on the other hand look absolutely delighted. 

“(Y/n), tell them about the other nicknames,” Steph says, grinning savagely. Your eyes widen and you wrinkle your nose, mouth twitching from side to side, trying to pretend away the heat rising from your cheeks. “Not on your life, Stephie.”

“Aaaaaw! Not even for lil ol’ me?” Dick pouts, throwing his arms around you. The familiarity of the action has Tim bristling. “Pleeeeeaaase,” Dick whines; a smile hidden in your hair, “not even for Alfred’s cookies?” You make a noise caught between a laugh and a groan. “Hmmmm… maybe? Throw in some candy.”

“Deal.”

Tim blinks. “You’d betray me for sugar?” 

“Cus I ain’t getting any while you’re sick,” you cackle, grinning along with Dick who looks way too pleased with the outcome of the conversation.  Tim desperately wants to melt into the floor. Looking at all his siblings who are eagerly awaiting for the litany of nicknames, Tim cuts in. “Let’s just go watch that film.”

“What are we watching?” Cass asks, leaning to look over your shoulder, clearly shoving Dick out of the way. Dick does his best to not budge. 

“What do you mean ‘we’?”

“We are under a communist regime, Timbo. We’re all watching it together,” Jason says, slinging Tim over his shoulder. 

“Have a heart, Drake. We only want to spend family time together,” Damian says, somehow still looking imperious even from where Tim is dangling. A dull ache starts spreading across Tim’s like his skull is being squeezed. 

“Hope you guys like Clue,” you say, fishing it out of your cornucopia of unhealthy junk food. “I figured you detectives would like a good mystery.” Dick snorts taking the disc from you and reading over the contents efficiently. “Bet you I can get the ending even before any of you.”

“No, you won’t,” Jason barks, setting off a long winded argument about who the best detective is. 

“Didn’t you say you would eat me if I spoiled another mystery movie for you? Are you planning to eat my entire family?” Tim croaks quietly. You scrunch your nose, twitching your mouth four times to the left and four and a half times to the right.  “Technically, what I said was ‘I’ll respectfully go back to juvie for cannibalism if you spoil another movie that night’,” you hiss low, trying not to draw attention to your conversation. Unfortunately for you, his siblings have good hearing.  

“And this is different how?” Tim asks, this time not bothering to control his volume. 

“You’ll never figure out the ending,” You say smiling innocently. Tim rolls his eyes and huffs a ‘we’ll see’. It doesn’t wipe the smile off of your face. 

As it turns out, the Wayne Manor theater is less of a theater and more of a bean bag storage closet with a large screen. Jason tosses Tim unceremoniously into one of the random bean bags in front of the couch before gracefully pirouetting into the couch. You chuckle and continue your search for something to put your Bluray in, just now realizing that you should have probably just asked for their Netflix password or something. Alfred appears out of nowhere handing Jason and Cass each a bowl of buttery popcorn and scolding Jason about manhandling his brother in front of  a guest. Jason looks unrepentant. No surprises there. With a swat on  the back of Jason’s head, Alfred turns to you, gloved hands extended out to you.  “I can take that."

“Oh… Uh thanks- Thank you,” you stammer. To your left, Tim snickers and your hand slip, somehow the blanket Babs handed you finds its way to Tim’s face. “Shut up, Ducktective. He’s practically your grandpa and I kinda wanna make a good impression,” you hiss, cheeks warming. Tim coughs, a little dumbfounded. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that you were nervous about this. 

Tim checks if his brain is on straight before speaking. “Relax, you haven’t physically assaulted me or any of my family yet so you’re immediately at the top of Alfie’s list.” You open your mouth to speak then curl it into a frown, looking appalled and concerned. Apparently, his brain wasn't on as straight as Tim thought. "Am I going to have to fight your exes? At some point?" 

"No!" 

"Yes!" Steph says, handing you a red bean bag. Tim scowls at Steph as he watches the color drain from your face. She just shrugs and goes off to annoy Dick. 

