Chapter Text
When Hannibal sees the small creature for the first time, he doesn't think it is going to survive the winter. It is a small thing, barely worth killing even for what little meat it has left on it's bones. It's fur is beautiful, soft and almost silver in the snow, though he thinks it could be because he has been staring at nothing but white all day and has gone partially blind.
When he bends down to look at it better, the fox snaps at him, all sharp fangs and furious eyes. It emits a series of yips that is probably supposed to be a deterrent. The loud series of noises merely annoys him. Its fur bristles and it bares its teeth at him, snapping at the air between them.
"I'm going to let you go," he announces to the fox for reasons that he doesn't quite know himself. It is hardly possible that the fox understands him.
The fox goes still, as if it is listening.
Hannibal crouches in front of the tiny animal and leans forward.
The fox lunges at him.
His hand shoots out and grasps it by it's neck. It would be so easy for him to snap it's neck, just a quick tightening of his fingers-
He releases the fox. "I'm to let you go, little fox," he says, using the foxes' state of disorientation to quickly grasp the trap by the jaws.
Hannibal's muscles tense as he pries the jaws of the trap open with a snap. The fox leaps out with it's hind legs. He opens it all the way until it clicks open and stays that way until the next hapless animal steps into it. He throws a few leaves on it and stands up, patting the leaves from his pants as he does.
Looking up, he is surprised to see that the fox is still there, staring at him. He gestures it away. He needs his trap for bigger things, things that could feed him and his sister. It is bad luck, his mother says, to harm the silver foxes in the forest near their homes. They've been there longer than their family, she says.
"Go away," he says in his mother tongue when the fox stays where it is and whines about it's hurt leg. It is not that injured. There is barely a few specks of blood on the snow, which is odd. The trap is designed for bigger creatures and has enough strength to break all the bones in it's little body.
It doesn't look injured, merely annoyed to have been trapped in the first place.
The little kit whimpers and looks at him with soulful eyes and for a moment, Hannibal things that the creature is trying to thank him. He wants to remind the fox that the trap is his and scolds himself for the whimsical thought. It is not a time for fanciful notions.
The Winter is coming and he is going to need a lot more food if they are to get through it.
The kit does not make a sound, but tries to follow him as he walks away.
"Go away," he repeats and turns to kick snow at it.
The fox huffs, and then disappears in the snow like it was never there to begin with.
Hannibal thinks it's just a trick of light. Snow-blindness. He trains his gaze towards the woods and treks towards the stream where he has set a net.
It is a good half hour before he reaches into the water and drags out the net. He knows he should let it sit longer. He has only set the trap a few days ago and it is unlikely to have caught anything.
His eyes widen at the sight. It is filled with fish, almost more than the net should be capable of capturing. He frowns and wonders if the fish in the stream are suicidal, then does not think to question his good luck further.
They will not go hungry tonight.
...
The second time Hannibal comes across the kit, it is in the middle of Winter. He is burying his sister - what's left of her - in the garden outside their home. She has always loved the forest.
She wouldn't want to be trapped within the castle grounds. There are many good memories for her there, but he does not think she will remember much beyond the terrible way she died. He does not want her spirit to be polluted by the way they have consumed her after her death.
The kit is as small as he remembers, but he can't be sure if it is the same creature he released from the trap. His vision is blurry with unshed tears. The kit does not come closer as he is burying his sister, but when he falls asleep on top of her grave, he thinks he can feel the kit's warm fur in his chest, trying to keep him from freezing.
He does not die that day. When he wakes, the kit is still there.
This fox has brown fur, but somehow, he knows it's the same fox.
"Go away," he says again and thinks the fox must be an idiot because he does not run. Instead, it manages to climb up his torso and curl itself around his neck like a scarf. It is very warm. "You have gotten fat," he says and thinks he feels the kit huff in response.
Hannibal thinks of all the things he could cook with it's meat. The kit licks his face and he decides he's not that hungry anyways. Perhaps it will do well as an emergency food supply.
He brings it into his home and lets it curl in his chest when he sleeps. In the morning, it scurries into the forest the moment he opens the door. Hannibal regrets not killing it when he had the chance. He will kill it when it returns.
In the evening, the fox appears at the door after Hannibal has returned from another day of empty nets and trampled traps.
It looks at him, and then it regurgitates what appears to be mashed berries in front of Hannibal, and then looks back at him expectantly, it's gaze inviting and proud all at once. It stays at the mat for a long moment, glancing between the regurgitated mess and Hannibal. It grows more and more annoyed as Hannibal continues to stare at it in confusion.
Hannibal thinks he sees the fox roll it's eyes, and then, it bends a little to lap up the vomit. Then, it looks back up at Hannibal expectantly, it's little eyes shinning with hope that Hannibal understands what it's trying to do.
Hannibal laughs, really laughs for the first time in many months. "This is vile, little fox. I won't eat your vomit," he says after he finishes laughing.
He does not kill the fox that day. Or the next. Or even the day after that. The fox has stashes of berries that it has been guiding Hannibal to and it is better at catching fish with it's tiny jaws than he is.
He will never admit it, but the fox is, perhaps, the only reason why he has not starved to death when his uncle comes for him a year later.
...
"We cannot bring the fox with us," he says. It is hard enough already, he thinks, to smuggle the boy to France, let alone an animal. And he is quite certain that the fox around his nephew's neck will not respond well to being caged.
Hannibal stills and for one odd moment, the older man thinks that his nephew means to hurt him for even daring to suggest such a thing. The moment passes before he can fully capture it. Maybe it is a trick of the light. "Would you reconsider?" he demurs.
"Perhaps we can employ some services to have it delivered once we are in France," the older man relents, sensing that the little animal means more to Hannibal than he is willing to admit
"I could have him in the bag. He is quite tame," Hannibal lies. He knows the little fox would sooner chew his arm off then allow him to put it in a bag.
He shakes his head, already sensing the problem with that suggestion. If they get caught the fox will not be the only one who will not be able to make the trip.
Hannibal thinks for a long moment, then nods. He bends down and attempts to explain to the fox that he is leaving and it will have to learn how to survive on it's own now.
...
"Willful little thing, isn't it?" comments the man who claims to be his uncle.
Hannibal looks at the little fox and realizes for the first time that he has not given it a name. "Yes," he says finally and his tone is soft then, almost unfamiliar to himself. He sounds fond. There is a lump in his throat that he cannot swallow enough to get rid of. He kneels in front of the fox and holds him with a firm hand. "Will," he says. "Stay."
It is the only command that he has managed to drill into it's little head.
"Stay," he repeats.
"Time to go," says his uncle.
He turns and tells himself not to look back. He gets into the car with his uncle, the little fox waiting obediently for it's master to return. It's large ears perk at the sound of the car engine.
When it realizes that it is being left behind, it runs towards the gate and cries a high, shrill note. Hannibal turns around inside the car even though he's told himself not to. The little fox is running behind them. He knows with certainty that it will run itself to death before it gives up. His heart jumps to his throat.
"Stop the car," he says.
"No, Hannibal. We can't take it with us."
"Stop the car," Hannibal repeats, turning to his uncle and giving him his full attention for the first time since his uncle has stepped foot into the castle that has housed nobody except himself and the little fox for the past year. Hannibal does not bare his teeth, like he wants to. Nor does he take the knife from where he's hidden it in his shoe. His gaze is enough for now. His uncle realizes he should be afraid of his nephew, but he doesn't understand why.
He tells the driver to stop the car.
The fox, thinking its master has come back for it, barrels into Hannibal's chest the moment he opens the door. It is whining and purring, making many little yipping noises like it's trying to tell him so many things at once.
Hannibal steels himself. "I cannot take you with me, Will," he says, pulling the fox from his chest. He brings it to his face so he can look into it's eyes. "Stay," he says. Then, in a bout of nostalgia, he says, "I am letting you go."
It's gaze is almost painful to bear and it makes another soft, keening sound. Hannibal makes himself look at the fox even though he wants nothing more than to look away and close his ears from the sound it's making. Will deserves that much.
"Thank you for your company, Will. I must leave you now," he puts the little fox down.
Will tries to scramble back towards him, but Hannibal catches him by the scruff of his neck. He throws Will as far as he can, knowing that Will is small and light enough to land on his feet.
Will yips as he lands, then charges right back towards Hannibal.
Hannibal closes his eyes and takes a deep breathe. He pushes back the fondness that he feels for the little fox and locks it in a precious part of his mind palace, where his sister is still alive and happy. When he opens his eyes, there is no familiarity in them for the little fox.
Will stops in front of Hannibal, confused by the coldness of his gaze. He keens and whimpers and makes sad, confused noises. He doesn't understand why he's being left behind. Hannibal knows how it feels, to be left behind and be alone.
He thinks for a moment that it would be more merciful to kill the fox. His uncle clears his throat behind him, trying to hurry him along without using his words. He needs his uncle to trust him. It would not do well for his uncle's first memory of him to be ruled by murder. He bends down and pins Will to the gravel by the neck.
Softly, so that the uncle does not hear him, he makes a promise he knows he cannot keep.
"I will come back for you."
He doesn't look back.
...
When Hannibal is old enough to go back to retrieve the little fox still waiting for him in his home, he does not go back. Foxes in the wild live for up to two to five years. He tells himself the fox has probably been claimed by age and ignores the pang in his frozen heart.
He plays with the fox in his mind palace. In it, the fox is happy and immortal.
He does not go back to the fox.
...
In the castle, Will waits for Hannibal to come back for him.