Ch. 7: Charcuterie

          “Is there any chance you have a bed in a bedroom?”

          “Mostly boxes and old case files.” Will grimaced. “Look, I’m sorry, this…we could call it and I could come to your place to-”

          “Take the dogs outside for ten minutes,” Hannibal sat up, righting his sweater with as much dignity as a man with one soggy sleeve could muster. “I’ll think of something that doesn’t involve me going home.”

          Will smiled. “And doesn’t involve murdering any of my dogs.”

          “Twenty minutes, then.”

          Will huffed, whistling as his pack followed him to the door.

Read the Rest on AO3...

Ch. 6: Poached Brook Trout with Locally Sourced Vegetables

          The problem with hope was that it made disappointment so much harder to stomach. Will had gotten used to hope, to nurturing his idea of a future with every bite of Hannibal’s food.

          And now Will wasn’t hungry, even though he was starving. He grimaced through every bite of his breakfast burrito, forcing himself to swallow. His —stomach rumbled in protest. He’d been ravenous all week, and even with his careful rationing of the remaining frozen Hannibal dishes, they had only lasted a few days. It felt like ages since he’d eaten anything that nourished him. Still, he had a class to teach and a cold-in-the-center burrito to finish.

          He approached both with dour resignation.

Read the Rest on AO3...

Ch. 5: Tavë Kosi

          Since he’d been home from the hospital, it seemed that Hannibal would find any excuse to stop by. The first time, he’d driven Will home, fussed over his medication organization, and greeted the dogs like an old friend. He’d stuffed the freezer and fridge with enough Tupperware-clad meals to feed 17 people.

          Will had finished it in four days.

          He’d never had much of an appetite in adulthood, but now he found himself gorging. He’d wake up craving the taste of Hannibal’s food, the sweet care, the savory worry, and always that violent spark of metallic flavor that seemed to ignite the ingredients and make the dish come alive on his tongue.

          He was a plate licker now, and a man that went back for seconds. For the first time since he’d hit puberty and grown four inches in a summer, he found himself needing new clothes. The physical ravages of the encephalitis, which had left his body looking concave and frail, were almost fully gone. Will carried himself differently with his new weight. His shoulders didn’t seem to hunch as much, his chest broader and stronger than it had been in ages pulled at the buttons of his shirts.

          Hannibal had noted that the second time he dropped by, saying how happy he was with Will’s more robust appearance. Jack had called Hannibal in for a consultation — Will wasn’t sure who Jack was afraid of, or if Hannibal had somehow blocked the Head of the BAU’s number, but Jack hadn’t dialed him once in weeks. Hannibal had arrived, staunchly refusing to speak about the case, even playing tug-o-war with his briefcase when Will tried to peek into the files. He did, however, bring treats. Some for Will, some for the dogs. The way they all lined up eagerly for them, Will guessed Hannibal’s food had a similar effect on the pack.

          The third time Hannibal stopped by, he’d said he was in the area. Apparently, the opera board was considering an alfresco performance and someone had suggested they look at Wolf Trap’s outdoor stage. That didn’t explain why he had a cooler filled with 6 meals in his car, but a lot of things about Hannibal were unexplainable — like how he still looked graceful leaning on the arm of Will’s chair listening intently to Will’s thoughts on a paper Hannibal was writing on Utilitarianism and its justification for criminal actions while holding a drool-soaked lamb stuffie that Buster was desperately tugging on. Will had been smiling about that very thing when Hannibal had asked if he was feeling up to a proper meal.

          “Huh?” Will blinked. He’d been leaning on his hand and realized belatedly he was cupping a positively goofy grin.

          “Do you feel up for a proper dinner, at my house?”

          “This is a proper dinner.” Will gestured to the empty container before him, resisting the urge to drag his finger through the dregs of sauce still left pooling at the bottom of the ceramic.

          “I confess, I have spent nights awake picturing you microwaving my food until smoke wafts through the kitchen.” Hannibal finally won the game with Buster, tossing the lamb to the far end of the room. Buster skittered to get it, then returned, ready to tug again. “I would like to think that one meal I feed you wouldn’t be wrapped in butcher paper or encased in Tupperware.”

          “Don’t worry yourself,” Will cocked his head. “I never bother with microwaving them.”

          “Will.” The word was pained, but Will could taste the fondness in it. He grinned.

          “Just stand at the open fridge in my boxers, eating with my hands.”