“Mr. Boddy?” Damian asks incredulously, reading the box summary again. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” you laugh, setting your bean bag next to the one Jason dropped Tim in. Damian rolls his eyes. “This is a stupid movie. Do people really consume this drivel?”

You scrunch your nose but don’t put too much heart into glaring. Thankfully, color is now returning to your face. “The movie hasn’t even started yet!”

“Relax (y/n), the tiny mutant sperm is just playing elitist,” Steph says, plopping next to Jason and eyeing his bowlful of buttery popcorn. 

“As long as it isn’t as bad as the Happening-”

“Dude, you live in a city with Poison Ivy. That thing is pretty much a documentary,” Duke says hesitantly taking the spot between Steph and Cass. 

"Please, for the love of Alfie, please, talk about something else," Dick whines, plopping a bean bag next to Tim. Jason’s face twists in confusions before his eyes light up and untwists into an expression with amusement. "Is it because of the-" Dick hits him square in the face with a pillow, all the while screeching "Think of the children!"

"Where, Dickface?" Jason ask, prompting Dick to point(jazz hands)  at Damian who rolls his eyes. Jason does the same, looking younger than the toughened exterior suggested. "That's a gremlin, Dickface. Not a child." 

"He is-"

"SHUSH! The movie is starting!" 

You giggle, curling into Tim's side and placing your head in the crook of his neck where you usually like to put it. Tim's insides shiver from the contact and his hands automatically coil around you, pressing his nose into your hair. 

"Jeez, her melons are big," Babs says flatly taking another handful of Dick's popcorn from Damian. Cass snorts and Tim feels embarrassment creep into his skin. He flicks his eyes to you, only to find you smiling into his side. 

"They're almost as big as Dick's," you chuckle. 

"Nah, Jason is bigger," Cass pipes. 

You eye Jason openly which makes the large man cross his arms over his chest.  "Huh, you're right," you note with more confusion than anything. 

"Bruce has moobs too!" Jason protests, red-faced. 

"Son, why?"

The chatter falls silent when the figure at the edge of the room settles itself into the large leather recliner in one corner of the room. You squint your eyes to distinguish its features from the rest of the shadows in the room; only to be greeted by the solemn features of Bruce Wayne. Your breath catches and you feel your skin jump twenty feet in the air. Everyone else in the room seems to have about the same reaction even as he pulls a lever to raise the foot rest.  You all follow his movements with interest. 

“Is Bruce trying to relax?” Duke whispers to Cass who shrugs in response. Steph rolls her eyes, reaching over Duke to try and snatch some popcorn from Jason who just raises his bowl higher. “Shhhhh, Duke, let the B man try to play human,” she says, snatching at the popcorn til the bowl just falls on Jason’s head. 

“He’s trying I guess.” This draws a startled chuckle out of you that you try to press in Tim’s neck. The vibrations against his skin has him shivering. 

“B, are you ok?” Dick asks. This makes Bruce’s features move in a slightly concerned fashion which in Bruce speak is very concerned. “Yes, why?”

“Ooooh, no reason, old man.” He turns to Babs. “Yeah that’s not Bruce. Five bucks says it’s a robot.” Babs snickers, grabbing a ten from her purse. “Ten says it’s an alien.” You twist to look at them, taking out a twenty. “Twenty says it’s just Mr.Wayne.” Jason sneers at you, taking your money. “You clearly don’t know the old man.”

“Can we please just watch this film in peace?” Bruce groans, running a hand over his face, finally looking more like the long suffering single dad of eight kids that he should be.  Babs looks over her shoulder, slinging Bruce an absolutely disbelieving look. “Do you even know your children?”

“Yes, father, have you even watched us bond?” Damian asks, using his free hand to do air quotes for the word ‘bond’ while using the other to try and swipe some popcorn from Cass. It doesn’t work. 

