authors note: I've only got TikTok to blame. Those damn edits of Hannibal in later seasons with that silver peaking on his temples got me feeling some type of way. Not to mention, just the idea of Hannibal dye-ing his hair to make it not gray gives me a giggle.
synopsis: You decide to visit your lovely partner (for no reason whatsoever) when you make the most shocking of discoveries. Yes, even greater than his extracurricular activities and dietary choices. The reveal that he's actually graying and uses hair dye to cover them is horrifying. Because, damn.....you could've been snacking on that zaddy energy.
You weren’t supposed to be here.
Well, not in a breaking and entering way. You had a key. A lovingly gifted one, though you suspected Hannibal appreciated the symbolism more than the practicality, since he was almost always the one opening doors for you.
Still, you'd come unannounced today. No real reason. Just the warmth of a Saturday morning and a half drunk cup of espresso that made you crave the quiet intimacy of his home. You'd called out upon arrival. Twice, actually, and when no answer came, you followed the soft, almost nonexistent trail of classical music wafting from upstairs.
“Hannibal?” you called again, hand on the carved frame of the bedroom door before stepping in. “I swear, if you’re mid dissecting someone in the bath, I’m turning right around.”
No response.
You padded over the plush rug and paused by the ensuite bathroom before pushing the door open.
And there he was, your boyfriend, in all his elegant, unflinching glory, wearing a towel around his shoulders as a box of hair dye rested on the edge of the sink. You blinked, because, yes, the sight was real. Silver streaks glistened in his hair beneath the overhead light. He glanced up from the mirror with a mild, unbothered expression, like you hadn't just caught him in the most pedestrian of crimes.
“You dye your hair?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“You have gray hair.”
“Correct.”
“...And you look hot as hell.”
That earned you the faintest twitch at the corners of his mouth. You stepped into the room, eyes still focused on the silver of his hair. It wasn’t patchy or dull like you'd seen on some people. No, of course not. It framed his face in an almost ethereal glow.
“Why the hell do you hide this?”
“I assumed it might age me in an undesirable manner.”
You scoffed, grabbing the dye bottle from the sink and holding it hostage. “You’re Hannibal Lecter. You could wear clown makeup and still look like the embodiment of someone’s fantasy.”
“How flattering.”
“No, I’m serious!” You reached forward, brushing back a lock of hair to closer examine the silver. “It suits you. You look distinguished. More than usual. Like…like a villainous silver fox who also knows seventeen languages and how to filet a man with a cheese knife.”
“…That’s oddly accurate.” He reached for the bottle but paused when you pulled back. "It began as a practical decision. Appearances can influence one's perception, but then it became a habit, I suppose. It's similar to the way I select certain suits to preserve the style I’ve curated.”
“You mean the suits I abandoned you at the tailor for?”
“You did say, and I quote, ‘If I look at one more shade of blue I’ll die.’”
“Because they were the same shade!” you hissed, then sighed. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to help you finish dye-ing your hair, but after this, I’m officially putting in a vote for you to stop.”
Hannibal quirked a brow. “Are we a democracy now?”
“We’re a domestic dictatorship. I get veto power over hair decisions if it involves hiding how stupidly attractive you are.”
He chuckled, rich and quiet, letting you guide him to sit on the stool as you snapped on gloves.
“However, while I appreciate the silver fox look, I don't want to give people another reason to fawn over you,” you muttered, squirting dye unto the brush and raking it carefully through his scalp. “You already wear waistcoats that make people forget their own names. Now you want to walk around looking like some snack up for grabs?"
“Would that bother you?”
“Yes, because I’m possessive. And petty. And maybe a little unhinged. So if someone flirts with you in public, I can’t be held legally responsible if they find themselves sinking to the bottom of an ocean."
Hannibal leaned back into your touch, utterly relaxed. “Then perhaps I should consider keeping the silver, if only for the drama it might provoke.”
“Do it and I’ll drag you to a thrift store and dress you in dad jeans.”
Later that evening, as you were removing the black tinted gloves from your hands, Hannibal caught your reflection in the mirror and asked: “Would you still find me attractive if I went fully gray?”
You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’d still love you if you were bald.”
