A/N: Originally posted on AO3 on 09/06/2015.

Spoilers for Hannibal season 3. TW: Cannibalism, murder, attempted sexual assault (NOT between Hannibal and Will), violence
Inspired by bansheegrahamtao's tumblr post:

ok but if murder husbands in europe is real, please tell me they got fake passports and now pose as an actual married couple and they kinda don't discuss it at all cause things go super slow and their relationship is too delicate still
but then idk. they're at a restaurant or whatever and will goes to the washroom and meanwhile a waiter comes to their table and is like "can we get your husband anything else" and hannibal's like "no thank" and doesn't change his expression, but on the inside he's flipping every flippable surface of his memory palace cause husband. and when they leave he acts absolutely ecstatic the whole evening and will can't understand why, but probably thinks hannibal just missed his fancy restaurants or smth
idk man. husbands.
My ability to speak French is completely nonexistant, so I got the title from Mental Floss, which I'm going to quote here, bolding the parts I was focused on:

"À la basically means "in the style of" or "according to," and is the root of phrases like à la mode ("stylish"), and à la carte ("on the menu"). À la débandade—literally "like a stampede"—was
originally a military term dating from the 18th century, when it was
first used to refer to an informal or random course of action, or else a
disorderly, scattering retreat or rout. More recently it's come to be
used figuratively in English to describe a disorderly or chaotic mess."

Part 1 of the Weissverse

The last time Will Graham set foot in Europe, it was under his own name, hunting the very man who sleeps (Does he sleep? Hannibal moves with an unearthly grace, seeming to stand somewhere beyond humanity. Will would not be surprised to find him wide awake when he deigned to look.) in the next room. Hannibal, it seemed, had a great many accounts squirreled away somewhere. The apartment Will found himself tucked inside was moderately sized, two bedrooms and a sparse kitchen that Will was sure would frustrate Hannibal before the week was out. A decent amount of space, for something found on such short notice in a small French city whose name Will could not even begin to pronounce.

One week. Just one week since Will, in his relief and terror at what he was becoming, had dragged Hannibal down into the darkness with him. And they had survived. Of course, Hannibal had survived. In fact, he was faring a lot better than Will. He'd pulled Will from the sea, gasping and shaking, and Will knew a sign when he saw one. He had sought to end everything, before he lost control, and instead he had been reborn, baptized in blood and salt and pain. When Hannibal pulled him from the ocean, he looked up at him, bathed in moonlight.

"I'm ready now."

So now here they were in France. Will was still limping, covered in scrapes that Hannibal had doctored with the care he usually spent on cooking. He was sure they would be noticed as he practically tripped thorough security, but by some miracle they had made it.

But what now? What became of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, now Jeffrey and Edmund Weiss? Besides the fact that they were apparently marriednow. They even had a marriage certificate in the thick folder of documents Hannibal had procured.

Married. There was a ring on Will's finger, different than the one he'd worn before. Molly had shared his bed. Will's new spouse had eased him into it and left him there. Will missed her warmth and ease, and yet he could not regret the choices that brought him here.

Will Graham is not ready to become Jeff Weiss. He does not sleep the first night.

Sometimes, Hannibal stares at Will as if he can't quite believe he's really there. Sometimes, Will isn't. His mind is a million worlds away, thoughts racing through lifetimes he will never lead. He misses his wife, his stepson, the dogs, Abigail (always Abigail, he will go to his grave loving and missing and regretting Abigail Hobbs). He is not yet ready to face the Scylla of France. He prefers the Charybdis of memory. Better the devils he knows, the demons that haunt his dreams. Once he steps out the door and accepts his new life, he will no longer be able to pretend. He will have freely and willingly entered the world of Hannibal Lecter.

Will does not sleep the second day, either. On the third, he is restless and plagued by nightmares. On the fourth, Hannibal makes him a bitter tea and watches intently as he drinks it. Will sleeps solidly through the night.