“That definitely isn’t Bruce,” Dick hisses, trying to shield his own bowl of popcorn  from an irate Damian. 

“SHHHHHH! I can’t hear the movie!”

“It’s definitely the butler,” Dick declares.  Damian scowls, throwing a pillow at him which Dick catches with ease. “Grayson, the movie has barely started.”

“It’s definitely the butler. It’s gotta be. It’s always the butler.”

“That’s very offensive to Alfred, Dick,” Cass says, grinning. Alfred sniffs poshly in his own recliner. Dick recoils but Jason piles on. “Very classist of you, Dickiebird.”

Duke snorts. “Nah, I think he’s just saying it because Tim Curry was Pennywise the Clown.” 

“Why would you trust a clown?” 

“Oh my god, why are you guys comparing Alfred to a clown?”

“We are not!”

“This conversation is a trainwreck,” Tim groans into your hair. “Dunno, Tim, it sounds like a success,” you laugh, pressing closer. His eyes flick between you and his siblings. “You planned this.” You look up at him, failing to flatten a smile. “Nope.”

“I say it’s Ms. Scarlett,” Bruce says, rubbing his chin contemplatively. 

“You’re just saying that cus she reminds you of Selina,” Tim huff, grinning and you’re half tempted to pinch his cheeks. Bruce cuts him a scathing look that has you shrinking; the grin on Tim’s face just broadens which just makes the playful scowl on Bruce’s face deepen. “Need I remind you who pays for the internet?”

“Alfred?” Tim asks, innocently. 

“Careful Tim, B man might actually do it. Hell, he’ll probably do it if he finds out what you did last Thursday.”

“Do you mean the explosion on Fifth?” you ask, turning to Steph.  Steph gives you a firm nod; in the corner of your eye, you can see Bruce arching a brow. Tim gapes at you looking absolutely gutted. “What happened to snitches get stitches?” Tim protests. 

 You shrug, grinning. “Sorry, Duckie, I stand by my cookie dealer. Who do you think sneaks Duke and me cheetos in Western Civilization? I stand by my fellow barbarian.”

“You know Duke?”

“I pay him to-”

“Shhhhh!” 

“You guys are talking too!”

“At least, it’s movie related!” Damian hisses. 

You throw up your hands with an exaggerated flail. “Fine!”

“I say it’s the shifty looking lady,” Jason declares, reaching over Duke and Steph to try and snatch some popcorn from Cass. You wonder why Jason doesn’t just snatch some from Alfred since he’s closer. You try to ask Tim but he just shakes his head at you.  “Ms.Peacock?” Cass asks, shoving Jason’s face away with butter covered fingers.  Duke tries to snatch a few kernels in the confusion only to get his hand swatted. “I think he means Mrs. White,” he says, waving his hand.  “Yeah that one.”

“It’s the butler! It’s always butler!” Dick protests. 

“I will fucking riot if it’s the butler!” Steph shoots back.

“It can’t be the butler.”

“Why not, Dami? He has motive.”

Damian rolls his eyes.“Gordon, why are you siding with Grayson?-” Babs opens her mouth to answer but Damain continues before she can get another syllable out “-nevermind. He doesn’t have as much motive as the rest of them. Besides, does he really look competent enough to hold a gun left alone with a knife?”

Tim raises his chin from your head. “Demon Spawn, your standards for butlers is too high. Alfred is-”

“You say this like you have plenty of references.” 

“Oh, Tommy Terrific, Duckie here is a posh bastard,” Jason sneers ruffling Tim’s hair. From the way, some of his hairs stick up you could guess that he still had some butter in his hand. Tim makes a face of disgust; you try your best to help him with his hair. “Jay, you say that but you’re like Mr. I need the correct type of wood for my bookshelves,” Steph laughs.  “Just because I’m not a slob like the rest of you walking disasters doesn’t mean I’m posh.”

