There is a quiet about the morning in Florence right after dawn, one Will relishes greatly on his walks. It’s a good sort, created from the natural cessation of activity required by humanity, as opposed to the kind encountered around the grave.
He gathers and collects it obsessively like it’s become his, proprietary through the repeated action of observing its existence. It’s not that he’s unwilling to share it with others; but he has come to know the other people who do. There is an irrational, strange jealousy of people he doesn’t know partaking in it, like they somehow need his approval to enjoy the ambiance of a city that hasn’t quite woken up.
So it is when he crosses the Ponte alla Carraia and sees a man staring down the river. There’s a flash of irritation before he looks closer and realizes, yes, he does know him. His hair is so pale blond it’s nearly white, almost long enough to curl into ringlets. It’s a visibly archaic style, so out-of-place anywhere except a period drama that it must be a deliberate statement. It is the same with his clothes, noticeable even in a city that boasts well-dressed people in suits from all eras. Will’s only met him once before, in a church doorway during a downpour, on a walk like this.
“Aziraphale,” he says. The man gets up from where he’s been leaning over the side, surprised to hear his name. When he sees Will, he smiles, the early sun lighting up his hair until it shines around his face. There’s something about it that makes Will’s breath catch, like some mostly forgotten memory.
“Will, hello! It is so lovely to see you again, my dear.” His accent is British, very properly RP. Will wonders how he became attached enough to England to take up its patterns of speech, the way Hannibal has let Florence into his veins. (He wonders if you can catch appreciation, fondness, and perhaps even love for a place from someone else.)
They exchange the kiss of greeting, and Will is surprised to feel Aziraphale's lips brush against his cheek, as it is a gesture usually reserved for intimates and family members. Of course, the last time they met Aziraphale dropped a bombshell regarding Will’s very distant heritage, so it’s entirely possible that’s how he means it. Will’s lips graze the side of Aziraphale’s face in turn, and something in him hums, delighted to be back in the angel’s (because that’s what he is) presence.
“What brings you back to Florence?” Will asks.
“It’s September, and that means it’s time for the grape harvest.”
“I am familiar, yes.” He’s lived here long enough to observe the way the city marks changes in the year, and to learn to enjoy them when they come.
"It occurred to me I haven’t had a slice of schiacciata con l’uva in such a long time, and it is so dreary in London this time of year. I did not expect to run into you again, although I am so very glad I did.”
“Yeah, me too.” Will smiles and it’s a bit surprising, but it feels like something he can’t help but do in Aziraphale’s presence. “So if you’re looking for schiacciata, I’m sure I could ask people who know better than me where to find the best in the city. I could text you, email it maybe?”
“How wonderfully thoughtful of you, my dear.” Aziraphale pulls a card out from somewhere and presses it into Will’s hand. There’s a phone number with a UK calling code on it.
“And maybe I could have some with you? I haven’t actually ever tried it.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he’s aware of what he’s doing.
“All this time living here and you’ve never had some? We absolutely must!” In his excitement, Aziraphale has put a hand on Will’s arm. It should feel like an intrusion, overly familiar, but it really doesn’t. He stuffs that thought down for later examination.
“I’d like that. I’ve got to get going, but I’ll get in touch with you later?”
“Of course. I look forward to hearing from you.” Another smile, and it warms Will like sunlight on a cold day, the way he wants to tip his face into it like a flower. He walks a bit faster than usual and tells himself it’s because he wants to spend as much time with Hannibal as possible before he gets on with his day.
—
There’s coffee brewing in the Moka pot and two soft-boiled eggs sitting on the counter when he gets back. Hannibal is reading the newspaper while he drinks his coffee.
Will slices up the last of the bread and pulls out a pan. He turns on the stove and drops some butter into the pan to melt, swirling the bread around. It’s fussier than a toaster, but it makes delicious toast perfect for dipping in eggs.
“Where's the best schiacciata con l’uva in the city?”
Hannibal looks up and gives him a couple names, which Will notes in his phone. It’s time to flip the toast, so he does.
“You’ve never shown interest in this particular thing before.” The expressive arch of Hannibal’s eyebrow makes the statement an inquiry.
He pokes at the toast, which does not need tending yet. “Somebody asked me. We’re going to go have some.”
“A new friend?”
“Someone I met previously but would like to get to know better. The angel. Aziraphale,” he clarifies, as if there was a chance Hannibal would have forgotten.