Read the Rest on AO3...

Chapter 4: Chicken Soup

          As they tucked into their food, Will smiled when he felt that watchful amber gaze land on him. He made a production of slurping up soup, creating the most obnoxious noise he could. He heard Hannibal’s little huff, the one he gave because snorting was not nearly elegant enough for such a refined soul.

          “Well?”

          Will tilted his head, trying his best not to let his smile break through. “From a can?”

          Hannibal gave him a flat stare. “Yes, Campbell’s silkie chicken soup, it was on sale.”

          “It’s sweet and sour, mostly.” Will let his smile take over. “Dr. Lecter, you’re worried about me.”

          “Of course I am.” Hannibal’s eyes immediately dropped to his own soup. Will noticed that Hannibal was a fan of eye contact only until Will accurately identified his feelings. “My friend with a discerning palate is in the hospital. I can only hope that Jello hasn’t dampened your ability to taste.”

          “Well, I do taste Reddi-Wip and lime, is that not in the broth?” Hannibal’s nose twitched, pulling his lip into a little snarl. Will felt a wave of heat rush through him. He tucked into another spoonful. “Sweet and sour, the base is care and concern. But of course, there’s that treacly arrogance…and that bright metallic flavor.”

          “You called that violence once.”

          “It was…is…” Will squinted. “It’s like I can taste blood in the water. Like I’m consuming life and swallowing death in the same moment.”

          Hannibal blinked at him.

          “Do you butcher your own chickens or something?”

          Hannibal dabbed at his mouth with a cloth napkin. “I’ve been known to butcher my own meat every now and then.”

Read the Rest on AO3...

Ch. 3: Lampredotto Panino

          At their next session, Hannibal produced two paper parcels from a back room, handing one to Will as he sat. “If Will Graham will not come to dinner…”

          “Dinner will come to Will Graham?” Will picked at the butcher’s paper, peeling back the precise folds to reveal a sandwich.

          Sandwich was probably not grand enough of a word for what Will held in his hand. A roll with a firm, gleaming crust was split nearly in half, and piled high with pink meat and vibrant green sauce. It looked like something that would be featured in an ad — Hannibal’s Bespoke Breads and Sundries, for your finest sandwich needs.

          Hannibal settled into his chair across from Will’s, his own sandwich in hand. “Hardly the meal I had planned on serving you last Tuesday, but you refused that meal so I-”

          “I wasn’t refusing the meal, I was-”

          “Refusing my company?” Hannibal’s mouth ticked up slightly in amusement.

          “I had to work.”

          “If we were in a proper therapy session and not merely having conversations, I might point out that work is your go-to deflection.”

          “If we were in a proper therapy session, I would have reported you for asking me to dinner.”

          Hannibal’s head tilted, that odd quirk like a dog confounded with a new noise. “Would you?”

          “Of course.” Will frowned at the hollowness of his statement. He should, obviously, report any form of transgression. But…would he? He held up the sandwich. “But since nothing inappropriate is going on…what, uh, what’s for dinner?”

          Hannibal watched him a moment, eyes brimming with amusement as he let Will squirm. Finally, he leaned back, crossing his long legs and opening his own sandwich. “A favorite of mine, lampredotto panino. It’s a common street food in Florence, consisting of a crusty bun and cow stomach that’s been boiled in fresh herbs and sliced thinly. I served it with Florentine green sauce, as I think capers, anchovies, and gherkins bring out the sharp flavors of the herbs in the meat.”

          Will squinted at the sandwich.

          “Are you uncomfortable with offal?”

          “I deal with the awful every day, a stomach isn’t going to upset me.” Will raised a brow, working to keep his face straight when Hannibal smiled at his pun. “I’m just trying to picture you eating something classified as street food.”

Read the Rest on AO3...

Chapter Two: Protein Scramble

          “Where’s Crawford?” Will made a show of looking behind the man. He needed a buffer for this eager little FBI acolyte, one that seemed to take a special interest in him. Crawford had probably fed him some bullshit about fixing Will and saving lives. He’d had people try to fix him before, but it only managed to chip off more pieces. Will felt his foundation teetering as the man before him smiled his not-quite smile.

          “Deposed in court, the adventure will be yours and mine today.” The man leaned sideways, making a show of sweeping his eyes behind Will, mirroring the gestures of the empath. Finally, chin tucked and eyes raising hopefully, he asked. “May I come in?”