“Yes, it does. You lived here. Yanno with Alfie,” Dick says, pulling out another pack of snacks he’d managed to snag from your bag. You’re not gonna ask at this point. Tim gives you a look which roughly translates to ‘I am very sorry for my trainwreck of a family’. You snort at him before turning towards his sibling. “I mean look at Cass. She’s still feral.” If looks could kill, the look Cass give you would melt your bones. Thankfully, Damian opens his mouth. “They’re all feral.” You have a sense that you’ve also been insulted. You hear Babs to your right laugh derisively. “You say this like you’re any less feral than the rest of us.”

“I am-”

“Are any of you still watching the movie?” Bruce asks and for the second time that night, your body tries to divorce your soul. You had almost forgotten that yes, you are watching Clue with the fucking Batman. You shift in your seat suddenly feeling a twinge of nervousness. Before the discomfort could nestle in you, Jason speaks up. “No, Bruce, we’re just watching Cass vacuum the popcorn into her stomach. What do you think?”

“You guys didn’t ask,” Cass says through a mouthful of popcorn knowing full well that’s a lie. 

“How can any of you be watching it? All you’ve done is talk over the dialogue.” You almost laugh at how exasperated he sounds. Beside you, Tim just snickers and shakes his head. 

Damian just looks at his father from his bean bag next to Dick. “Father, we can talk and listen. ” Dick, like the mature adult that he is, slaps his knee laughing. “I don’t think B is capable of that.”

“PREACH” was followed by a chorus of AMENs. 

"Alfred, what have I done to turn my children against me?" Bruce asks, tiredly leaning back into his recliner. 

"Master Bruce, how would you like me to list it?" 

"Alfred not you too," Bruce groans, putting his hands in his eyes. 

"Yeah! Alfie's on our side!" Jason cheers. 

"Quite."

"Alfie is always the sensible one," Cass chuckles sensibly between bites. You hear varying noises of agreement and Bruce ages from suave debonair to extremely tired single dad. 

"I assume Alfred is actually the boss here."

"Yeah, Bruce is actually on the bottom of the food chain here," Tim says. You tilt your head in  contemplation. "Yanno that makes Batman so much less scary." 

"B-man's just a giant softie," Steph chirps, slinging her legs over Duke and Cass's laps narrowly missing the nearly empty bowl of popcorn. 

Dick turns to you winking. "Yeah, just give him the puppy eyes and he'll  get you anything you want in 2 seconds flat." 

"Dick…" 

"It's true!"

"Even a carnival?" 

"Can we please just watch the movie?" Bruce says, in an almost pleading voice. 

"I wouldn't hold my breath, old man," Jason chuckles, earning a glare from both Bruce and Damian. "It's not like you know how to shut up, Todd." 

"Sorry, I don’t speak gremlin."

"That's bull Jay!" 

"MOVIE IS STILL GOING ON! SHUT YOUR CAKE HOLES." 

“I TOLD YOU IT WAS THE BUTLER.”

“Yes, yes, it has been publiced and noted, Birdie,” you giggle into Tim’s side, shaking your head. He wraps his arm around you, pressing a kiss into your hair, winking at you. “Does it count?” Tim asks over his shoulder. A look passes between him and Cass. “I don’t think so,” she says grinning. 

“It so does! It’s one of the endings,” Dick protests vehemently. Jason’s mouth flattens then curls into a grin. “By that logic, the old man is right too.”

Dick thinks for a moment, tapping his chin. “Well, we can’t have that.”

“Why not?” Bruce protests. 

"I'm still sticking with the butler. I'm sorry this is the only logical conclusion." 

"He wasn't even an actual butler you butter brain!" Steph protests, throwing a pillow at Dick. 

"I'm sorry but can we address why you're all mounting a mutiny against me?" 

"Teenage rebellion!" Dick answers. 

"Chum, you're not even a teenager." 

"Father's right. At most, Grayson is five years old," Damian pipes from beside Dick seemingly unaffected by his brother's pout. 