“Ah.” There’s a world of sudden understanding in the word, as if Will had provided the key to figuring it all out.
“Does it bother you?” It’s not like their last meeting had gone well, the way Hannibal had snarled at Aziraphale and Will refused to let go of the angel. I’ve lost enough family, he remembers thinking. You will not take away more.
"Would you not do something you wanted if I said it did?"
"I would think about not doing it."
"Then it does not matter how I feel about it." It's as close to a sulk as he's ever seen Hannibal get.
"You're stuck with me whether you want it or not." Not that Will could imagine getting tired of Hannibal, nor vice versa. Even now he catches Hannibal watching him when he thinks Will’s not paying attention. Sometimes there’s a tiny, satisfied smile on his face, but more often wonder, a genuine astonishment that both surprises and warms him.
The line of Hannibal's shoulders relaxes minutely, as loud as a sigh of relief for someone who knows how to interpret. "Get to know your angel companion. Eat as much as you can stand. Fuck him, if you like. But you'll always come back to me." Will’s not sure if that’s a threat, promise, or prayer. Maybe all of those.
Hannibal puts his coffee cup in the sink and leans in to kiss Will on the cheek. When he does he presses on the bruise he'd bitten into Will's shoulder a couple nights before. The pain blooms anew, keen and sweet and arousing.
"I have a party with some board members at the University. I expect I will be quite late. Don't burn your toast."
"Ah, shit!" Will looks down at the pan. The bread is darker than he would prefer, but by some miracle, it's not scorched. When he looks up from the stove, Hannibal is already gone.
—
He fidgets, waiting for Aziraphale outside the bakery. There’s absolutely no reason he’d expect the angel not to show, but a lifetime of getting stood up is hard to shake. And even if he does come, there’s so much… else. Maybe it’s too forward to invite somebody out so quickly even if they are long-lost relatives (of a sort). He could be indulging Will out of pure social or familial obligation. Will’s never met any other angels, and only one other otherworldly being. (He’s pretty confident Hannibal isn’t exactly standard for a demon either.)
Aziraphale walks up to the shop like a completely normal human. Now that Will’s peeked behind the curtain, so to speak, the seams and gaps are visible, but only if he’s looking carefully. It’s a very good mask, but then again, Aziraphale has had a long time to practice.
“Hello, dear,” Aziraphale says as they kiss each other’s cheeks. There’s that hum in the back of his head again, like a tuning fork vibrating at the perfect complementary frequency.
As they wait in line, Aziraphale expounds upon the history of winemaking in Tuscany and the extreme seasonality of the schiacciata. Will learns the uva fragola are of American origin, although nobody knows who brought them over or when they were transplanted.
“Maybe they just needed a change of scenery, or a place that would give them a new start,” Will says.
“If only every plant that needed such could get one,” Aziraphale replies. “I am glad these were lucky.”
They take two generous portions of schiacciata to go and find one of the many little piazzas scattered throughout the city, perching on the lip of a sluggishly bubbling fountain.
Aziraphale unwraps his packet and breaks off a piece. The bread is stuffed with grapes, some of them burst open, dripping jammy, dark liquor on the pale bread. He puts it in his mouth and makes a happy noise that, in other contexts, could be construed as erotic.
So Aziraphale enjoys food a lot. That’s hardly unusual.
“As good as you remember?” Will asks.
“Even better. Thank you for letting me know of this place, and for accompanying me. It was very kind of you.” He licks the stickiness that has gotten onto his fingers.
So Will can’t tell if Aziraphale is just like that, thorough and meticulous in all things; including getting stuff off his hands. For some reason he thought he’d be fussier, using a handkerchief or something. But there is a sensible efficiency to just licking them clean. If he’s being calculating or flirtatious, he’s doing an amazing job of feigning nonchalance, un-self-consciously absorbed in his task.
Will opens his packet and puts a piece of schiacciata in his mouth. A whisper of rosemary fades into the sweetness of the fruit. These taste nothing like table grapes in the States, or the corn syrupy filling that accompanied peanut butter and white bread in his childhood. The sweetness is bright and fresh, but somehow still earthy. He is, of course, familiar with the notion of terroir, but the process of fermentation blunts it in wine. Under his teeth, the burst of the grapes spills juice that tastes of warm Tuscan sunlight and the nourishment of the soil onto his tongue.
“How do you like it?” Aziraphale’s looking at him, curious and inquiring.
“It’s good. Really good,” he replies, like it’s somehow adequate to encompass the apparently Platonic culinary experience he just had.
“I’m so glad.” Aziraphale smiles, delighted and beatific. They sit for a while, eating their schiacciata in companionable silence.
“I know it’s not exactly traditional, but I think a bit of whipped cream on this would be just the thing.” Aziraphale reaches into his packet and pulls out a little container of whipped cream Will knows wasn’t there when they left the shop. He dollops some on a piece and holds it up to Will’s mouth.
“Go on dear, have a bite.”
He’s not sure there’s any way to refuse without being rude. And it’s not like he doesn’t want to have a taste. He closes his mouth around the piece, mindful of Aziraphale’s fingers.
There’s no repeat of last time, and Will isn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. The richness of the whipped cream accents pleasantly against the fruit and bread, and he makes a small, pleased noise at it. He licks his lips and swears Aziraphale’s face gets a tiny bit rosy.
They make idle chit-chat, comparing coffee shops and trattorias. Will doesn’t have quite as wide knowledge as Aziraphale or Hannibal, but he has his own favorites and discoveries that Aziraphale writes down for later.
“May I ask a personal question?” Aziraphale says.
We’re family, he thinks. There shouldn’t be secrets between us. “Of course,” is what he says.
“That scar. On your cheek. What happened?” Aziraphale looks like he wants to touch it (and Will discovers he would let him if he did), but he changes his mind and does not.
“How much do you know about my life before Florence?” Might as well get it out now, before he has a chance to grow truly attached to something, someone else that might be taken away.
“Very little, I’m afraid.”
“That’s a bit of a story.” And so Will tells him about Francis Dolarhyde: the families he murdered, the circumstances surrounding his supposed death. He leaves out Molly and Wallace, the threat and harm he inflicted upon them. The fight, the kill, the fall; and how he found out Hannibal wasn’t exactly human.
“I am so very glad he was there to catch you, or we never would have met.”
“Even if it was because of a demon’s actions?” He intends the remark to be teasing, but Aziraphale becomes very still.
“I think what we do cannot necessarily be judged by the nature of the being doing them,” he says finally. He’s talking about more than Hannibal, it’s obvious; but if he wants to tell Will the whole story, he can do it when he’s ready.
“Would you say what we did to the Red Dragon falls under that?”
For the first time, Aziraphale looks tired, the weight of his many decades(? centuries?) of existence peeking through. “I think I need to be much drunker to have this conversation. I’ve some lovely bottles of wine at my pensione. Would you care to sample a few?”
—
Italy’s a place that has different priorities, Will thinks as he pours himself another glass. The pensione doesn’t have private bathrooms, but every room has wine glasses, a corkscrew, and a little table with chairs. They’re well into a second bottle of excellent wine, and a warm, fuzzy haze has settled over them.
"I think I'm ready to answer your question now."
Ah yes. The reason they came over here, although he wonders if both of them were using it as an excuse.
"I suppose you know Dolarhyde isn't the only person I've killed." He's not exactly sure what angelic powers can perceive, but he thinks murder is probably something that leaves stains on a person's soul.
"I am powerful, not omniscient, my dear. Certainly I can sense you did things that weigh upon you heavily, but the circumstances in which they occurred are unknown to me. It seems you'd like to tell me about them, so come sit by me and I will listen." He pats the spot on the bed next to him.
Will gets up from his chair, moving cautiously until he’s sure he can be steady. Problem is his equilibrium is about two steps behind him, so by the time he gets to the bed, he more lands against Aziraphale as opposed to sitting next to him.
“Sorry,” he mutters, rearranging himself.
“Nothing to apologize for, dear.” Aziraphale squeezes his knee, and Will’s face heats up. And then he feels ridiculous because it was probably a companionable gesture.
“I’m not really sure where I should start. Hannibal is the only other, uh, person who knows all of it.”
“Wherever you like. I’m sure it will all make sense in the end.” Aziraphale exudes patience, understanding. No, more than that: acceptance. It feels undeserved—Will’s done enough horrible things for multiple lifetimes, but who is he to refuse a benediction when offered?
He tells Aziraphale about Hobbs, because why not start at the beginning? The girls, the wife. Abigail on the floor, her and her father’s blood all over his hands and face. Beverly, sliced up; not one of Bluebeard’s brides but a victim and warning nonetheless. Randall Tier, and the way he tore him apart with his bare hands, mounted him like a trophy for the world to see. Abigail on the floor again, his face covered in her blood.
“So, now you know everything.” He’s not sure how he wants Aziraphale to respond. It would be expected, logical even, for him to recoil in horror; or look at Will with pity at the way he’s allowed himself to be warped and manipulated.
Aziraphale gazes at him. For a being who usually displays every emotion on his face, right now he's inscrutable, and Will doesn't know how to deal with that.
"I hope you're not seeking forgiveness or absolution, my dear, as I am ill-equipped to provide it."
Definitely not what he thought would happen, but honestly? This is way better.
"People do that?"
Aziraphale quirks his mouth. It’s not quite a smile—it’s too rueful for that. "Humans always seem to think we have some direct line to God. That may have been true once, a very long time ago, but even then it was only ever one-way.
"We are gifted with powers humans do not have, but we are not omniscient. Regarding moral judgments, the only advantage I have over a human is lifetimes’ worth of observation and experience. That is useful, but not as much as one might think. Most times, presented with a scenario, I can predict with fairly good accuracy what will happen, knowing a few variables."
Something pricks at his memory: Leda the swan, those poor nymphs in Metamorphoses, any number of other hapless men and women who became the object of a powerful being’s desire. He’s not sure he likes the comparison.
Close but not quite. He feels more than hears a voice, slightly amused. You’re interrogating this from the wrong perspective.
Will sees, in his mind’s eye or a place that humans can’t (does it really matter?), an inky stag-shaped creature with smoldering red eyes. He approaches it, runs a hand over its side. It allows it, and he gets the sense it would not let just anybody do that.
A rope appears in his hand and he ties it around the creature’s neck, knotting it loosely. If it wanted to, it could very easily bolt, and there is nothing the rope would do to stop it. They both understand it is a formality, a symbol of an agreement. The creature butts its face into Will’s chest, hard enough it might bruise. It’s a gesture of affection but also a reminder bound certainly does not mean tame.
“Is he my… responsibility then?” Will has no fucking idea how any of this works. He’s not a princess, and Hannibal is the furthest thing from a unicorn he can imagine.
Aziraphale laughs, not unkindly. “Is a lightning rod responsible for a storm? It can redirect some of the storm’s destructive tendencies, but nobody blames it when a tree inevitably burns.”
“That probably sounds like an adequate answer to somebody, but it still doesn’t tell me anything.”
He pats Will’s hand. “I’m sorry, darling. Sometimes metaphors are easier, because facts can be… insufficient.” He pauses, trying to rephrase. “There are things he will not do, for your sake. I do not mean that you should alter your behavior because of him, but your very presence changes his nature.”
“Like quantum physics.”
Aziraphale looks thoughtful. “That is one way of putting it. But I was thinking of something a bit more elemental, primal.”
“Oh?”
His voice is soft. “Love can make monsters. You and I have both seen that. But it can also bind them.”
“You say that like you know.”
“The thing I understand and was made for, my dear, is love. Certainly agape, philia, and all that wholesome tosh, but also eros and mania. It is a… misunderstanding to assume love leads us only to better things. Like all forces in the universe, it is morally neutral.”
“What I did. Was it out of love?”
Aziraphale looks at him, inscrutable once again. “I have my opinions, but I’d like to hear what you think first.”
Will takes a breath, clears his head. It’s not the swing of the pendulum, but close enough. The immediate surge of protectiveness he felt when he saw Hobbs with a knife at Abigail’s neck. The desire to impress, show off, delight, as he ripped Tier apart. The fear, for both Hannibal and himself; but also fierce, singing joy in taking Dolarhyde apart, together, as if it were somehow foreordained.
He now realizes what he felt emanating from Hannibal in those moments after the kill was love. It fountained over him like blood, soaking deep like water into parched earth. He wonders what Hannibal felt from him, when he clutched the other man like he’d drown without him. They fell then, but did not dash themselves on the rocks like he expected.
“If it is like you say, then yes.”
Aziraphale nods, as if that was also his conclusion.
"Am I what you expected, given what you know about me?" He doesn't mean it to sound as challenging as it comes out.
Aziraphale smiles, soft and affectionate. It feels like every hug, kiss on the forehead, and fond ruffle of hair he should have gotten and didn't; but in a way that holds no regret or pain. “There has never been anybody like you, darling.”