          Will was reminded of Harley, the stray he’d found in the parking lot of the Walmart Supercenter. He’d followed Will at a respectful distance, tail wagging lowly, almost polite. He’d have been happy if Will had just tossed him the bun from the half-eaten hotdog in Will’s hand. Will suspected he’d lived a long while preying on the sympathies of strangers who liked a polite dog with big brown eyes. Will had sighed to himself, he already had five dogs, but he couldn’t leave such a mannerly gentleman with a scrap of food on a busy parking lot. He eyed the dog once before opening the passenger door to the car and tossing the rest of the hotdog inside. True to his nature, Harley had hopped in, gobbled up the hotdog in two quick snaps of his jaws, and coiled himself on Will’s passenger seat, ready to go home when Will was.

          He didn’t even need a hotdog with this eager doctor. He merely left the door open and watched as the man barged right in, shoulders back and head high like he owned the place. Will retreated into the dark, waiting for the doctor to fumble about the room looking for a light.

          Instead, the man merely worked around the beam of light glowing through the gap of the flimsy motel curtains. Perhaps Hannibal did suit him, Will mused, as he watched the man in question vault over the considerable boundaries he’d erected. Hannibal seemed quite comfortable in shadow, hands dancing in and out of the light as he began to arrange the small table by the door. He opened up his case and got to work unpacking containers. Will’s body lurched when he realized what it was: Food, for two.

          It was Will’s worst nightmare, eating the food of someone who thought he was some sort of specimen to be studied. He could almost taste the dispassionate interest, and the treacly fatty smudge of ego, like taffy threatening to pull out your teeth as you chew. He should tell him no. He should send this doctor and his cute little Tupperware packing. He should march to the 7-11 for some anonymous coffee and a microwaved breakfast burrito that tasted of nothing and was still cold in the center.

Read the Rest on AO3...

          Will would eat himself sick every Sunday. There was something in Daddy's pancakes, sweeter than the sugar, more filling than the flour. Every bite made Will feel sated and ravenous at the same time. He’d spend the rest of Sunday laying with his dad by the radio, full to bursting and brimming with a satisfied feeling he couldn’t quite describe.

          The pancakes were also the first indication that something wasn’t right in Will’s world. At first, he could still taste the warm sweet flavor, but something else was in the pancakes now, something bitter. It seemed to flood his mouth and taint the cakes, no matter how much syrup he dredged the bites through. He wondered what changed in the batter, and why the kitchen was so quiet. His father hadn’t put on the radio, no one was talking about what the ladies wore to church or the sermon. In fact, the only sounds were the clinks of forks scraping plates. His mother barely ate, maybe she tasted the odd bitter flavor in the pancakes as well?

          The bitterness seemed to grow every Sunday until Will could barely swallow the pancakes anymore, eyes watering as the unpleasant flavors coated his tongue and teeth. His parents fought more — both staying out and leaving Will with the neighbors. Music had died in the kitchen, and his father never let him stir anymore, ignoring Will’s little tugs to the legs of his cargo pants.

          One Sunday, Mom wasn’t at breakfast. Will had asked where she was and if she’d gotten another shift. His father had told him to shut the fuck up and set the table. The pancakes were inedible that day — a massive stack of slimy cakes sitting on a regular plate because the blue platter was missing. Will cried quietly, tears splashing into a pool of syrup until his father grumbled that he should get his little ass to his room if he wasn’t hungry.

          There were no pancakes after that. No mother either.

Read the Rest on AO3...

It's the Thought that Counts

Chiyoh left them with a month’s worth of groceries and strict medical instructions for Will. Hannibal wasn’t to move unless necessary. Hannibal was to take his medications on time, she’d made a chart. Will rolled his eyes and asked if there was a chart for his medications as well. He’d earned a flat glare for his trouble.

Still, he was a grown man, he could keep Hannibal Lecter alive for a few weeks until Chiyoh returned with more groceries and a private doctor.

At least, he should have been able to.