Somehow, two weeks go by. Will finds a routine. There are books in the house, which he devours. At night he drifts in a drugged, dreamless haze. He follows Hannibal through the kitchen whenever he's there, watching. All of Hannibal's meats are animal, Will knows, coming from the butcher down the street. He has watched intently as Hannibal unpacks paper wrapped hunks and fiddles with the aging stove. Not an ounce of human flesh has crossed his lips since the move. They haven't been here long enough.

Nothing tastes right, Will realizes, with a horror that has long since been dulled. Nothing is as extravagant or delicious as when Hannibal would cook back home, and Will is not far gone enough to pretend it's the smaller kitchen.

Two weeks. Hannibal watches him out of the corner of his eyes. They eat, they sleep, they clean. Hannibal decorates. They don't speak. After years of cat and mouse, after each trying to kill the other, Will is not really sure what to say. What do you say to your would-be murderer, who loves you more fiercely than you even truly understand?

Two weeks of silence and Hannibal breaks. He is gone for hours and Will finds he doesn't know what to do with himself. The apartment is empty. His footsteps seem to echo. He can't focus on his books. He positions himself in the arm chair that faces the door and tries not to look desperate.

When Hannibal returns, hours and hours later, Will tries and fails to look like he hasn't been waiting. He can tell that Hannibal knows. Their eyes meet. Hannibal's eyes are wide. He looks the way Will feels, sleepless and uncertain.

Eyes locked and frozen and Will feels everything, all the pieces from that night collapsing back into him and leaving him shattered, but whole. He can still feel the way the blood tinted his skin and washed him in Hannibal.

And then the squirming bundle of cloth in Hannibal's arms barked, and Will's focus shifted. The squirming gave way to a dark nose, and then two long, jet black ears. The cocker spaniel puppy made her presence known, trying her best to get to all the new and interesting smells.

Will stared at the dog. Then he stared at Hannibal.

"I worried that you were lonely." Hannibal said, and Will didn't think it was possible for Hannibal Lecter to look sheepish, but he was certainly doing his best imitation. He crossed the room in three easy strides. Will was struck by how Hannibal towered over him, though he was barely an inch taller. Hannibal deposited the dog in Will's lap. She sniffed at him eagerly, lapping at his chin with her tongue. "I do understand what you've given up, Will. I know that contact is... important to you. I cannot be your sole source of interaction."

Will tucks his fingers into the dog's curls. He offers her a smile that feels stretched and strange on his face. Hannibal seems to relax.

"She'll need to be walked." Hannibal says, trapping Will with a meaningful look. Will nods.

It is the second week. The puppy sleeps in Will's bed and he thinks maybe this could be alright.

Life goes on. Will names the puppy Charlie, and she adores him. And Hannibal, much to Hannibal's confusion. He's not quite sure what to do with dogs, and Charlie wants more than just table scraps. She wants to cuddle and play. Most nights she spends the whole evening bouncing back and forth between their beds.

Will takes the dog for walks. Will talks to Hannibal. Will learns French.

Some days it's harder than others. Will awakes from dreams of blood and fire and he can't meet Hannibal's eyes, can barely stand to breathe the same air for fear of what he will become.

But some days are easy. Once upon a time they had been friends, with no shadows between them, and those are the memories Will calls upon. He is learning to cook now, hands wrist deep in flour and sauce. The things he makes taste good, if hollow. Hannibal jokes with him, wary at first and then bolder. This is Will's life now, and it is so much easier than he thought it would be. He fits here, in Hannibal's new world. He fits between pastas and soups and late nights reading the hardest verbs aloud to each other, Hannibal gently coaxing the proper pronunciation from Will's untrained mouth.

And Will sees France. He steps out the door with his wallet and his dog, wanders down the streets to the bookshop where each title is just barely beyond his reach but tempting nonetheless. Charlie likes the butcher shop, where Monsieur Bonfils pets her and feeds her scraps, praising her beauty in broken English. In return, Will brokenly reads from the list Hannibal has given him, Hannibal's tiny print making the foreign words even thicker on his tongue. Sometimes Hannibal will join him on their walks. This is when Will remembers they are married, at least to the locals. In their private space, they have finally progressed to smiles and easy conversation, but they do not touch. They occupy their own worlds, circling each other but never quite touching. Outside, Hannibal wraps an arm around Will's waist, or twists their hands together in an embrace. He calls Will 'mon beau,' and it seems that everywhere they turn he has a reason to graze their skin together.

