#making headlines fic

[maydei]

thank you to andrew hozier for the Making Headlines Playlist’s Greatest Hits, aka Unreal Unearth Tour

[artcake]

I am only in the middle of @maydei's amazing Hannigram fic Making Headlines and I am so in love already. The romance and passion of the language, the soul stirring love between Hannibal and Will, the growing storm of secrets and murder ....

Anyway here they are in their gala finery, bless their turbulent little hearts.

[maydei]

Bored? Quarantined? Need a really, REALLY long fic (like 445k) to take your mind off things?

If you like your Hannigram with sugar daddy vibes, glitz and glamour, slow burn, long-game murder courting, an introspective take on gender identity, a ferocious and slightly feral Will Graham, & a plot-heavy spiral into chaos (with a happy ending)... 👠💋

✨ Making Headlines might be for you! Read it here on AO3! ✨

[maydei]

genderfluid!Will (21) & doctor!Hannibal (35)

The airport is nearly empty; getting a cab, almost impossible. Will’s not surprised, since it’s Christmas Fucking Day in arguably one of the most Catholic countries known to the modern world. And, of course, nothing can be easy. The cabbie he manages to snag is older, grouchy, clearly unhappy to be ferrying strangers around on a holiday, despite the pay—but he seems somewhat appeased when Will recites his destination in broken, unpracticed Italian.

“Per favore portami alla Cappella Palatina. Grazie.”

Of course, the exorbitant tip certainly can’t hurt.

Will’s not dressed for the weather. He’s got couture clothes, Louboutins, and his father’s hunting jacket; snowflakes drift idly down, and the cobblestone road is wet and slick. His toes are freezing. His hair is a mess. His nails are bitten to the quick, and just staring up at the enormous, austere chapel, his eyes burn with such ferocity that he wonders whether he’s going to pass out or cry. Maybe both.

He’s never seen anything like it. Ever. He thinks that from the outside, and then he climbs the steps and slips in through the enormous, heavy doors.

There’s not a surface that’s unornamented: everything is gilded gold and ivory, rose tone and pastel blue, interlocking patterns on marble floors and wrought iron, porcelain. Angels and saints cling to the ceiling and gaze down upon the sinners below—few that there are, dotting the antique chairs, or on the unforgiving floors as they kneel and pray. Every inch of space is overflowing with the organ’s triumphant cries, the delicate embellishments of the classical hymns that remind Will so strongly of Hannibal in his living room, his fingers moving swiftly and surely over the harpsichord’s keys.

Everything is light and bright. There’s not a place that’s free of it. It’s the most tremendous sensory marvel Will has ever encountered, and he knows at once why Hannibal must love it so.

[continue on AO3] || [from the beginning]

[maydei]

The Hannibal of Making Headlines: successful surgeon at Johns Hopkins, age 35.

[maydei]

genderfluid!Will (21) & doctor!Hannibal (35)

The interrogation room is cold. Of course, that’s by design—to make those in custody as uncomfortable as possible so that they might seek to cut a deal and end their purgatory in frigid, utilitarian hell. 

They took Will’s cash, his phone, his jacket. They took the boots that Margot gave him. It leaves him only in a thin white tee-shirt, threadbare jeans, and damp socks. They swabbed the slice on his neck and under his nails. His wrists smart from how tightly they locked the cuffs before they pushed him into this room and left him to stew.

They won’t find anything. They don’t have anything. And they certainly won’t get anything out of Will. He’s prepared for silence. As long as it takes. The intimidation tactics are straight out of a bad movie, but Will knows every step in this playbook. 

They leave him to stew, and then they send in the cavalry.

It’s Miriam, grim-faced, bearing the burden of a steaming cup of black coffee. It’s meant to be a peace offering. Will keeps his hands folded on the table and says nothing as she sits down across from him. He doesn’t reach for it, though he’s cold enough that he’s sure his teeth would chatter if he opened his mouth. 

“Come on, Will,” she says softly, gently. “It’s been hours. You posted that article and drove him underground, but you also outed him to the world. You made him public enemy number one, but now he knows we’re closing in—what were you hoping to achieve?”

He stares at her. What does she hope to achieve? A solid contribution toward the closing of this case, and a feather in her metaphorical cap as an FBI trainee? He won’t give her the satisfaction. He won’t give it to any of them.

What did he hope to achieve? To raise the red flag, for one—and to paint a target on Abel Gideon’s back that will be impossible to erase. And from here, his primary goal is to wriggle out of this mess in a way that will cause the least amount of lasting damage.

[continue on AO3] || [from the beginning]

[maydei]

genderfluid!Will (21) & doctor!Hannibal (35)

In reality, the evening went something like this:

Will donned his armor, his disguise, and descended into chaos. He caught each cold, flat glance that Hannibal leveled at Abel Gideon, but acknowledged none of them; ignorance is the best angle to play, and Hannibal can hold whatever concerns he’d like within the halls of his mind. Will has too much at stake tonight to pay much mind to petty jealousies. Sooner than later, Hannibal will see exactly the lengths to which Will would go to defend their love.

Instead, he fleetingly met Jack’s eyes in quiet moments of conversation in the kitchen, not enough attention to seem anything other than polite—oh, but Jack noticed the way Abel stood just a little too close, too chummy, too familiar. Abel, of course, perceived each indulgent smile from Will as a quiet acknowledgement. Us vs. them.    

Everyone in the room believed Will was on their side. In truth, he’s on no side but his own.

And then came Kade Prurnell, head of the BAU. She was… unexpected. Her eyes weighed heavily on Will, on Jack, and though they tried to obscure the nature of their acquaintance—

“So, Willa,” she’d said, “I heard through the grapevine that Agent Crawford helped you with some nasty business with a fellow co-ed.”  

“Yes, ma’am,” Will replied, as proper as his Southern raising. “I was lucky to know him.”  

“I understand you underwent an investigation based on those accusations.”  

Will’s smile had frozen on his face. “Yes, ma’am.”  

[continue on AO3] || [from the beginning]

[maydei]

genderfluid!Will (21) & doctor!Hannibal (35)

It’s troubling to Hannibal that he hasn’t heard from Will at all. He’d sent a text when he got home from Johns Hopkins, to no reply. The attempted phonecall about an hour thereafter, too, went unanswered.

Perhaps it bodes well for Will having found his gift, placed in obscurity though it was—but there were houses across the water that might have spotted such a thing if they were looking, and alerted the proper authorities. It’s quite the drive from Baltimore to southern Maryland when there’s traffic, and Will had already been gone when Hannibal arrived home.

Perhaps he uses a police scanner; Hannibal’s never quite put thought to how, exactly, Will tracks down the scenes outside of waiting for the first publications to hit. After all, Abnormal Analysis was rarely the first to cover the Ripper’s kills. It was, however, by far and large the most thorough in covering them, and what they meant. It has only ever been Will’s insight that mattered.

Hannibal contemplates this until he gives in to his own hunger; makes a dinner of flambeéd lungs, cubed and seared in a whiskey glaze, and stores the excess in the refrigerator. Nine o’clock comes and goes, and Hannibal retreats upstairs for a shower. He’s keen to refuse the useless desire for worry.

Worry won’t help him. Neither will anxiety. He can only wait for Will’s response, and though he keeps his phone on full volume in the bathroom while he cleans up, it doesn’t ring.

[continue on AO3] || [from the beginning]