Chapter Text
The sky is slate. Rendered moonless and starless by thick clouds, it offers no light aside from the golden corona clinging to the cliff’s edge — the light from the house impossibly far above.
Hannibal can just make out the shadowy outline of his hand when he summons the strength to lift it. He’s lying on his back, his throat raw from coughing out the waters of the Chesapeake Bay, his muscles spasmed against the line of heat stabbing straight through his torso. Brackish water and bullet wounds don’t mix.
He’s lost significant blood in the last few minutes and it’s left him breathless, unfocused, and sapped of all strength. His mind drifts with the clouds overhead as they thin just enough to reveal a glimpse of the moon before veiling it again.
It takes too long for his blood-starved brain to remember why he is lying on a bed of rocks and sand.
“Will,” he rasps, and ignores the agony that flares white-hot in his gut when he forces himself upright. His vision flickers; he should not have moved so quickly. He pulls in long, even breaths and waits for the black spots to clear from his vision. It takes more torturous seconds for his eyes to fully adjust to the absence of light.
Will is facedown a few feet away.
Hannibal moves with no grace when he half-drags himself to Will’s side, ignoring the pain waking in what feels like every nerve ending he possesses. Bruises, scrapes, lacerations, the bullet wound, the scrape of each breath in his lungs — it’s shocking that he’d managed to pull the two of them to shore in this condition, even more ludicrous that they’d survived the fall at all.
Of course, surviving had not been Will’s design for either of them.
He can’t define his own hesitation when his hand hovers over Will’s throat to check for a pulse. He’s glad he can only barely see the shape of his hand; he can feel it shaking. He reaches for Will, and his muscles scream in protest again, whether from residual aches or the fact that he is clenching them tightly against the possibility that Will might be —
Will splutters violently, a rush of water spilling from his mouth as his diaphragm heaves. He makes a sound as he turns himself over, a groan that Hannibal can’t decrypt into words. His chest bumps against Hannibal’s knees and Will’s eyes lock onto his even in the near total darkness. This time, Hannibal understands the groan clearly as Will repeats it.
“No…”
His hands freeze in their trajectory toward the oozing knife wound beneath Will’s clavicle; he shrinks back and rests his fingers against the cold sand instead.
Will is still drawing a death shroud around himself, determined to remove them both from the land of the living. He would die rather than embrace what they had just done together. What they could still do.
Hannibal’s persistent pain ebbs, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion in its place. His lungs ache as he exhales; the breath catches in his chest, his throat, against his parched lips. He’s all but been bled dry of blood and strength, and he has very little of either left, but he could still save Will. He could save both of them. They’ve survived the worst, and a few stitches and bandages would set them to rights. Will is barely moving. He could drag him up the beach and keep him sedated while they healed. He would be much less prone to suicidal tendencies when faced with the prospect of recovered health, surely.
Will’s breath is coming shallow and fast, and he hasn’t moved. He’s shivering; they both are.
Hannibal’s visions of forcing him to recover evaporate into the cold air, leaving him with uncertainty that stings like the salt still clinging to his skin.
“Will,” he says, as steadily as he can manage when they’re halfway to death’s door and Will is determined they should make the remainder of the trip. “I believe I can save us.”
Will’s eyes are closed and he doesn’t answer, but Hannibal can see his fingers tighten into fists against the rough, rocky sand. He’s listening.
“I need you to speak,” he continues, over the languid lap of the water. It pulses distantly, like a rush of blood in his ears. “I find…I find myself unwilling to take this choice away from you.”
And there are Will’s eyes, snapping open again, gleaming in what little light they have.
Hannibal leans in, a graceless, jerking movement of his strained muscles. He isn’t quite sure whether he’s struggling to hold himself up or hold himself back.
“Will you pick up your life, Will?”
Will’s silence is as absolute as stone. Hannibal wonders what he will do if Will decides to die. He could drag himself down the beach alone, patch up his wounds, and disappear. Or he could collapse against the rocks beside Will and stare up at the sky with him until both their hearts stutter to a halt.
The former, he thinks, seems remarkably unappealing.
Hannibal waits.
Will’s silence shifts before his expression does. Hannibal can barely see his smile, but he can hear it plainly. In the darkness, it’s impossible to make out whether it’s joy or despair spreading over his face.
“Alright,” Will whispers, his voice half-choked with water and blood. “Save me.”