"Alfred, you're going to have to check my blood pressure before patrol." 

"Quite, sir."

“They’re all so dramatic just like you said,” you whisper into Tim’s shoulder. 

“I AM NOT DRAMATIC”

“Ah, yes, because the pretty man pose is so pragmatic.” Damian deadpan.  

"That was one time, you assholes!" 

"Hey, what else did Timmy say?" 

"Well he- Oh wait!" You fish out your phone and Tim snacthes it away faster than you can blink. "No-" cough "-you don't." Cough. 

Jason snatches it from him, snickering at the photo of Tim kissing you on the cheek. You're pretty sure Tim has a matching photo with you kissing him on the cheek. "Nice lockscreen, (y/n)."

"Oh, you should see the homescreen!" 

"No. Please don't. You might need eye bleach." 

"Relax Space Cadet, it’s not that one." 

"Ohohoho, what didn't you want big daddy bats to see? Haaa, Timbo?" 

Tim turns every shade of red before settling on fire hydrant red. "None of your business!"

Bruce clears his throat, looking at a stupidly expensive watch. “It’s time.” Dick springs up, stretching and showing off.  “Is it really that time already?” Steph asks in almost a whine. Duke and Cass take the opportunity to shove her off and sadly, she lands with a loud thud and a mangled curse. You wince but laugh unsympathetically which simply earns you a face full of dust covered popcorn. You frown at her and she grins at you as Jason hauls her up by her hoodie. “C’mon Blondie. Let’s leave the love birds alone.”

“It’s not like they’re actually gonna be alone. Alfie’s here. So is Babs.”

“I’m going back to my place. You people give me a headache.” 

“You say that like you weren’t having fun,” Dick teases, walking after her. 

“I’ll be down in the cave if you need me,” Alfred says waving at both of you. “Will do, Alf,” Tim yawns, nuzzling into your hair. 

Cass pops her head back in. “Make sure Tim doesn’t do anything stupid,” She calls back. You grin, bright and wolfish. “Don’t worry! He can’t do me while he’s sick.” You hear Bruce choke in the hall and you just know that you’ll mentally kick yourself for that later. Luckily for you, Tim physically kicks you now. “What the hell?!” Cough. “Sorry, got caught in the moment.” You huff, trying to look a little sorry. Tim just glares more. “You’re not even close to sorry.”

“Ok. Yeah.”

“I have no idea why I love you sometimes.”

“My amazing personality?”

“Sure.”

“Love you too, Tim,” you chirp, kissing him. Tim’s lips feel hot after the quick peck and he pulls you closer. “I love you but I was pretty sure my family was gonna eat you alive.”

“They would have done it,” you hum, pausing before adding, “respectfully.”  

  Tag list: @batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @idkmanicantenglish,@birdy-bat-writes,  @boosyboo9206, @americasmarauders , @l-inkage, @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay, @wunderstell   @hyp-oh-critical @glorified-red

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Hannibal (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter Characters: Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter Additional Tags: Brief mentions of other characters - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Non-Graphic Violence, Cannibalism

Disclaimer: Hannibal belongs to NBC and Bryan Fuller, and the original character are the property of Thomas Harris. 

Summary:  

After battling the Great Red Dragon, Will and Hannibal begin their new life together, but the weight of their shared past makes it difficult for them to move past the final threshold of their relationship between then and now. For them to move forward, they need to learn how to touch the other.

A/N: This is my first dip into the Hannibal fandom. I heard you liked fresh blood, and I'm happy to provide some. Also, it should be mentioned that English is not my first language and I have not written fiction for years.

Special thanks to nyyminen for her help and advice in editing.

The intimacy afterwards did not come easy.

Before Hannibal had been imprisoned, before his kitchen, Will and he had been close, so to speak. They shared something intimate, something so deeply emotional that there was a question of how conscious either of them were about what was truly between them. Their connection might not have been entirely sincere, but nonetheless it was strong and passionate, even to the point of obsession. Neither had planned it, neither had seen it fully coming despite wishing, wanting so.

