"You still have time to leave."
"Don't."
"There's no need for you to be caught as well."
"Hannibal," Will says, voice oddly calm. Hannibal can barely hear it over the looming sirens. "Shut up. I didn't come all this way to bolt at the last minute."
"But—"
Will silences him with a look, his mouth set in a hard line, jaw clenched. He sighs as he stares at his husband, the sound almost sad. Hannibal sits slumped on a desk pushed against the wall, his body showing the signs of the fight Will knows he almost lost. He himself is unscathed, having avoided the run in with Jack by simply staying home that day.
They'd finally been caught, or were about to be caught. The technicalities didn't matter much; what did matter was that the sirens were becoming louder each second, the noise reminiscent of that day, back in Wolf Tramp, so many years ago now it seemed like a distant memory.
"I'm not leaving you now," Will tells him, moving to sit next to him, their thighs touching. "They'd find me either way, and I'd rather do this with you than without."
"Awfully stupid of you, my dear boy."
Will huffs a laugh, his face stretching into a smile that pulls at the old, faded scar. "Perhaps," he admits, head tilted to look at Hannibal, mirroring the other man. "Don't act like you aren't happy I'm choosing to stay."
Hannibal's lips tilt, the barest hint of a smile. "I'm always pleased you chose to stay, Will."
His eyes stare into Hannibal's, bare, showing the man everything he can't quite put into words. The sirens grow louder, and a voice in his head questions how many there must be, for it to sound so deafening.
He hears the first car pull into the street of their current apartment, and grasps Hannibal's hand with his own, intertwining their fingers and squeezing tightly. They have mere minutes before their front door is kicked open, Will knows. He has used the stairs many times, knows it takes three minutes to run them, five to walk them, and ten to fifteen to carry the dead weight of a body up them.
Hannibal holds onto him just as tightly, the grip almost painful. Will doesn't mind. He simply cherishes the feel of their skin pressed together, of the way Hannibal strokes the back of his hand with the pad of his thumb.
Will dips his head, lets it rest on Hannibal's shoulder, and shuts his eyes while his mind memorises the feeling. It is likely the last time they'll be able to do this, and he doesn't want to forget it.
The sirens have stopped, but they're replaced by the pounding of feet, the flickering of lights through the window. Less than a minute, Will estimates.
Hannibal buries his face in Will's curls, eyes closing briefly as he inhales. He places a kiss to Will's temple, the touch feather light, and murmurs, "Ready or not."
The words are barely out his mouth before the breaking of a door sounds, the shouting of authorities, the tell tale clink of a gun against an armoured man.
Will opens his eyes, ready to see the destruction of everything he had grown to love.