“Oh.” There’s something about the statement that punches the air out of him, the way Aziraphale says it like it’s self-evident. He’s looking at Will the way Hannibal does when he thinks Will doesn’t notice: fond, yes, but also full of wonder and surprise in equal measure.
“You are absolutely extraordinary, my dear. Enough to catch the attention of so many, mortal and otherwise.” Aziraphale puts his hand to Will’s cheek, curling fingers to the back of his jaw. He leans into it, like his dogs used to when he returned after a time away. A low hum starts to build, nowhere and everywhere at once.
“May I kiss you, Will?” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, entreating, but there’s an edge of hunger underneath, one that makes his insides go shivery and liquid. (If he were a more introspective person he would probably wonder why he keeps putting himself in situations where he can be consumed.)
“Please.” He hopes he can keep some of the eagerness out of his voice.
Will only got a taste of Aziraphale the last time this happened, and he chases after it now, tongue lingering. It’s a completely different kind of strange from Hannibal, but he can tell it, too, is inhuman.
The hum increases, until it fills his head and chest with something he doesn’t know how to characterize at first: a low, warm rumble like a tiger purring; the smell of old books, huffs of warm wet breath against skin, petrichor, the clean sharp sting of a lash. (There’s a faint and surprising trace of brimstone that feels like it should clash, but serves only to bring out the other sensations more strongly.)
He opens eyes he wasn’t aware he’d closed and finds his face is wet. He wipes the tears off his cheeks and sniffs.
Aziraphale looks at him, concerned. “Was that too much? I thought you’d be able to take a little bit more, since you’re not fully human, but—”
“No, it was good. Just… unexpected.” He wants to crawl into that feeling and memorize it, that specific sense of comfort, belonging. Of bone-deep certitude even monsters can be—are—loved.
His head is in Aziraphale’s lap now, Aziraphale stroking fingers through his hair. There’s a soft look on the angel’s face, like he can’t believe he gets to have something this precious and wonderful. “Oh my darling, I didn’t know how much you needed this, and I am sorry it took me so long to find you. But I’m here now.”
Will resists the urge to wind his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and clutch at him like in the church. The yearning is less desperate, calmer now that it understands it’s not alone. It feels almost curious, knowing it’s part of something bigger but having no knowledge of the rest.
“I want to see, Aziraphale. Can I?”
“I would be absolutely delighted to show you, my dear.”
Will catches Aziraphale’s hand. “Wait. I know this… it’s weird, but is it wrong?”
Aziraphale laughs softly, as if this had never occurred to him before. “Something done with this much love could never be wrong, my dear.”
The hum’s enveloping, penetrating, filling him up until he thinks he might burst; something of the carnal but also sublime, looping back around until they’re if not the same, right next to each other holding hands. He thinks of that statue of St. Teresa, the rapture and comingling of material and spiritual. Underneath it all is a wild, expansive love, so vast it feels like it encompasses the entire world.
Will takes it all in until he is slaked and full and then pushed beyond, expecting pain and limit but here there are no such constraints; we understand, things are different where you come from, it takes a bit to adjust. (Is it gluttony if it’s something you didn’t realize you were starved for?) It fills all the empty spaces he didn’t realize he had until they’re overflowing, and he gasps at it.
(He thinks he might catch a glimpse of something dark out of the corner of his eye, pricked with red, but he’s too preoccupied to care.)
—
Light is starting to peek through the window, blue fading to pink and orange. Will gets out of bed as quietly as he can, but Aziraphale sits up anyways. He smiles, still a bit sleepy.
“I suppose you ought to be going then. It was lovely to spend time with you, my dear.”
“Yeah, it was.” Will braces for the tug of sadness he expects to materialize, but there’s only a content little hum. It’s the flicker of awareness a dog registers when its person leaves, confident they’ll be back, joyous when they return.
“You are beautiful, and I am lucky. Hannibal is… graced is perhaps an inappropriate word, but I can’t think of one that fits better.”
This specific endearment makes Will blush.
“So when—will I see you again?” It comes out more tentative than he wants it to, but Aziraphale just smiles and brushes his lips to Will’s cheek.
“Of course I’ll return, now that I have somebody to eat schiacciata with.”
The morning is crisp, touching his face with cold as he walks back home. The heat of the apartment welcomes him in like an embrace.
He hangs up his coat and goes into the kitchen. Hannibal is nowhere in sight, but there are eggs waiting for him.