Betrayal after another, a carved smile and a European holiday first drove the two apart only for them to meet again before a Spring seeking forgiveness, only to be snatched to be pigs for slaughter. But Will’s final rejection, after Hannibal had saved him from under Cordell’s knife, had torn the two apart, once again.  

For three long, long years Hannibal and Will were separated by miles and miles, by a transparent prison wall, by Will’s attempts to live a life outside of Hannibal. But the separation did not last; Will was pulled straight back to Hannibal’s sphere of influence, certainly for what was meant to be the very last time, the final chance for closure.

The night Hannibal and Will fought against Francis brought back all that closeness, all the memories, all the yearning and want they had felt, but denied themselves and each other before.  The two recognized and acknowledged the familiar intimacy, the echo of the past shared by the two, and sealed it with a cliffside embrace. As it happens, that was not the end of them nor their relationship, but merely a new beginning.  So, after the fall, the physical touches that had been absent before, gradually followed suite.

Naturally, the two had touched each other before, but those times were few and far between and meant something entirely different. These times it was almost always Hannibal who initiated the contact, disguising manipulation as concern or comfort, violating Will when he was too vulnerable, too sick to properly realize Hannibal’s true intentions. But despite all that, after everything that had happened between the two, neither could no longer deny that they craved to touch each other again.  All so slowly Hannibal and Will shed the hesitancy surrounding the touches both so desired and cherished.

First came the healing touches.  

However, the intimacy related to healing was, in fact, nothing new: Hannibal had touched Will after the incident with Randall Tier, cleaning his hands and bandaging his knuckles. He had touched Will again after Chiyoh had shot him in Florence, although the gentleness of it was lost when he brought the cranial saw to Will’s head. And then Hannibal had saved Will, carried and clothed him, only for Will to claim he never wanted to see or even think of Hannibal anymore. But that was all in the past.

The slaying of the Great Red Dragon had left them physically weak; it cost the two a lot of blood and pain. The following cliffdive had cost a lot too: more bruising to the already weakened from crashing through the sea surface, accompanied with near hypothermia due to the freezing water and the cool spring air. Their old lives ended in the fall and the new ones began when the two emerged from the thrashing waves.

The wounds received from the battle against the Dragon and from their consecutive death and rebirth made it necessary for them to apply a healing touch in all of their interactions. Stitching, bandaging, chancing dressings: all the things they could not nor wanted to do to themselves. Touching the other then was unavoidable, but truth to be told, neither Will nor Hannibal actively sought to avoid it. Hannibal, of course, as a seasoned doctor was efficient but gentle, all of his endeavours aimed at soothing Will and easing his aches. Will was considerate in his own right: he skilfully tended to the wounds he could and followed Hannibal’s instructions precisely when his own knowledge was not enough. Days, weeks, and a hiding place after another, the two were finally well enough that the healing touches they shared were no longer needed and slowly ceased. For the time being.

 Then came the greeting touches.

They were shy and fleeting, always cut too short to preserve the image that they did not mean as much as they actually did. The touches lingered between premeditated and spontaneous, uncertainness shadowing all attempts to sate their need for closeness. Shoulders were a safe place for contact when one of them was sitting, forearms if they were both up. But never too long, and often without looking in each other’s eyes. If their eyes met, the touches were prolonged until one them, generally Will, tore his eyes away, ending the touch abruptly too. On everywhere else they were mere brushes, fingers ghosting lightly over the other's back or arms. Gradually these touches became more and more frequent, bolder than before. Just as gradually Will and Hannibal realized that they were both really there, together, with no prospects of voluntary separation.

 At first in their time together on the run, Hannibal and Will spent much of their time apart, not used to the presence of the other, yet craving but afraid to show it at the same time. So, even more naturally than the vital healing and the shy greeting touches before, came teaching through touch.