This is normal now. This is their life.

It has been three months. Will Graham sleeps and wakes and eats and it doesn't hurt, not really. It is far too faded to hurt, and there is too much of him that understands, wants, is Hannibal Lecter.

Will has a job now. Well, actually, Jeffrey Weiss has a job, at the same book store that seemed so intimidating just two months ago. Hannibal practices with him every night, but Will's French is still poor enough that he is mostly responsible for stocking and errands. The owner, Mademoiselle Favre, likes him, though, and he is permitted to carry around his pocket dictionary and study when business is slow. She's trying to teach him to run the register, and the customers think he's sweet, patiently waiting as he counts the euros and struggles his way through small talk.

Hannibal works as well, forging documentation that gets Edmund hired at the nearest clinic. Will supposes he just can't resist the urge to be the center of attention, but Will has grown his curls out into a ponytail, and Hannibal has finally let grey and silver overtake his scalp, as well as allowing the lightest and neatest of beards to grace his face. They've yet to be recognized, though that may be because they American government thinks they're dead, killed by the Red Dragon. God knows Will had left enough evidence in dragging Hannibal over a cliff.

It makes them bolder. They've not yet strayed far from their neighborhood, a small suburban area on the outskirts of a city, but tonight Hannibal is in his element. Were he anyone other than Doctor Hannibal Lecter, he might have been bouncing with glee. He finally had reason to pull the tailored suits from their place, fitting one to Will as well. Tonight, they are going out.

The restaurant is twenty minutes by taxi, on a busy corner between a four star hotel and a women's clothing boutique. Will feels out of place. He may be nearly Hannibal's height, but Hannibal is well built and properly fed. Even on a strict Lecter diet (as much fancy home cooked food as he can be coaxed to eat), Will is just smaller, in a way that would go unnoticed if the tailored suit didn't tilt just slightly at the shoulder.

And yet.

He can no longer feel out of place, seated across from Hannibal. There is fine wine and finer food, better than what their meager kitchen can offer up.

"We should move." Hannibal suggests. He laughs, but Will knows it gets to him.

"We should." He agrees. His smiling and his face is flushed. He's on his third glass of wine and Hannibal keeps shooting him relieved, approving grins. Hannibal has always liked to watch Will and the way he responds to flavors and textures. Will indulges him, feeling warm and important. Never has he seen Hannibal stare at anyone else like this. He reserves the sharper pieces of his focus for Will, taking in all of him and in return, molding Will the way he was meant to be.

The attention is too much. Will excuses himself to the restroom, where he splashes water on his face and tries to wash away the taste for flesh that lives on in his skin and in his mouth. He tries and fails to wash away the fact that slowly, when he wasn't looking, he had become everything he wanted to be. He doesn't recognize himself in the mirror. There are no longer bags under his eyes. He is well dressed, put together, and the only shadow on his face lurks behind his irises. Will Graham is poised to strike, but this time for Hannibal instead of against him.

When he returns, Hannibal is beaming, a bright, new smile. Its not an expression he's worn before, and for a moment Will falters.

"I've paid the check." Hannibal says, looking even more pleased when Will deflates.

"I was hoping to be out a little longer." He admits. Hannibal nods.

"There's a park nearby. Perhaps we could take a walk?"

Hannibal seems like his entire evening has been brightened. He walks with Will's hand in his, pointing out the plants he knows and forcing Will to respond in French. He just keeps smiling, and finally Will has to laugh.

"I guess you've really missed the finer things, huh?"

They are facing each other. Hannibal has paused under a lamppost, golden hues illuminating his gracefully graying hair. Backlit by fluorescence, he reminds Will of a fallen angel. He always has.

"Do you like being here, Will? With me?"

"Of course." He should have at least hesitated. In another world he would have. In another world there was AlanaMollyAbigail and he could not forgive, would not forgive. But here, there was only Hannibal. Here, Will was too far gone. He knew how it felt to hold a life in his hands and let it slip away. He knew what it meant to kill and like it. Will Graham no longer hesitated.

