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"As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you." - Psalm 42
***
Hannibal didn't want to stay in the States after they were at least somewhat recovered from their fall. The specifics of their future flight were a great source of entertainment to Hannibal's florid imagination, but both he and Will knew that they should be anywhere but here, where they might be easily hunted if Jack's dogs remained on the prowl. Especially if Hannibal took up his old habits again along with his old lifestyle. And so, as their condition improved, plans necessarily began to take solid shape.
Or tried to.
Chiyoh had reported that the FBI and Interpol both were scouring every exit from the country looking for the two of them. Escape by air would be all but impossible. Hannibal had quickly pivoted to postulate that escape by sea might be a viable option, seeing as Will had done much the same when he'd sailed to Europe without arousing Jack's suspicions, but that was quickly shot down as well. Both Chiyoh and Will were in agreement that Will was not well enough to sail them anywhere, and a larger craft might garner unwanted attention. Additionally, it was nearing hurricane season, and sailing on a small craft over the Atlantic at this time of year would be suicide. No, they would have to wait it out state-side; whether "it" was Jack and his hounds or the storms at sea was of no consequence.
They opted to hide in plain sight, after a fashion. An old friend of Will's father had a hunting lodge up in the mountains of Georgia, and it would be vacant until deer season began in late October. And by that time, hurricane season in the Atlantic would be petering out and Will would be strong enough to sail a small vessel and get them across the pond.
It was the perfect hideout. The cabin was nestled in a valley well away from what few prying eyes there were in town. They could fish and catch small game, or rather Will could. And since the area saw plenty of seasoned hunters and backpackers, it wasn't difficult to stock a pantry for a several weeks or go unnoticed, as strange faces passing in and out of the area was quite common. It was a prime place to hide, it seemed, if more than a bit rustic for Hannibal's taste. But at least there was electricity and running water.
Though it quickly became apparent that the storms they had to fear were not all out at sea.
Both men were still in poor physical shape when they arrived in the mountains, but Hannibal had been far worse off than Will. Both shot and stabbed in the gut, and he'd taken the brunt of the fall of the cliff, shielding Will as best as he could from the impact of the waves. Thus, most of the responsibility of upkeep and supply acquisition had fallen to Will. But as the weeks wore on, Will did not seem to be improving, whereas Hannibal's injuries, even the most grievous ones, were healing nicely.
Part of the problem was that Will was… well, Will. More specifically, continuous company seemed to be a burden rather than a blessing. And so inevitably he would be overtaken by fits of restlessness and would storm off into the woods to fish or chop wood, always working himself too vigorously. He would return to the cabin exhausted and sore, with his wounds reopened. And of course, this would invite the resurgence of infection that Hannibal had been so diligently fighting.
It was a cycle. One that wrung Hannibal's heart tighter with each revolution. He had always had an urge to soothe or placate those dear to him, usually with physical comforts like fine food or expensive gifts. But he had none of those things to hand here. Just his not inconsiderable mind and an endless drive to make the world more beautiful for himself and those he cared for. He'd tried to enthrall Will with stories and fanciful bits of exotic knowledge garnered from a life spent on the fringe of every corner of the globe. But it was all to no avail. The sound of his voice seemed to spin the wheel of Will's mood faster rather than slow it.
In short, for the first time in his long life, Hannibal was at a loss. Here he was with everything he had wanted over the years of incarceration, and yet it was still held out of reach by some fathomless, unspannable chasm.
***
The cabin's owner was apparently an amateur nature artist. Within the first day of their arrival, Hannibal had found a few worn sketch pads and some mediocre artist's pencils. One afternoon in late summer, he was whiling away the waning daylight sketching from memory a portrait of Achilles and Patroclus when he heard the tell-tale tromping of Will's booted feet moving about the cabin. Hannibal could tell by the heaviness of his gait that Will was thinking of going out again.
"Will, I just rebandaged your side," Hannibal said, looking up from his pad. "Please don't reopen it again."
Will said nothing in reply, but dragged a toolbox off of a top shelf, gritting his teeth with the effort.
Hannibal moved to help him but he jerked away.
"Please Will," Hannibal said. "Your fever from the last infection only just broke yesterday. Where are you going?"
"I didn't get to all the traps the last time I was out. There's a storm coming and if I don't go collect them, I'll have to make new ones," he answered crisply, clearly annoyed at having to explain himself like a child.
Hannibal looked outside, and sure enough the summer sky had begun to darken. The sun still shone for now, but the trees were deadly still, without even a suggestion of a breeze to make the grass wave.
"And if you get caught out in the storm?" Hannibal asked, turning back from the window. "Is making more such a chore? Besides, we have plenty-"
"I have to get the traps in, Hannibal," Will snapped. "We will run out of fresh meat otherwise, and I don't-" He cut himself off before the words slipped past his teeth, but it was too late. The implication was already there and it lit the fuse of the tension that had been building for weeks.
Hannibal went frightfully still. The air turned thick, as if lightning were about to strike. "Say it," he said, his voice a soft but deadly sound. Brittle and treacherous like cracking ice.
"I didn't-"
"Say it."
Will licked his lips, a fresh sheen of sweat breaking out on his skin as his fever spiked along with his shame. "I don't want you going down to town for it."
"Because you think I might do harm to someone?" Hannibal supplied, his tone even and cold. Tension coiled in his limbs and Will wouldn't have been surprised if he met his end right there. It wouldn't be the first time.
Will shook his head, swiping a hand through his sweaty hair. "I know you wouldn't. I- Hannibal wait!"
But Hannibal was gone, grabbing his coat off the peg and letting the screen door slam closed behind him. For a brief space, Will thought the sound was so loud it was ringing off the cabin walls and even off the mountains themselves. But after a moment standing in the thick silence of the cabin, he recognized it as a distant answering roll of thunder echoing off the nearby hills.
***
The air in the forest was almost unnaturally still as Hannibal stormed through the trees. Were he in a calmer state, Hannibal might've remarked how the world seemed to be holding its breath, and how the grumbling gray of the looming storm clouds accurately reflected his inner landscape. But with Will... with all things concerning that infuriating man, he could not gain enough distance for that sort of clean, isolated perspective. No matter how far he ran, he couldn't get far enough away. He could flee to the opposite side of the globe, and he had, but it was to no avail. The shadow of his wanting followed him.
As the first drops of rain began to fall, Hannibal had to face facts. Will would forever be a weakness. Never… not since Mischa, had he ever been driven into such straits. Never had he been the perpetrator of a crime of passion. Or imprisoned. Or storming through a forest under threat of rain like a hormone-addled teenager. He didn't even really know where he was going. He didn't accompany Will to set the traps so how would he even know where to find them? The whole thing was laughably irrational. But Will seemed to have a hard line straight into the most irrational parts of his mind.
And his heart, he knew.
He had finally made himself admit it to Bedelia during their stay in Florence. And he'd thought he'd come to terms with it during his incarceration. Admitting it had been easier than it should have been. Just a simple shrug and confession. If only living with that truth (or killing it) had been so easy.
Halfway up the trail, a gust of wind came barrelling up the face of the hill, nearly knocking him against the rocks. He braced himself and pushed ahead, not willing to let an inconvenience like wind or rain send him sulking back to Will.
Besides.... He'd tried that once. It had worked about as well as everything else.
The rain had begun to fall in earnest now. Sheets upon sheets of frigid water driven ahead of the punishing wind turned the trail to mud under Hannibal's worn boots. He was completely sodden in minutes, even through his rain jacket, but he kept pressing on. He didn't really know where at this point. He was almost certain that he couldn't reach the traps off trail even if he could find them, which was unlikely at this point. Visibility was rapidly deteriorating and the water was sluicing down between the rocks in torrents. But he wasn't ready to turn back. Not yet.
But he wasn't making much progress either, storming about the woods in this swirling wind. Another hard gust sent him reeling against the rock face, making his still-healing side ache warningly. Perhaps it was time to abandon this idiocy. Better than getting injured or killed, all for a huffy tantrum.
No sooner had the thought cleared his mind then bolt of blinding lighting rent the darkening sky in two. When he saw how long it took for his night vision to recover, he realized night was falling. Once the storm passed, colder air would surely be on its heels. And he was soaked to the skin. He definitely had best find his way back down to their cabin.
Another blistering bolt of greenish lightning stabbed out from the sky, this time blasting an enormous tree apart down to the roots and sending its carcass careening over the trail behind him. The splintered wood caught the edge of the rock face and pulled the already loosened rubble free. And with it, a wide span of the trail behind him was suddenly gone.
Hannibal blinked, momentarily blinded again, and looked around. It wouldn't be an impossible climb. Not by dry daylight, but in his still-healing condition and in the rain and wind, he didn't know if he could make it. And he was fairly certain it couldn't be jumped, so he'd have to climb, and it was likely he would slip and fall into the crevasse.
He looked back up the trail and then out over the mountain range to the west, and his priorities pivoted. He needed to find shelter. Off in the distance, over the rain shrouded hills, fingers of lightning struck, felling trees and igniting small fires that were quickly quenched in the deluge. This storm was not going to let up any time soon and it was not a good idea to be out with this much wind and lightning. And then there would be the cold to deal with.
He took a deep breath, fighting the first chilled shiver, and gathered his thoughts. Going back the way he came was not an option right now. That much was certain. But going farther was. Perhaps he could find a way to double back around the missing part of the trail, or maybe a cave might exist up the trail. Or an abandoned mine. This was coal country after all. He could shelter there and wait for the storm to pass. And thus decided, Hannibal trudged on.
And sure enough, around the next bend Hannibal spied an opening in the rock, veiled in a cascade of muddy water. Relief flooded him as he passed under the stream into the sheltered quiet of the cave. The crackle of thunder was dulled in here somewhat as was the relentless drumming of the rain. Less hair-raising and more of an omnipresent bone-deep rumble.
He took stock of his surroundings in the failing light. The cave was shallow, the back wall visible when lightning flashed. And it seemed to be more or less watertight, with no streams falling from the ceiling or puddles in the back of the cave. Unfortunately, no one seemed to have sheltered there in a long while. There was no wood or anything to make a fire. But it was dry and stable and that was all Hannibal could really ask for in an impromptu storm shelter.
As he removed his sodden coat and shoes in order to fight hypothermia, his thoughts unwittingly returned to Will, immediately souring his stomach. This storm needed to pass and quickly. Hannibal needed to keep an eye on Will's condition, lest he worsen again. Or God forbid come looking for Hannibal in this mess. He imagined briefly a fevered and still injured Will trudging through this storm in search of Hannibal and his heart wrung itself against his ribs.
But he brushed the thought to the side. He wouldn't come. He didn't care that much. And yet...
Hannibal couldn't help but scold himself for his lack of self control. What if Will did choose to chase after him in this tempest? He shouldn't have left. Especially not the way he did, practically begging to be followed, but he couldn't stand to be in Will's presence a minute longer. Not with the nameless aching gulf between them. It was agony.
And yet… even with the swirling violent storm between them, Hannibal's only desire was to return to Will's side. That agony was better than this. The unknowing, unsteady wanting that would eat him alive was better than the gnawing anxiety of separation. He'd tried to subdue it. To excise it like a cancer. Twice he'd taken a blade to Will's flesh in hopes of finding a way to cut out his own desire, but twice he'd cut too shallow.
He knew he wouldn't try a third time. He couldn't. He would only fail again.
Hannibal shivered, not just from the encroaching cold but from the deep seated dread that he might never escape this wanting. He folded in on himself in a way he hadn't since his days in the Paris orphanage. If only he could isolate himself once more. Be free of this wanting...
There was a sharp thud at the cave entrance that made Hannibal start from his reverie. But dread didn't coil around his bones until he heard the wet sound of breathing and of heavy, clacking footsteps. It wasn't human, but it was big. An indistinct black shape at the mouth of the cave, only given clarity on the next lightning strike.
A stag. A great, antler-crowned stag stood dripping and huffing at the entrance. In its desperation for shelter, it obviously hadn't sensed Hannibal until it crossed the threshold, but now it bristled as it pondered whether to brave its new companion or the storm outside.
For a stretched moment they regarded each other, black eye staring into black eye. A space of a thunderclap. A handful of heartbeats that hammered louder than the pounding rain.
And then almost as if they drew the same steadying breath, both Hannibal and the stag relaxed.
Hannibal reached out his hand to the creature, to test its curiosity and he was not disappointed. The stag shuffled forward, neck stretched, nose working the humid air, and eyes bright in the magnesium white flashes of lightning. A tame thing, Hannibal surmised. Used to people. Probably too many hikers interested in trading a bite of granola for a selfie with the creature. But clearly, it had some survival instinct if it had survived hunting season with so many points atop its head.
After many hesitant, testing steps on the damp stones, the stag stuck its wet nose under Hannibal's outstretched hand. He gently stroked the creature's face, up between its dark eyes to its twitching ears. It seemed almost stunned by the contact, it's breath heaving in what could only be a contented sigh.
Then, much to Hannibal's surprise, it laid down on the rocky floor and plopped its mightily crowned head into Hannibal's lap, just like an over-fond pet. One of Will's insistent mutts, perhaps. Hannibal was so shocked he didn't even register that the water dripping off the deer's fur was soaking into his already-damp pants.
It stared up at him, its intelligent eyes glinting with every bolt of lightning, though its ears no longer twitched with every boom of thunder. Even in the failing light, Hannibal could see the tension in its muscles easing bit by bit as it realized Hannibal was not a threat.
Or was he?
Hannibal pondered this as he stroked its furry face and stared into its liquid dark eyes. He'd set out for food, or that's what he'd said. That's what sparked the argument at least, even if the crux of the matter had nothing to do with the contents of their pantry. But now... he could quite possibly return with more than he'd dreamed of. Will wouldn't have to go trudging out to bait and set those pitifully small traps, making himself weaker in the process. He could stay home with Hannibal and rest. Hannibal could cook properly for once. Not these meager meals they'd shared of canned goods, and rodents, and whatever green they could scavenge from the landscape. A trip to the woods for some mushrooms and wild onions. Perhaps some sage. They would have a feast. He could spoil Will properly and that would have them both back in good spirits. All he needed to do to have what he wanted was ease his knife from his belt, grab an antler and slit the creature's throat. It would be quick. He would be merciful for once.
The stag gave a snort as if it knew what had crossed Hannibal's mind, but it didn't lift its head. A warning against the old ways. Hannibal's old way.
Hannibal shook his head, realizing he'd tensed under the creature, and he relaxed back against the wall of the cave. The stag closed its eyes again, heaving another great sigh as he resumed stroking its long face.
No. It wouldn't work, Hannibal knew. It hadn't ever worked, and it wouldn't work now. No show of violence or grandeur had ever swayed Will. Not the drowning of rare songbirds or the filleting of a true apex predator. Will had truly wanted none of any of it.
Will was moved by gestures of security. Of safety. They needn't be extravagant or evocative. He'd collected to himself a world filled with comfort just as Hannibal had, but there was not a shred of performative luxury in any of it.
And just like that, Hannibal suddenly knew that needed to abandon these violent methods of cultivation and control when it came to Will. He'd only ever come to him willingly. When he'd given him something he'd needed. A paddle. Stability. Security.
A friend.
As Hannibal stroked the sweet face of the stag, he asked himself honestly if that would be something he could abide. Being a friend. He'd considered it once, before his own violent appetites had irrevocably ensnared them both. Could he be simply a friend to Will? A companion?
He didn't know. But he knew he would try, and wasn't that enough?
The heavy warmth of the deer stretched out across his lap brought with it a creeping drowsiness. The rain continued to pound outside, even as the thunder faded. The storm was now just a soft, fuzzy static that enveloped everything beyond the mouth of the cave. Hannibal's hand on the creature's head slowed and, as the storm turned to drumming rain overhead, he slipped into a deep sleep, his chin dropping onto his chest.
***
Hannibal awoke shivering and with a pronounced ache that cut all the way down to his bones. The rocks dug in at odd angles and his clothes were still damp from the rain. And he could see a large freshly wet spot on his pants where the deer's head had-
He could see, he realized.
Outside the mouth of the cave, a filmy gray light suffused the damp crevasse where Hannibal had sheltered. And framed in the weak morning sunshine stood the stag. It had heard Hannibal rouse and turned its great head to look back at him.
Again as before the two regarded each other, dark eyes studying and seeing. And once again Hannibal felt the urge to pounce on the creature. To carry it home triumphant to Will. To wrap him in its skin and feed him-
But no. The thought rang dully as a cracked church bell. He would go home empty-handed, as was right. He would make amends and try to find the new path ahead, though it would likely prove more difficult than the path to this cave. Or back from it.
Sensing his decision, the stag snuffled softly and then turned to go. It galloped out of the entrance, pausing to shake the water from its fur. Then it sprang into a graceful canter, turned up the hill and disappeared from sight.
Hannibal heaved a sigh of his own and peeled his sore body up off the stones. He needed to make it back to Will, if indeed Will was still at their cabin. For all Hannibal knew, he might've seized the opportunity and left. And Hannibal would just have to be contented with that outcome. Just like he should have been content with the other times Will had tried to divorce himself of Hannibal's influence. Only time would tell.
The walk back down the trail was uneventful. The woods were quiet and still a little hazy with morning fog, as if they were still abed from the previous evening's reveries. Even where the trail had washed out, it was no more than a sprightly jump to clear the gap. It had seemed so much more daunting in the dark and pouring rain.
He didn't see the stag again.
Hannibal opened their cabin door to find Will pulling on his coat. His eyes were red rimmed and his face was flushed with fever, but he moved quickly and with purpose. But he stopped still as stone when Hannibal passed through the door.
For a space they both stood stock still, watching each other with uncertain eyes, seeming clearly to not believe what they were seeing.
"Will." Hannibal could only summon his name at first. It seemed to be the only word to exist in that moment. "You were leaving?"
Will nodded, though at what neither could quite articulate. "Coming to find you. I… I was worried," he finally managed.
"I didn't mean to worry you," Hannibal said, taking another step inside the cabin and allowing the door to swing closed behind him.
"You were gone a long time."
"And for naught, I'm afraid," Hannibal said, spreading his empty hands dropping his eyes to the floor. "You should be in bed. You don't look well."
"Neither do you. You- you weren't out in the storm all night were you?"
"No, I found a dry cave to shelter in."
"But you're soaking wet, Hannibal. You… you should get out of those clothes! You…" He paused and licked his lips. "You shouldn't have gone."
"You could abide my presence no longer and-"
"Hannibal."
He stopped at the sound of his name, locking his desperate gaze onto Will's flushed face. They stared at each other for a long while, the only sound was their breathing, and the song of a very cheerful mockingbird outside.
"Let me make some breakfast," Will finally said, eyes darting around the cabin.
"You should be in bed, Will."
"Let me make you breakfast and then I'll let you fuss over me as much as you want. You look half-drowned."
Hannibal wanted to say that he felt half-drowned. Half-drowned and adrift, groping desperately for some serviceable piece of wreckage. He wanted to see to Will. To do anything but be looked after himself. But with a steeling breath, he kept those thoughts behind his teeth.
Will seemed unaware of this inner turmoil as he stripped his coat off again and hung it on a peg. "Go change into something dry."
Hannibal felt the urge to argue continue rise, but then just as quickly it ebbed. He nodded tacitly and did as he was bidden, returning dressed in soft flannel from head to toe. He ensconced himself at the table where his drawing lay undisturbed.
Will had set some fish to sizzle in the pan before he came to peer over Hannibal's shoulder. He could feel the fevered heat coming off him in waves, and smell the sickly sweetness. Where once it had prompted a savage desire to heal and possess, now Hannibal felt a profound need to lean back against him. To find him where he stood just a hand's breadth away. He told himself it was just because he was still cold from his unplanned hike.
"What is this drawing?" Will asked, cocking his head as he looked down.
Hannibal leaned slightly out of the way to allow the light from the kitchen to fall across the half finished faces. "Achilles and Patroclus outside the gates of Troy."
Will snorted softly, clearly not buying it as the answer in total. "Achilles was doomed to hell for his love of Patroclus," he opined. "If Dante is to be believed, anyway."
Hannibal pouted his full lips and gave a noncommittal hum.
"Is that what you feel has happened to you?" He turned those fathomless, knowing, seeing eyes on Hannibal, and he felt for a moment as if he'd been run through with an arrow.
"I should probably suffer in hell for many reasons greater than that," Hannibal evaded. "Wouldn't you agree?"
Will didn't bite. He snorted and said, "You don't suffer anything. Not even a sleepless night for all the lives you've taken. But you do suffer me. You have for years. Why?"
Hannibal was a long time in answering. They stared at each other, thoughts bristling and breathing shallowly. Hannibal thought of a thousand traps he could lay. New snares to pull Will closer. But he knew it would be to no avail. If the third time was to be the charm, it would have to be different.
"Because I love you, Will," he said, laying his pencil down and folding his hands. "It's as simple as that. I have been unable to rid myself of nor come to terms with these feelings, though not for lack of trying. And I suffer for it."
Will blinked slowly in only slightly veiled surprise. "That's why you stay," he said softly. "That's why you came back."
"Unfortunately." Hannibal replied, returning to his work, but Will caught his chin in his palm and pulled his face back up. He froze at the touch, shocked into stillness by the combined urge to flee and press closer.
"Unfortunately for who?" Will asked, his soft voice pointed.
"For both of us, I imagine," Hannibal answered, stunned into honesty by the contact.
Will snorted, and leaned down to cover Hannibal's mouth with his own, finding him still and pliant under his lips. But when he pulled back he realized Hannibal's fingers had dug into the wood of the table until his knuckles had bleached. Will searched the desperate lines of his face, seeing writ there the years of his struggle and feeling the barbed hooks of his own want settle a little deeper into his heart.
"Come cook with me Hannibal," Will said finally, both hands cupping the sharp line of his jaw. "I imagine you can make a better breakfast than me anyway."
Hannibal remained unmoved. "I'm sure any effort by you would be satisfacto-"
"And if you think that request had anything to do with making food that tastes good, you're even more of a fool than anyone has ever thought. Now are you coming?"
Hannibal cracked a smile then. A real smile that flaked off some of the brittle layers of grief he'd plastered so thickly around his heart. And he let himself be dragged off to their tiny kitchen.
***