When Hannibal was finally well enough to start cooking meals that paled in comparison to the haute cuisine back in Baltimore but required some proficiency above the average home cooked meals, Will followed him to the kitchen more often than not. At first he merely listened the almost constant narration and watched, enjoying Hannibal’s skilled hands cutting and slicing, a sight so endearing in other contexts as well.

And so Hannibal asked for help. Not because he really needed it, but because he wanted to share his passions, preferably all his passions, with Will. Will knew how to cook, not anywhere near at the same level as Hannibal, but the basics and what he had already picked up before things went south. But there was still something special when Hannibal insisted on showing how to properly julienne after Will had chopped the needed vegetables into uneven slices. Hannibal trapped Will between himself and the kitchen counter, pressing his chest to Will’s back and mouth close to his ear, hands covering hands, adjusting the grip, and patiently sliced the vegetables together until Will seemed to get gist of the right technique. Slowly, one pair of clever hands retreated, leaving the other to the task at hand, arresting at the hips for a fraction of second, only for Hannibal to make a quick side-step to retrieve more ingredients from the cabinets.

Lessons guided by touch did not limit to the kitchen, nor was Hannibal the only teacher. Will was more than delighted when Hannibal expressed his interest in learning how to fish, although Will suspected his interests truly lied elsewhere, but did not comment further. Hannibal outright refused to try angling at the pier at first, requesting that Will should teach him how to fly fish instead. Will conceded, of course he did, but warned that it would be more difficult than what it initially seemed. The two had a dry run throwing the line on land, Will guiding Hannibal’s movements, fond smile on his face when he had to cover the other’s hands, adjust Hannibal’s grip and send the fly through the air.

Will had fished at the same spot before, at a small lake just on the skirts of their property, and oftentimes even caught something, so it should have been an excellent place for a novice like Hannibal to practise properly. Until it turned out to be the opposite of that: Hannibal, not used to waders and how to move safely on the slippery rocks, fell over almost immediately after trying to cast a fly the same way as Will did. Will was unable to hold his laughter at the sight of the soaking wet cannibal, and Hannibal despite his wounded dignity could not help but relish that sound. After laughing enough, Will offered his hand to Hannibal, helped him up and back to dry land. In all that time as the bemused Will practically dragged Hannibal ashore, he held his hand tightly, long after it was necessary to keep Hannibal from slipping again. But like many times before, when their eyes truly met, the physical connection was swiftly dropped, and an appropriate distance was resumed for the rest of the day. Curiously though, when Will went to fish the next time, Hannibal stayed on land and was content to merely observe Will’s endeavours.

 And after the two had finally settled into their new lives, it came a time they wished to share one of their passion once again. Like with the Dragon, they worked in unison, one dangerous monster divided into two bodies, decapacitating their intended kill with ease. Like by the lake, Will held Hannibal’s hand when they watched the light die out of their victim’s eyes. Like in the kitchen, Hannibal leaned on Will, hands on hands, showing how cut and separate the meat for later use. Hannibal’s control beside Will’s chaos, with warm blood spurting on both of them, the two were content with their work, one kill at a time.

 It did not take long until the touches they shared were not enough. Not to heal nor greet, not enough in the kitchen or by the lake nor for a kill. Will flat out starved for Hannibal’s touch, and Hannibal longed for nothing else than to hold Will like he had on the cliff. And like all the intimacy before Will’s pre-made family, before Abigail’s death, the touches that were to fill the hunger they had for each other were not planned, but still wished and wanted. Unlike before, this time the two did see them coming, although neither were certain when exactly they would come.

Who broke the last barrier between the more intimate touches, neither could know for certain. Maybe it was Will, finally allowing himself the other desires he had long harboured but denied the existence of. Or maybe it was Hannibal who finally claimed what Will was more than willing to give.

In the end it did not matter. They could finally touch each other without the fear of rejection and allow themselves to enjoy it.

And touch they did.

 A/N: Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated.