Chapter Text
To say that Will didn't know what he was doing would be a lie. It would also be a lie, however, to say that he planned his own actions.
The proposed plan was to lure The Dragon out with Hannibal, then arrest them both to kill them. If Will didn't find a way get the two monsters to kill each other, then Jack would be coming with back up anyhow. That was the plan Alana knew, the one Jack knew, the one Will wouldn't follow. The first part of his plan went accordingly - the part where Hannibal and him killed Francis Dolarhyde together.
Will did not lie to Hannibal when he called the scene, as well as the act, beautiful. There was something oddly romantic about it, in some messed up way. The blood, the victory, the death. How the stone was painted with wings. The searing pain under thick layers of adrenaline and shock.
All that was left of his plan was to kill Hannibal. That's where the problem lay, though. Because the thought of living in a world where Hannibal wasn't sharing that life was somehow more impossible than living in a world where there was Hannibal. Clutching at each other, Will knew there was no way he could kill Hannibal.
He couldn't kill just Hannibal.
Can't live with him, can't live without him. But Will was satisfied with dying with him. It was almost polite. He had told Hannibal that he couldn't save himself, the truth that Will could kill everyone was known but unspoken. So Will was very aware of what he did. With their wounds, their collective blood loss, the crashing Atlantic ocean and the rocks, there was no way either of them would survive. That was what he intended, that was Will's design.
Hannibal clutched at him as they plummeted. Elbows locked against his ribs, hands cradling Will's skull. Will didn't have the time to think about the implications of Hannibal's embrace. He just clutched back at him; gripping his shirt, pressing their cheeks together, wet from blood and tears.
They hit the water on their sides. The cold was expected, as were the rocks that dragged up their sides and cut into their skin. And for the first time in Will's life, perhaps, he was thoughtless. Weightless, floating. Clinging to Hannibal like this, they were one - the same soul inside the two of them rejoicing for the reuniting of its split pieces. Wills throat constricted. He made no move towards the surface. Bleeding fingers made their way into his hair, holding on. Hannibal must have sucked in some water because he started jerking, coughing. Dying.
This isn't what he deserved. Hannibal did not deserve to die in Will's arms on his own. They either died together, same minute, same second, or not at all. So with great difficulty, Will detached himself from his other, grabbed him from under the armpit of his good side, and hauled him up. He didn't get very far - Hannibal released himself and dragged Will down by the ankle. Will punched him in the head and grabbed his wrist this time, thumb pressed into the deep scar there. A pleasant thrum drove through Will's body at the memory of putting those gashes there.
Breaking the surface was the most painful thing Will had experienced. The first breath was of water, then cold air that burned all the way down. His chest tightened and the waves crashed him against the bluff. Hannibal grabbed him by the hair and pulled until he submerged in water again. Will kicked his exit wound. He let go of his head and curled in on himself, groaning. The ocean continued to rock them, tousle them, swirling with white and red, and at the sight of a particularly large wave Will pushed himself between Hannibal and the rocks.
He tried to keep his chin to his chest, but with the force of the water and Hannibal crashing into him, Will's body slammed against the jagged surface. His head hit a particularly hard rock. By the time his eyes could focus on anything, Hannibal had started to drag Will ashore by the ankle. He started to scoop Will off the pebbles with apparent intent to carry him off somewhere.
"Stop." Will's voice surprised him. His mouth was full of salt and just breathing hurt. He licked along his cheek and gagged when it poked through the hole The Dragon punctured there. He tasted blood, but whoever's it was, Will couldn't tell.
Hannibal ignored him. He swept Will off his feet and suffered the consequences. Relentless, after a painful grunt and a stagger, he stumbled across the sand to the grass. Will wriggled in his arms.
"You're making this-" Hannibal winced, voice dry. "Increasingly difficult."
"That's the point." His feet hit the ground but Hannibal gave him the dignity of fisting his shirt to keep him from tripping. Before he let him go completely, dropping him and stepping over him.
Will watched his back. His shirt was soaked. Water, sweat, blood. Hannibal's figure got smaller. Not quickly, though, because the ocean had sapped what little energy they had. For a moment, and just a moment, Will was content watching him leave, content dying never seeing Hannibal's face again. But Abigail's body lay in his peripheral vision and Will had to swallow the bile rising from his gut.
He scrambled to his feet. With open arms, he called, "So this is it, then? It's over. You're just gonna leave? Again?!"
Hannibal stopped. Didn't turn, didn't make a move towards or away from Will. Will moved. He toed out of his shoes - they were wet and ruined anyway - and stomped towards him. Will blinked salt water out of his lashes and the deer appeared, and he blinked again and it was gone, Hannibal in its place.
"Why not just finish me off with your hands." It would be a more fitting ending, Will thought. Intimate and personal. "Or is it too below you?"
That sparked something in him, enough to get him to turn around. Hannibal's face was clean of blood. Better to see the sour look on his face, lips down turned in a frown, eyes black in the dark.
Will opened his mouth to say something. Maybe to yell at him, scream until he passed out, never to wake up. Not a word left his blue lips before Hannibal covered them with his palm. He pressed himself against Will's front, until the both of them were nestled against a tree.
The sound of an engine cut off Will's breathing. They didn't look for it, even as it drew closer, drove behind the tree they were situated against. Will knew who was inside the cars that passed - Jack definitely. Alana was likely, FBI agents, police, an ambulance. They listened to the cars pass without taking their eyes off each other.
When they had stopped at the top of the cliff, Hannibal took his hand off his mouth and wrapped his arm around Will's shoulder. It was unclear who was supporting who. "It is not below me." Hannibal's words were harsh. "In fact, it would be a great pleasure to kill you. But the day you die and the day I die are the same. And I am not ready to die yet."
"You have the determination of a roach," Will laughed, then regretted it due to the pain. Strangely, he found comfort in Hannibal's words. His vision started to grow hazy again and the adrenaline had started to wear.
Hannibal rolled his head to the side and looked at him, a tired smile pulling across his face. "Roaches do have cannibalistic tendencies." He shrugged. "Though, usually after sex."
Will coughed out another laugh. "Well we both have plenty more holes to explore."
Hannibal made a noise akin to a chuckle. The rest of the walk was in silence. It was hard enough moving their bodies and staying awake. Will had no clue where he was being led, and in retrospect, he should have been concerned. A cannibalistic serial killer who had tried to kill him multiple times was dragging him through the trees, while he was wounded and vulnerable. He was ripe fruit for the picking, but Hannibal wouldn't reach to pick.
With the perception of time slipped from Will, by the time they reached a shack in the thick of the woods, hidden under a valley, he had started to slip from Hannibal's hold.
"Will," he said. They stopped on the porch and Hannibal cupped either side of his face. "You need to stay awake. Just for a little while longer."
But his voice was distant, in another room. The hands around his face were cold and cracked dry, and they shook just a little. Will closed his eyes, the sweet call of sleep beckoned him. The stinging sensation against cheek, the one without the wound, woke him up plenty. It took a few seconds to register that Hannibal had slapped him.
"Awake?" Will nodded. "Good. Sit."
Hannibal guided him to the porch chair, the same greyish brown colour as the house. He sat and leaned against the wood and watched the other man back up, then lunge himself at the door, shoulder first. He winced for him and clutched his own wounded shoulder. The bleeding hadn't stopped. Neither had Hannibal's, and with every crash against the door the stain on his shirt grew.
He could only watch Hannibal shove himself against the door a few more times, making pained sounds every time, before he grunted.
"The windows, Hannibal. They'll be easier to break."
Hannibal huffed like an animal. "Nothing to board them up inside. I can fix hinges and locks."
With a roll of his eyes, Will stood. Hannibal looked a second from protesting, but then Will started for the door and he joined. By throwing both their weight against it, the door gave. The two of them scrambled against each other, grappling to stay standing.
After he caught his breath, Hannibal propped the door against the frame. Will didn't bother to look around. His vision was dark around the edges and he couldn't see more than three feet in front of him.
Hannibal was back in his field of view and guided him to sit on the floor of the kitchen area. It was freezing and smooth, not wood. Moonlight streamed through the edges of the curtains. Hannibal let the tap run until the water turned from brown to clear. A glass was guided to his lips. He managed to drink half of it before it was tipped over half of his face. Will gasped at the pain, and hissed when Hannibal dabbed a cloth across it.
"You too," mumbled Will. He felt a little more stable while he wasn't standing.
"Do not exert yourself, Will. I am the doctor here." Hannibal started to slip on the buttons of Will's shirt, but gave up and tore it off him. The buttons clacked against the floor illuminated by faint light.
Will elbowed Hannibal's hands from him and returned the favour by tugging off his shirt. He resisted the urge to get distracted, and apparently so did Hannibal, if the constant caresses against his cheek while he tended was any indicator. The first aid kit was conveniently in the cupboard right next to them, which was how Will guessed that Hannibal owned this little house. By the time Will had gotten to rubbing dressing to the exit wound, Hannibal had done that and bandaged up half Will's face, covering his eye and the wound.
It was too awkward to reach for each other's bodies, and Hannibal wasn't about to give up apparently. Instead Will gave in and let him inspect the wound.
"This one will need stitches," he said after clearing the blood.
"I don't suppose you have any numbing cream in here, do you?"
It was a joke, or light hearted at the least. But Hannibal looked at him, face struck with an overwhelming sense of apology. As if he hadn't hurt Will much worse before. Will feared the wetness in his eyes wasn't from pain or exhaustion. He reached for his discarded shirt, rolled it, and stuck it between his teeth.
Hannibal took a deep breath. "It'll be easier if you lay down."
Will wanted to ask for who it would be easier for, but he didn't want the answer. He lay on his back and gnawed into his shirt. Salt water poured into his mouth, though he didn't have time to think about it before Hannibal started. Will coughed on what he swallowed.
Hannibal had his legs under him while sitting beside his shoulder. He didn't miss the way Hannibal briefly touched the smiley scar on Will's stomach as he worked. Will chanced a look down. Everything was a little clearer now he could only see from one eye. That would have been a bonus in his books, if he hadn't had to witness Hannibal's expression. It was the same one he wore the night he gave Will that smiley scar he was tracing when he needed only a hand. Will leaned his head back down.
The absence of his touch told him he was done before his words did. Hannibal helped Will up to sit again, and he spat out his shirt and a half mouthful of salt water.
He did Hannibal the same courtesy of stitching him up. Will was less precise, less practiced. However, after Hannibal had given him some instruction, he found it wasn't so different to tying knots on a fishing line, and removing the hook from the fish's mouth. "Turn around," Will said, "let me do the back."
Hannibal didn't argue. He scooted around and drew his knees up to his chest. With him slouching, Hannibal's spine was prominent. Bone bubbled from the skin of his back, scattered hair slick like a rodent. Will tried not to pay much attention. The weeping hole on his side was gifted his full attention. The skin pulled tight with each stitch. Hannibal didn't even flinch, just forced his breath even.
To bandage his wound, Will had to wrap his arms around him. He didn't hate it. He tucked the tail end in, either hands drifted to the entry and exit wounds. Will wrapped both his arms around Hannibal and tucked his chin over his shoulder. Hannibal leaned his head against his.
They sat on the kitchen floor smelling of antibiotic cream and blood. They were half naked, barely conscious. They breathed in time, blinked in time. Will could hear a heartbeat, and yet he wasn't sure if it was his or Hannibal's. There was still the possibility of death. Hell, there was a high chance of it. And Will smiled because of it.
Eventually, Hannibal helped him off the floor. He led Will around the counter and they crossed the room to a bed after taking a handful of pills. They didn't say anything else, just climbed in together, slotting together like they were on the floor. Will lay his hand on Hannibal's chest. His heart thumped. It was faint and slow. And what a way to go, wrapped together, if they died in their sleep.
Will didn't remember falling asleep, but as he woke, he didn't remember any dreams either. He might have had one, feeling how much he sweated during the night, but that could have been from the heat radiating off Hannibal. He opened his eyes and couldn't see. His good eye was mashed against the singular pillow.
Groggily, Will sat up against the headboard and made eye contact with a deer in the centre of the room. The whole shack was one room - kitchen and living/sleeping area divided by a breakfast bar, a bath between the oven and the wall. The deer was sniffing in the tub and hadn't noticed them yet.
Either that or it wasn't real.
Will was no stranger to nightmares featuring both deer and Hannibal. They were usually different, somehow less confusing. But he could imagine the kind of fever he was running.
"My name is Will Graham," he started. But he had no idea how long he had slept. It only felt like a few minutes, but the light outside told him it was afternoon by now. On top of that, his memories of how far they walked left him without knowledge of exactly where they were. And true honesty would reveal he didn't know if he was Will Graham anymore, the lines between him and Hannibal blurrier than his singular eye's sight.
"It's real." Hannibal's voice came out weak, and he was still facing the wall. "Don't move."
Will silently watched him slink below the blankets and slip down the length of the mattress. Hannibal reappeared at the other end and paused, watched the animal. It had resorted to nosing at the cupboards, trying to find what's inside. Hannibal rummaged through the top drawer of the dresser opposite the bed and brandished a hunting knife.
In the back of his mind, Will picked up on the way Hannibal winced as he moved, limped towards the animal. He thought about stopping him. Shooing the animal away would have been much easier than killing it, especially for Hannibal. Will didn't voice his opinions. Instead, he watched the deer get crowded into the corner, hoofs slipping on the tile for just a second before Hannibal drove the knife through its jugular.
The animal fell limp to the floor, blood pooling with their own. Hannibal sniffed drowsily. "Dinner."
Will managed seven minutes watching Hannibal struggle to haul the deer on the bench before he got up and helped him. Only when Hannibal started to cough and wheeze did he get concerned.
"You need a bath," he told him.
"You've never been one for polite conversation, have you, Will?" Hannibal remarked, once he wasn't using the bloody bench to hold himself up.
"I mean to clean yourself up properly. Does the water work?" He didn't wait for an answer before side stepping Hannibal and twisting the faucet on the tub. It ran, so Will pushed in the plug and watched it fill up. "Is there an outhouse?"
"About two minutes that way." Hannibal gestured towards the far wall then started to pluck at his belt.
Deciding that he wasn't even going to risk two minutes out there, especially not with one eye and dozens of people looking for them, Will pissed off the porch. When he came back in, Hannibal was settled into the brass tub. His pants were neatly folded on the floor, a towel on a clean part of the kitchen bench.
Will propped the unhinged door back up by the frame. The deer must have knocked it down, the two of them too exhausted to notice. Finally, though, Will took in the rest of the room. There was a light switch, but no bulb. A simple stove top oven, a fridge freezer that was a little on the small side, and a kettle flanked with tea, instant coffee, and sugar. The bed they had slept in was pressed into the corner on the opposite side of the shack, with not much between but a miniature library of ratty books, two chairs and a stool.
Will plucked the knife that Hannibal used to kill the deer and began to skin it. He quickly realised it would take twice as long with half as many eyes, but Hannibal wasn't in much state to do so. Speaking of him, Will occasionally dropped looks over to him. Steam wafted off the water and Will needed to make sure his silence was from relief and not unconsciousness. The discolouration of the water didn't leave him hopeful.
He needed to go to the hospital. Will probably didn't - as much as he fucking hurt, and cutting up this animal only agitated his shoulder more, he would be right in a few weeks, a month. But Hannibal was shot. And yet, going to the hospital was equally as dangerous as the possibility of blood loss, coma, infection.
Water sloshed and trickled off Hannibal's body as he stood. Will promptly ignored, slipping the blade on his fingertip on accident. He didn't flinch. Hardly focusing on his task, Will paid attention to Hannibal behind him taking his medication, redressing his wounds, rebandaging himself. He dug through the dresser and emerged with clothes this time, but Will noticed from the corner of his eye only pulled on simple sweats and a loose shirt. Hannibal leaned against the bench behind Will, the one separating the kitchen and living area, and waited.
"What is it?" Will asked, cutting the last of the deer's pelt from its flesh.
Hannibal sighed. "I must apologise." That made Will pause, but not turn around. "I will have to rely on you for the foreseeable future. The adrenaline has worn off and I fear I will be bedridden for the next few weeks, possibly longer."
There was a bubble of conflict in Will. He wanted to laugh, because Hannibal Lecter had actually apologised for something. Will wanted to express his concern that Hannibal had been bearing through the pain the past twenty four hours (give or take) and, somehow, this extraordinary man had found his breaking point. Will wanted to stress to Hannibal that they may not even have a few weeks.
Instead, Will scoffed and continued working on the animal. "Who says I'm going to look after you? Who says I'm even going to stay?"
"Nobody," Hannibal said with no hesitation. "You are in no obligation to stay here, or to carry the burden of looking after me. I only ask that you do not expose my whereabouts."
Will turned around finally. Whatever words he was about to spit out died on his tongue. Hannibal's hair was still wet and slicked back. The greys looked more prominent, though that might be to do with how pale Hannibal fared. Part of his face and neck was bruised from the impact of water, and Will had no doubts that it spread and ached down his entire body, the same as him. Will felt the ache of cuts from the rocks. Hannibal was clean, yes, free of dried blood and dirt and smell. But he did not look well. So much so that he was hard to recognise.
Will swallowed over the lump in his throat. "We aren't going to make it. You aren't, at least. Hannibal, you need medical attention. One that isn't your own."
"Perhaps."
"There's no 'perhaps' about it. You- you need to be hooked up to an IV, at least, if you're going bedridden." Which of course Hannibal would courteously notify him when he planned on going bedridden.
Hannibal's lip twitched at the corner, almost a smile. "As you wish. But I must offer to help you redress your shoulder.”
“I can do it myself, after this.” Will gestured to the animal behind him. “No point doing it before, I’ll only aggravate it further.”
Hannibal considered this, glanced at Will's shoulder as if he could assess it through the bandage. Seemingly pleased, or at least tired enough to give in, he bent under the bed and pulled a long cardboard box out into the open. He unpacked IV fluid and an intravenous pole. Will couldn’t help but scoff.
“You were prepared,” he teased.
“If you hadn’t guessed, this shack is my own. I knew that on the off chance I was caught, I would need some place discreet nearby. And how it came to my favour, the safe house on the hill. Lucky me.” Hannibal talked as he set himself up to the IV with practised efficiency. He winced as his body twisted and a new sheen of sweat was starting to form on his forehead. “So,” he continued, “I loaded this home up as a shelter. Plenty of canned foods, first aid, clothing, hunting equipment.”
Will was once again floored by Hannibal. Whether it was his intelligence, abundance of resources, or thorough preparation for absolutely anything, Will wasn’t entirely sure. He watched Hannibal get himself comfortable on his back and sigh as he closed his eyes.
“You should eat,” he found himself saying. To his surprise, Hannibal groaned. Will laughed, shocked to hear such an impolite noise come out of him, and immediately regretted it at the pull of the cut on his cheek, again. He searched through the cupboards looking for the cans that Hannibal had mentioned. Though, he only found more medical supplies, cups, pots and pans, plates, and the occasional dead mouse or bug.
“The tiles,” Hannibal said. His voice had grown weaker. He wasn’t kidding when he said his condition was worsening. “The last four open up to a pantry.”
Will looked carefully on the floor and searched the tiles for a handle or a rope. There was a small indent that he managed to get his fingers in and lifted the same tiles Hannibal had told him. Beneath was an impressive amount of cans - soups, beans, corn, others with the labels worn off. There was also beef jerky, rice, and dry pasta. Some of it was hidden beneath packaging or cans. If the space wasn't so full of food, it would be big enough to fit a person. He reached down and grabbed the first thing. Tomato soup seemed about as good as anything.
He ignored the deer still on the bench and instead began to heat up the soup for Hannibal. In just a minute he had it hot and in a bowl that was painted around the edge. Will sat on the edge of the bed and helped him prop up against the pillows. When Hannibal made no move to reach for the spoon, Will did. He held it up to Hannibal's mouth and watched him tentatively eat.
Hannibal made a face. “Foul,” he said.
“Shut up and eat it.” Will spooned him a few more mouthfuls.
“The tables have turned,” Hannibal noted. Will looked at him and, for a moment, only saw the indifferent look he gave him then, spooning soup into his mouth, just moments before sawing his head open. The scar on his forehead ached. Will grabbed Hannibal by the face and not so gently shoved the last of the soup in his mouth. Hannibal twisted away from his grip and wiped his mouth with his wrist. It came back red.
Will was close to throwing the bowl in the sink when he returned to the kitchen. His nerves were on fire, but decided to take it out on the deer. He cut it up into smaller pieces to fit the bits worth eating in the freezer. Will hoped he did it right - he was a fisherman, not a hunter, after all. He looked at the entrails left on the counter, all the blood that was staining the kitchen. He thought about saving the guts. Hannibal would know what to do with them. With a grind of his teeth, he stored the heart, liver, and kidney along with the flesh. The rest he bagged and took outside.
He didn’t stray far from the house, but far enough that they wouldn’t smell the rotting animal where he buried it. Will ignored the feel of the deer's head in the bag. When he returned, Hannibal was still. Sound asleep, only his chest moving minutely with every shallow breath. Will sighed and some tension released in his shoulders.
Will cleaned the kitchen before he did anything else. The intense smell of blood was nauseating. By the time he was finished it was dark and he fished out some candles he found while rummaging around for food before. He lit one on the small table by the bed, by Hannibal. It cast deep shadows on his face and made him look even more sickly. Will lit the next one by the tub and turned the faucet.
The water turned brown as Will picked at the dried blood on his shoulder and from out under his nails. His fingers ghosted over the stitching. With a sigh he scrubbed his face and popped the plug out. Will sat in the tub while the water drained.
Once his skin had cooled and started to jerk in the cold, he towelled himself off. Quickly he dressed his wounds and swallowed a few painkillers dry. It was so difficult to wrap his shoulder up again he almost gave up. Finally, Will managed, and then did the same to his face. His eye was bruised and he could hardly see out of it from swelling. He tiptoed past Hannibal to the dresser and found the drawers stocked with clothes. They were a little big, but beggars couldn't be choosers. He found a woollen jacket and snagged that as well.
Will dried the tub with his towel and rolled it up when he was done. The previous night he needed to be next to Hannibal. Needed to feel his heartbeat beneath his palm to reassure himself. Now, Will was agitated and overstimulated. So even if the tub was cold and his makeshift pillow was damp, Will would settle. He was so exhausted that he might just pass out straight away. He almost did, wrapped under the jacket, functioning eye heavy. He would have if it weren't for the sound of Hannibal's teeth chattering.
Will looked at the door. It was still busted from its hinges and though it was propped up mostly covering the opening, a steady breeze breathed through. He knew he could leave it. Whenever he woke up would be a better time to do so anyway - it was dark and he only had dim candlelight, and his shoulder protested any movement. But one more look at Hannibal convinced him to get up.
The first place Will looked for tools was the dresser. Hannibal had the hunting knife in the top drawer, so he tried there first. He didn't find anything but a few more knives, a scalpel, and some fishing line. In the small one beside it were some hooks, drill pieces, and small tools like a screwdriver and a hammer. Will grabbed the drill pieces. The next two long drawers were just clothes - shirts, pants, socks, underwear, jackets, and mostly warm clothes. The last had a variety of things Will couldn't make out from the dim light, but he saw the power drill.
After making sure there was a battery inside, Will got to work. Thankfully, only one hinge had to be replaced and the others just needed a tighten. The frame hadn't sustained any damage, but the door itself had a split in the middle. Not enough to convince Will to fix it at the moment, however. He lit three more candles just to give him substantial light when propping it in the frame. Will's shoulder screamed for mercy, but he was almost done.
With every screech of the drill Will cringed and stopped. Waited for any movement outside. Then, after a minute more of silence, continued. The task probably took an embarrassing amount of time, but Will wasn't a carpenter, so he wouldn't have a clue. To be frank, he didn't care either.
He tested the lock and was pleased to see it worked. He was even more pleased when he noticed Hannibal had stopped shivering. Will settled into the tub and pulled the jacket back over himself.
In the morning he ventured out to the outhouse. It must have rained while they slept because the dirt had been reduced to mud. Will walked close to the tree trunks to avoid making footprints. The outhouse wasn’t as dirty as he was expecting. There was enough toilet paper for a year's usage squeezed into the corner.
When he came back to the shack, Hannibal was still asleep. Will kept quiet as he made himself some coffee, took his pills, and changed his bandages. His stomach protested at the liquid breakfast, but he ignored it. Hannibal didn’t make a sound as he slept. Will had privately hoped he snored, he wasn't sure why, and still unsure why he was disappointed that Hannibal didn’t. He pressed the back of his hand to Hannibal's forehead. Hot.
After he carefully pulled back the blankets, Will unravelled the bandage from around him. Hannibal's wound was red and weeping blood and pus. He pressed around it and more oozed out, making Hannibal groan.
“Hey, you gotta sit up.” Will got no response. “I can’t help you if you can’t help me.”
Hannibal huffed like a sick dog. With a scoff, Will hauled him up by the shoulders and felt around the blankets for the ointment. Hannibal rested his cheek on his good shoulder and wrapped his arms loosely around Will. Will only allowed himself a second to get distracted before getting to work. He didn’t apologise when he smeared the vile smelling stuff on Hannibal and he hissed through his teeth. Once he was done, he smoothed the bandage with his hand. Hannibal refused to let go and clutched his shirt tighter.
“Get your rest, Hannibal,” Will said, guiding him to lay down again. “I may need to do this twice a day.”
He was correct. They started a routine, and Will wasn't sure how long they had been doing it - there were no clocks, so he quickly lost track of time. He guessed it was over a week, but he couldn't be sure. Will would wake up, redress and bandage himself, then do the same to Hannibal. Only, Hannibal needed to be cared for twice a day, so Will would do so before he went to sleep. Most nights Will slept in the tub to give both himself and Hannibal space. On the nights that Hannibal's fever worsened, Will couldn’t bring himself to be that far away.
Those days scared him like nothing ever had. Not so much the possibility of Hannibal dying, that was something Will knew would come sooner rather than later. The fear sparked loneliness, both for himself and Hannibal. If Hannibal died now, Will would truly be alone, and he wasn't sure he could handle that.
Will must have grazed through the entire little library. He refused to leave the house apart from the occasional trip to the outhouse, so there wasn't anything to do. He had become all too familiar with the four walls around, with the silence, even if his head tried to fill that silence.
If Will thought optimistically, he could think about how his own wounds progress. In such a small amount of time he had grown mostly accustomed to one eye. The bruises under the bandages and along his body kept him awake most nights, but they started to fade in colour if not in ache. His shoulder still protested with every movement, but it wasn't infected like Hannibal's wound was. Will humoured himself in thinking he hadn't gotten so much as a fever through sheer willpower.
Hannibal hardly woke up. He would sometimes wake when Will was taking care of him, but it would only be for a moment. Most days he was too weak to eat, but Will wouldn’t allow him to go two days without food. Will heated up soups every night until he grew sick of them, which happened quickly. So on a day when Hannibal was awake, with more colour to his face, Will boiled some rice and cooked some of the venison. He made a haphazard stir fry with the rice, venison, and a can of beans and corn he found in the pantry.
Hannibal seemed as grateful as he was for some better food, even if he did only eat half of what was on his plate. He watched as Will finished the rest of his own, sitting on the end corner of the bed while Hannibal was propped against the pillows.
“Are you going to join me again tonight?”
Will didn’t look up from his food. “I hadn’t realised you were aware of me sleeping next to you. Does it bother you?”
Hannibal shook his head. “My sleep has been rather broken. I’ve been having frequent dreams, whereas I used to rarely remember them. An unexpected outcome.”
“Nobody really expects dreams.”
“You do.”
Will still didn’t look away from his plate, even as he scraped the last of the rice from it. “I lay next to you some nights to make sure you make it through.”
“For my sake or for yours?”
Will refused to answer. He picked up their plates and cleaned them. The sun started to dip, so Will lit a few candles. He felt Hannibal's eyes follow him all the way.
“Have you wandered further than the outhouse?” He asked, and Will was grateful for the change in subject.
“Don’t see the point. There are no towns nearby, and I’m still too weak to hunt.” His face and shoulder still ached, only relieved when he was jacked on painkillers or asleep. Will had gotten better at bandaging himself up over the past, what he guessed, fortnight, by now. “Every time I go outside is another risk of being seen.”
Hannibal tipped his head in consideration. “Well, if you ever feel brave enough, or cabin fever starts to get to you, there is a river a little ways down the valley. A beautiful spot, surrounded by trees. Plenty of fish.”
“Are you trying to convince me to get more dinner varieties?”
“Is it working?”
Will laughed, and didn’t mind the pull of his wound under the bandage this time. Hannibal beckoned him closer and he went willingly. He sat on top of the blankets again, this time where Hannibal could reach him, where he could feel his heat. The silvers in his hair shone in the dim light, as did the scars on his face and hands.
“Let me see you,” Hannibal said. For a long moment, Will had no clue what to do. Hannibal had seen him. That night they took down Francis Dolarhyde, they both saw each other and themselves. By staying with Hannibal now, he was giving everything, willingly too. But then Hannibal motioned to Will's shoulder and he flushed, embarrassed of his thoughts once again reading too much into things.
Will stripped off his shirt and shifted closer so Hannibal could touch. Once more Hannibal looked at him with that expertise. Will used to hate it in Baltimore - felt like he was put under a microscope. Examined as if he were something strange and unexplainable. Now, though, he noticed that Hannibal looked at him with care. Possibly more than care. Touched him gently, even as he checked for pain. A bloom of pride bloomed in Will's chest. He had looked after his wound well, and the doctor seemed impressed.
“I will need to remove the stitching, now.” Will wordlessly stood and handed Hannibal a pair of tweezers.
“Are you sure you’re steady enough to do this?” He asked, even if he was already ready himself.
“I am.”
Hannibal worked swiftly. His hands shook a little, weak and exhausted, Will guessed. He still managed to remove the stitching with doctors precision. Rubbing his shoulder, Will clicked the joint and inspected the wound. Most of the scabs have given way to scarring, marred with the bullet wound next to it, courtesy of Chiyoh.
“When do you need your stitches removed?”
“A few more days, I would guess.” Will nodded.
He stood and blew out all the candles and triple checked the lock. By the time he was done dawdling around, Hannibal was laid back down flat, hands neatly crossed on his chest. Will looked at the bathtub. He couldn’t bring himself to lay in it, so he settled beside Hannibal. Tucking his arm under his head to serve as a pillow, Will didn’t realise how tired he was until this moment. He almost drifted off, and would have if it weren’t for Hannibal making a pained breath. By the sound of it, he tried - and failed - to muffle the noise.
Will shuffled a little to see with his good eye. Hannibal had rolled on his side, wound squashed beneath him, to face Will.
“I wanted to see you,” Hannibal said, answering the unspoken question.
“I’m here,” he reassured. To prove it to him, he pressed his hand on Hannibal's hip. He hummed his approval and closed his eyes.
Will woke much earlier than he would have liked. Six in the morning, if he would hazard a guess. But he was awake and that was that. Before getting up, he checked Hannibal's forehead and spread his fingers over the covered wound on his front. There was no fever, and Hannibal didn't flinch in his sleep, which was enough to tell Will he was alright.
He started his usual routine. He dressed, stumbled out to the outhouse, and heated up last night's dinner. Will listened to the sizzling and suddenly thought how easy it would be to kill Hannibal.
He had imagined it, fantasised it so many times it should have made him sick. It didn't. In every scenario Will imagined, Hannibal was silent. Didn't make a sound or say a word. Not because he couldn't, but because he wouldn't allow Will the pleasure. Here, with Hannibal weakened and asleep and trusting, Will could do it.
He didn't look at Hannibal. Will wasn't sure why - maybe to avoid the temptation, maybe to avoid the guilt.
Instead, he stepped off the porch in bare feet. Will had borrowed a spare pair of Hannibal's boots on his tracks to the outhouse, but had decided against them for now. Once he stepped onto the dirt track, Will couldn't help but to run.
His legs pounded against the hard ground and his shoulder ached from the impact. His breath came out in puffs in front of him. Will stumbled a few times, unable to see protruding roots or stones with a single eye. He didn't fall. Didn't even slip on frosted grass.
Will couldn't stop until he started to wade into water which forced him to stop. The river, he realised. Cold, fast current washed around his knees and threatened to push him over.
In all of this, Will was washed with nostalgia. Of the splashes of his dogs and Walter playing in the stream by home. Or, what used to be Wills home. He wasn't sure when he stopped considering it home, but he was sure that if he went back, it wouldn't feel like home. Nothing would be the same. Just as he had warned Molly. Over the sound of water rushing over rocks, Will heard her laughter.
He reached for his wedding ring and found it gone. Will's heart jumped. When had he lost that? On the run? No, in the back of his mind he felt its absence before then. When caring for Hannibal, or cooking their meals? Maybe when he cut up the deer. Though, in his heart, he hoped it was when they fell. It certainly felt like a rebirth to Will, and that would only further prove it.
What really struck him was the lack of emotion he felt in its absence. And, because of the underwhelming feelings and devoid of loss, the overwhelming sense of guilt. He loved Molly, and Walter as if he were his own. His feelings for them were very real - still were, in some parts. But he didn't miss them, not as much as he hoped he would. Will had to pick between a life with Hannibal and his life with Molly, and he already chose.
He was surprised to see Hannibal standing in the kitchen when he got back.
"Good morning," He said, voice steady.
"You're up," said Will, in lieu of a greeting.
Hannibal regarded him. Will had run back again, body thriving as well as aching in the exercise, so he was panting and wiping muddy feet on the porch.
"You left the stove unattended."
"Shit."
Hannibal hummed. "Nevermind. It was about time I got out of bed. I must build my strength up."
Will didn't say anything. He just changed into clean clothes and sat on the bed. After a beat, he sighed loudly and flopped onto the mattress.
"Your hair curls when you sweat," Hannibal mused.
Brows furrowing, Will propped himself on his elbows. Hannibal had his back turned to him and busied himself with making a cup of tea for himself and a coffee for Will. Will ran a hand through his hair.
When Hannibal handed him his mug, he spoke again. "Would you mind if I join you tomorrow? Though, perhaps it would be smarter for me to walk. I do not believe I am quite capable of running just yet."
"Yeah," Will said. "Yeah of course."
Hannibal smiled around the rim of his mug. He stood leaned against a wall, getting used to using his legs again. After they both sipped the last dribbles from their mugs, Hannibal readied himself a bath while Will scrubbed the dishes. And once he was done that, Will hung up some clothes to dry on a rack he kept inside.
His restlessness continued, unsated by his run. There was only so much Will could do to put himself at ease. He had no way of telling if the investigation was still occurring at the top of the cliff. Were they deemed deceased? Maybe, but both he and Hannibal knew Jack wouldn't be satisfied until he found bodies. Maybe they were declared missing. The report could call Hannibal the fugitive who possibly kidnapped Will, or perhaps they were both named criminals. It wouldn't be wrong - Will had no doubt the team figured out what happened from Dolarhydes body.
"Will." Will jumped. Hannibal was kneeling, with some clear difficulty, in front of him. His expression was open with concern, eyes searching, attempting to see what he was seeing.
Hannibal didn't look like himself and the realisation struck Will uncomfortably. His face wore a shadow of stubble, and under his eyes were dark bags and hard lines. His hair was still wet from the bath - which made Will question how long he had been stuck in his thoughts for. Clearly not long enough for Hannibal to throw on some clothes, as he was braced on one knee in just a towel around his waist. It took much longer than it should have to register the hand on his cheek. Though, when Will did, he brushed his own hand against the back of Hannibal's and leaned into the touch.
Hannibal melted along with him. He brushed his thumb under Will's eye, where the bandage had begun to fall off. Neither said anything. Just stole comfort in each other's eyes.
Will didn't know how much longer they had of this. Any day now, any second, Jack could burst through those doors and ruin this. Whatever this was. He did know that they wouldn't go down without a fight. It didn't suit either of them to rot in prison, or take the death penalty. The thought of either of those outcomes made Wills eyes prick and he rubbed into Hannibal's palm firmer. Will wasn't a religious man, not in the slightest, but he prayed to anyone who listened that the two of them would burn out and explode like identical stars.
Hardly a word was spoken between them for the rest of the day. Will bathed while Hannibal cooked dinner. Not to his usual standard, but still too good to be canned food that if Will didn't know any better, he would get suspicious. They relaxed in the evening. Hannibal sat back in bed, a book in hand. He was totally engrossed in it while Will used a shiny pan to inspect the wound on his face.
It had mostly closed up, though it would leave a jagged and identifiable scar. There was still bruising around his eye, yellow and green and sore. Will blinked furiously. He saw no need to replace the bandage as it had done its job, and would like the benefits of two eyes again. Will also took the time to brush his hair with his fingers, untangling knots.
Will didn't even look at the bathtub as he climbed in next to Hannibal. The itch for productivity had since settled, but it would be long before he found sleep. He inched closer to Hannibal and scanned the words on the page.
"Do you wish for me to start from the beginning?" Hannibal whispered, not tearing his eyes away from the book.
Will shook his head, brushing against Hannibal's shoulder in the process. "I know the book. Stephen Kings 'Pet Sematary'. Rather cliché of you to enjoy horror."
Hannibal laughed and his body shook with it. His smile revealed slightly crooked and sharp teeth, a reminder to Will that the man laying next to him was human and imperfect in some societal ways.
"It is not my favourite. Unfortunately, my library here is very limited."
"Unfortunate indeed. 'Pet Sematary' is not the most likeable of his books for me. Although, there aren't as many animal deaths as the name suggests."
Hannibal chuckled, this time a closed mouth hum of a laugh. He tilted his head towards Wills until his cheek rested on top of it. "I should have picked you as one to be squeamish of animal death."
Will huffed and rolled his eyes, eliciting another easy noise from Hannibal. "Not squeamish. I just don't like thinking about it."
Slowly, and carefully, as if Hannibal would burn him, Will rested his cheek on Hannibal's shoulder. He pressed his body against his side. Then, he did nothing more. Not until Hannibal wrapped his arm around Will and pulled him closer, then Will comfortably draped his own arm over his front.
"No," Hannibal said. "Animal cruelty is one of the worst sins on the planet."
Will hummed.
Hannibal turned the page, then said, "Do you miss your dogs?"
"Of course," Will said simply. "But I know that wherever they are, they're safe and happy. Even if Molly decides to give them away, I trust that she'll give them to good owners."
Hannibal hummed. Will waited with a stalled breath for the same question about Molly, and let out a sigh when it didn't come. He eased, boneless, as Hannibal absently brushed his fingers through the indents of Will's ribs with his free hand. He didn't mind that the arm trapped between them started to grow fuzzy with pins and needles, especially not when sleep finally started its call. The last thing he remembers was Hannibal blowing out the candle and the room going black.
The walk to the river was a slow one, but an easy one. Will listened to the birds chirping, the trees rustling. He would hear the odd rabbit dig under leaves or dart in bushes. If he wanted, he could catch one. He was well enough now to be more productive. Though, at the moment he was perfectly satisfied strolling alongside Hannibal.
"The woods are peaceful," he said in a low murmur, as if his words might disturb the peace somehow.
"Were the woods in Wolf Trap not peaceful?" Hannibal's arm brushed Wills as they strolled.
"Not with my dogs." Will smiled when Hannibal chuckled. He wasn't sure how many times, in all the years he had known him, he had heard Hannibal laugh. Now, he was grateful it came so easy to him. "It's a little strange without them. Is it weird I miss being covered in dog hair?"
Will watched, amused, as Hannibal so clearly tried not to say that yes, it was weird. "I certainly don't miss the smell of dogs in my office after our sessions. But, perhaps we should find you a companion."
"You don't mean that."
"I do," he promised. "Pets can be linked to a healthier mentality. After everything we've been through, and will go through, it would be wise to have something familiar."
"It wouldn't be familiar for you."
Hannibal looked at him, a smile tugged at his mouth. "You are familiar, and that is enough for me."
Will let himself bask in the sentiment for a moment before saying anything more. Then, because he couldn't help himself, "So you wouldn't mind a dog on the furniture?"
Hannibal sucked through his teeth and Will's laughter echoed. They arrived at the river and Will toed out of his shoes and socks. Then, after only a second of consideration, peeled his shirt off too. He felt Hannibal's eyes on him. Will stepped into the water, sucking through his teeth at the cold, and slipped down the sand of the bank. He dove under and flicked the hair from his eyes as he came up.
"Not going to join me?" He asked when he spotted Hannibal still on the grass.
An entertained look waved over Hannibal's expression before he stripped off the same as Will had. He dove under, just as Will had done, though came up with more of a flourish. And because Will was petty, he splashed at him.
Eyebrows raised, Hannibal stared at him. Then he splashed back, a stunning grin across his face. Will chuckled and kicked his knees above the water as he ran towards Hannibal. Before he had time to react, Will scooped him off the river bank in his arms, just as Hannibal had done out of the Atlantic ocean, off the Verger Estate, and dunked the both of them in the river. They were back in the ocean, now. Together as one, though this time with smiles and care, and something more Will wasn't brave enough to name yet.
When he surged up, Hannibal gasped beautifully for air. His face was just a breath away from Will's. Water dried in their hair while they were lost in each other.
Will let go of him when his shoulder started to chastise him. He crouched, then spread out on the surface of the water in a starfish. The sound of the water told him Hannibal had done the same. Clouds travelled lazily across the sky as they floated, birds flew and watched them with curiosity.
Their clothes dried against their skin on the walk back. By the time they reached the shack, the sun started to wish them farewell. Will was genuinely surprised how much time had passed.
When they entered, Will made a beeline for the bed. He didn't get under the covers, but just laid on top of them. Stretching his arm across the mattress, he felt the warmth residue and the rumpled sheets. He closed his eyes for a moment, a smile on his face as he recounted the day. He peeled his eyes open eventually at the smell of food. Pleasantly, he was greeted with the view of Hannibal's bare back, obviously uncomfortable with how the shirt stuck to him.
Hard muscle stretched as he moved around the kitchen, making some kind of venison stew by the scent. He was impressed that even after years in a solitary cell he found motivation to stay in shape. He certainly couldn't picture it. Will could make out faint scars beneath the hair. When Hannibal's whole figure came into view, not blocked by the bench dividing them, Will caught sight of an unmistakable brand on the small of his back. He didn't have to ask to know who it was from, and he touched the scar on his chin.
Instead of digging up sickening memories of one Mason Verger, Will thought about how wonderful he felt. Content and, surprisingly, happy to watch Hannibal mill around. The domesticity of it was a little daunting, though in an exciting way that brought colour and heat to his face.
His thoughts led him to Bedelia. In one of their conversations, she had expressed her - almost - need to be as close to Hannibal as Will was. As close as he was, Will was out of his firing range. Maybe he wasn't out of the woods for Hannibal's ruthlessness or cruelty, but Will wouldn't know what to do without it, except to lash out with his own stubborn head to invoke Hannibal to do the same. As was the nature their relationship.
Will thought to another conversation with Bedelia, regarding Hannibal. Of hunger and nourishment, of ache.
"Hannibal." Will's voice was hoarse. Hannibal hummed and smiled over his shoulder. "Are you in love with me?"
Hannibal stilled. He looked down at the bench beneath his fingers, then turned around completely to face Will, leaning on his elbows on the dividing breakfast bar.
"I love everything that is beautiful, Will. Beautiful music, beautiful food, beautiful clothes. I love beautiful people, beautiful minds."
Will blinked the dryness from his eyes, but made no move to get up. He said, not without sarcasm, "Am I a 'beautiful person'?"
Hannibal smiled in a familiar way. Lips not quite pulled in a way a regular person's might when smiling, but he made up for it with his eyes. "When I'm with you, I feel like I am Icarus and you are the sun. You are as brilliant as you are dangerous. I know to be cautious, though I can't help but feel drawn to you. My days are darkest in your absence."
Will had no chance to feel flattered, totally worshipped as he was, before the door burst open and a figure appeared between them.