"The waitress asked me if my husband would like anything else. Are you my husband, Will?"

Will's mouth is dry. Three glasses of wine and yet he is a desert. "That's what the paperwork says. We're wearing rings."

"You know how I feel, Will. I am not a fool. I know you spoke to Bedelia, I remember what I said to you. Will, what do you feel for me?"

"You should have figured it out by now." Speaking is beyond him. Will has too many thoughts to put into words. His feelings for Hannibal are tied up in rage and hatred, guilt and shame, friendship and trust, betrayal and salvation. What he knows, what he cannot deny, is that he feels more for Hannibal than he thought he could feel in just one lifetime.

It has been five months. When Hannibal steps forward, into his personal space, Will lets him. When Hannibal cups his chin and draws him close, Will lets him. And when Hannibal kisses him, collapses into Will from the edge he has been teetering on, Will kisses back and loses himself to them.

The heat builds in Hannibal's room even though summer is long since over. Hannibal pins Will to the bed and devours him with a quick mouth and steady fingers. They are bared to each other, scars and all. There are marks across hannibal that Will is directly responsible for, and Hannibal stops to kiss and lick at the slice on Will's belly as he makes his way down. Head thrown back, body arched. Slick wetness and heat, in in in more, driving forward and back. Hannibal is Will and Will is Hannibal and they are one, have always been one, should never have been separated.

It has been five months, and everything has changed. "We could have been doing this for years." Will says in awe, and Hannibal shakes his head and laughs.

One of the customers becomes attached to Will. He follows him home, whispering in his ear if he can get close enough. They're filthy, the things he wants to do with Will. Things Will has done with Hannibal and things he would never even suggest. Will takes the long way home to shake him, but eventually even that fails.

He could go to Hannibal. Hannibal has always been good at removing a problem. Hannibal could take care of it, but Will doesn't want him to. The stranger has done himself a disservice. He becomes the first death, besides Hannibal's, that Will takes time to plan.

Will waits, because he knows it can get worse and it does, In front of the man, Will affects a sloppier, vulnerable massacre of the French language. The man coos at him, uses his perceived vulnerability to get handsy. On the third occasion, when he becomes so bold as to corner Will between the shelves at work and press a palm to Will's crotch, Will sets things into motion.

That night he texts Hannibal and tells him to hide in their room. He acts jumpy and cautious on the way home, pretending not to notice his new shadow.

When Will unlocks the apartment door, the man strikes, pushing him inside and slamming it shut. He doesn't notice, as he whispers all the things he's been wanting, that all of Will's evasions and pleas for mercy have led them right to the tiled floor of the bathroom. He never even feels it when Will takes the heavy metal towel rod, already down from the wall, and slams it into his skull. But just in case, Will brings it down a few more times until the blood pours from the cavern he has made. His gasping for breath, covered in blood and oh he'd forgotten how good it could feel, how powerful he could be. When he meets Hannibal's eyes in the bathroom mirror, they're both smiling.

It has been nine months. They cut the body down right there in the bathroom. They will leave no traces. This is not for show, or art. This is for them. They will honor every part. This is their design.

Hannibal shows him everything. He learns to tenderize the meat, what pieces are lean and juicy, and which will only suffice to flavor a dish. They pack it into the freezer, as much as can fit. The rest is tucked into a cooler. Over the next few days, they will scatter Jean Paget's remains to the rivers and the woods. Should anyone think to look for him, he will already be gone.

On the first night, they make a roast, supple and soft. Will wonders if maybe such a toxic man should poison them with bitter flavor. Hannibal reminds him that's what salt is for.

It has been 10 months. Will helps to pack up the leftovers in neat little containers. Tomorrow he will go to work and eat lunch in front of his coworkers and no one will know. Will smiles at Hannibal and understands.

Will gives Charlie a good tummy rub, having long since given up on keeping her off the couch. He leans over to kiss Hannibal, lingering and wishing he didn't have a store to run. "I love you." They both whisper.

It has been one year. "I'll see you later." Will Graham adjusts his coat and Jeffrey Weiss steps out the door. This is his design.