Will found that while he’d often fantasized about a world where he never left Hannibal’s side, the reality was more stressful. It turned out that if left unattended for more than 45 seconds, Hannibal Lecter was almost hell-bent on killing himself. The first incident happened when Will thought to surprise Hannibal with breakfast. He was frying eggs when he heard the thump and arrived at the top of the stairs to find Hannibal clinging to a railing, legs limply splayed beneath him, asking if Will knew where the Za’atar was, as he liked it on his eggs. The second incident was when Will was foolish enough to try to take a shit in peace. He heard a clatter then a crash, only to find Hannibal splayed on the floor, a heavy antique mirror looming over him. Evidently, there had been a smudge in his line of vision for several hours and that couldn’t be borne. The final incident was when Will came in with fresh towels from the laundry to see Hannibal trying to make his bed while balancing on his good leg, right arm in a sling, left arm smoothing the hospital corner of the sheet, and a pillow sham clenched in his teeth.

It was a miracle that someone so smart could be the dumbest fucking person Will had ever encountered. So now they sat, day after day, Hannibal hoping for a second of unsupervised time to cause havoc, while Will just frowned into the middle distance and wondered how he’d fallen in love with this insufferable prick.

Read the Rest on AO3...

First Impressions

Michael Raki always took pride in the fact that he was a progressive dad. The moment he noticed his son wasn’t hitting typical milestones he and his wife had taken Adam to a specialist. He’d never seen the autism diagnosis as a disability, and he stood up for his son’s needs even when the schools suggested Adam be sent to a “special program”.

His son was smart, there was no reason a little bit of social awkwardness should be held against him.

When his wife lay in a hospital room, sobbing that she’d never see their boy grow up, he’d sworn to her that Adam Raki would have a full life with his father by his side. Their son would have a good, healthy life. He’d kept that promise, even when the world, and Adam, made it hard.

He’d been there for his son through school, through college, and through the job-hunting process. It had been difficult at times, but Michael’s frustration was always toward those who couldn’t see just how wonderful and smart his boy was. Even now, when he heard the word “weird” or “freak”, he felt his temper surging. His son wasn’t a freak. He was an open, honest little genius. Adam’s only fault, as far as Michael could see, was that he was a little too open and honest for his own good.

When Adam was an appropriate age, he’d bought his son a book on puberty and then sat red-faced at the kitchen table every night for four months — Four. Goddamn. Months. — while Adam peppered him with questions from ball hair to blowjobs. Michael had answered honestly, and he’d always been proud of himself for doing so.

Until today.

It was true, that Michael had explained all forms of sex and masturbation to Adam. He'd never shamed Adam for buying pornography or exhibiting interest in sex. What he hadn’t done was explain appropriate venues for these activities. That was the only explanation for why he’d come home to find his son bent over the kitchen table moaning while a hulking man held him down and fucked him for all he was worth.

Michael could admit to himself that he flinched.

It wasn’t the ideal way to discover your son was gay, but Adam’s sexuality wasn’t really the problem. The problem was the thing looming over his precious baby boy. The man in question had scratchy tattoos all over his chest, and sandy hair falling in his face as he held Adam down and thrust. He looked like something that lurked in alleyways, robbing little old ladies and flicking lit cigarettes onto the pavement.

Read the Rest on AO3...

Thank you so much! I am always gobsmacked when anyone responds to my work, I always kinda feel like I'm yelling nonsense into the void, so this makes my day.

I got into Spacedogs via @llewcie, who wrote the first Spacedogs fic I ever read - Craigslist. I still love it to death. Then @disraeligearsgoestumblin prompted me to write a 500 word oneshot that turned into Space Invader and I was kinda hooked after that.

As far as why I love Spacedogs, I guess the answer is twofold.

1. They are the opposite of Hannigram. I mean that because essentially, Hannigram is about forcing a change in a romantic prospect (ie: Will needs to embrace his darkness for Hannibal to be satisfied), while Spacedogs (typically) is about WANTING to change to be worthy of someone.

2. I think there's an interesting dynamic between Adam, who is constantly bombarded with abelist views of the worlds, and Nigel, who is constantly judged for his past/appearances. Both need a bit of understanding, both have little time for "niceties" that have no meaning, and both prefer straightforward communication. It's just kind of a fun dynamic to splash around in. Either way, I've got a new Spacedogs story coming up Wednesday, so I hope you enjoy that!

I am incredibly touched that anything I wrote had that much of an impact. I truly love those characters and I am so honored that the way I wrote them brings anyone else joy.

I'm afraid as a heathen I have no real opinion on the religions of the world, but if you're happier and got through a hard time, I'm thrilled for you.

Also, I love that somewhere in Romania there's a Spacedogs sign. That is truly amazing and brightened up my day.